Table of Contents

poetry

(the passionate stuff)

poetry

(#metoo)

Chicago Pulse

(sweet poems, Chicago)

prose poetry

(the best of both worlds)

prose

(the meat & potatoes stuff)

a Rose in the Dark

Scars

Am I to be known
By my scars
Or my scars
To define my borders,
My victories, my wars?
Will the loop of time
Define the obvious
That every scar is a loss.

Will some dermatologist make his name
From each raw and seeping new scar?

Will he treat the unhealed flesh of the old ones,
Make his career by showing off
The magic of his transformations?

Will there be a psychiatrist present
As each gap is stitched?
Will it matter in the end?
Will the final dust still feel the wounds?

See If I Don’t Smile

When you come see me
in the nursing home
in a few years, know
that I won’t recognize you,
will call you by the wrong name.
I’ll be in the lock-down unit
for good reason, dementia runs
in my family. Believe me,
I’ve seen this all before
with my poor dad.

So, please don’t think of me
as the frail blank-faced shell
in front of you, but picture me
at thirty, able to bench press
200 pounds and run a 10K
under fifty minutes, or sitting
with you and some beers
in a bar just twenty years ago
arguing about basketball or movies
or the best Bob Dylan album,
and laughing about it all.

Sneak me in a 6-pack of PBR,
and maybe a jar of black olives;
show me a bunch of postcards
I sent you a long time ago. Ask me
about the ’69 Mets or the time I met
Allen Ginsberg, or the night
I saw the Grateful Dead gone,
gone, gone on mushrooms.
Mention the names of my ex-girlfriends,
but only the ones from Texas,
and see if I don’t smile.

Don’t be afraid to say good-bye
when there’s more silence than talk.
I know I won’t be good company,
and won’t remember anyway,
but tell me you’ll be back soon
even if you won’t, and find a movie
on tv for me to stare at before you go.
It doesn’t matter if it has a happy ending.

Nothing There To See

From the kitchen window, he counts
five deer grazing silently in the yard.
A school bus comes down the street,
the deer pick up their heads, scatter
out of sight. He watches the bus pass,
then it’s quiet again, the yard still
and empty. He’s grown old, over sixty
now, with quiet mornings like these;
most of his life, he thinks, already come
and gone, unnoticed in time. It’s so quiet
all he hears is the hum of the refrigerator
as he pours the last of the coffee and looks
back out the window, but now there’s nothing
there to see. He turns again to the kitchen;
the morning paper spread out on the table,
a few dishes in the sink, the clock on the wall.

Tarzan Happy To

I stopped in to see Tarzan and Jane today,
hadn’t been in that part of Africa for years.
Jane gave me a big hug, smelled more
like talcum powder than her old fragrance
of jungle flowers and rain water, and
I almost didn’t recognize Tarzan,
his chest shrunken and his loin-cloth
well hidden by a Buddha-like belly.
We shook hands and he shuffled off
to turn down the Fox News that was blaring
in the background and we sat down to chat.

They told me that Boy never called;
he was living with wife number three
in San Diego and they never saw the grandkids
who lived with their different moms up in the Bay Area.
Then, I think Jane noticed me looking around,
so she explained softly they had the vet put Cheetah
to sleep a few years back and she started
to get weepy. Tarzan looked away and said,
Cheetah in pain. Doctor say monkey cancer.
Tarzan and Jane have no choice. I told them
I was sorry, that Cheetah was a helluva chimp.
Jane explained, while dabbing at her eyes with a Kleenex,
that they thought about getting another one,
but it was too much of a pain because these days
they spent the whole rainy season in Arizona
and their condo complex didn’t allow pets.

We were quiet then, just the jungle sounds
around us, so I stood up, asked the ape man
for one more of his signature yells before I left.
Tarzan happy to, he said, and started to beat on his chest.
Just before he started that unmistakable cry
that reassured us all no matter what our trouble,
though, he started to cough and cough and cough.
Bent over double, gasping for breath and only
with Jane’s help, he struggled back to the couch.
He’ll be ok in a minute, she said. Be patient.
This happens all the time now. I couldn’t help
but turn from them and look out over the vast jungle
hoping to grab the nearest vine and swing effortlessly
out of the treehouse and back to a time
when Tarzan could still roar.

Under Starry Skies

In the night
the orchid’s blood
drips on summer snow

A dark golden light
fills the cloudless sky
earth sleeps
in quieted eclipse
on a desert night

Moonlit skies
smoky slouds
a symphony of stars

    A statue wates
    when roses bloom
    on a summer night

Uses of Meta-

RAIN IS ITSELF A METAPHOR.
Depression. S.A.D. Floods. Fire.
The lists of casualties are many and various.
Walt Whitman healed those Civil War wounded.
William Carlos Williams a doctor. Wallace Stevens sold insurance.
After hours, one moon waits for poets/another for science fictioneers.
It is not the same moon. Lovers vs scientists. Astrology vs astronomy.
Like Vatican 2 and Pope Francis. Like theocracies vs autocracies.
Classic cars vs Antique cars. Classic Coke vs Mexican Coke.
Journalists shot by drug cartels. Harassed by politicians.
Bodies are found-students, women in Juarez.
Another massacre asks the obvious puppet-
Who has the keys to the gun cabinet?
A bird has a beak but carries no sidearms
A cat has claws but no assault rifle.
A dog bites but will not cause mass casualties
Evolution in reverse. Back to the Stoned Age.
Too lazy to fight. Too tired to change. This is why we demonstrate-
to keep us awake, aware, answering the metaphorical question-
What is it that makes us wholly human?

inside a pomegranate

Like unexpected grace
in our everyday moments
as if everything is beyond
the curvature of lifelines.

about ayaz daryl nielsen

    ayaz daryl nielsen, veteran and former hospice nurse, lives in Longmont, Colorado, USA. Editor of bear creek haiku (30+ years/145+ issues) with poetry published worldwide (and deeply appreciated), he is online at: bear creek haiku poetry, poems and info

untitled (encore)

64 year old
bass player in
a pretty good
blues band

nine couples
sweaty from
dancing, a full
glass of single
malt scotch
upon the piano..
rowdy drunks at
the bar bellow
“one more, ass-
holes!” rebel
yell from a guy
lying on the
floor, two bras
and a joint
tossed upon a
beer-stained
stage.

more than
enough for
an encore.

about ayaz daryl nielsen

    ayaz daryl nielsen, veteran and former hospice nurse, lives in Longmont, Colorado, USA. Editor of bear creek haiku (30+ years/145+ issues) with poetry published worldwide (and deeply appreciated), he is online at: bear creek haiku poetry, poems and info

Conspiracy to Raise Wages Redux

“Look for the Union Label”
In the late-nineteenth and early twentieth centuries,
it wasn’t just a catchy jingle,
it was a means of attaining a decent living
by using the boycott to achieve
union recognition and wages

The United Hatters of North America
conducted one against D.E. Loewe,
the owner of a hat-making company
in Danbury, Connecticut
Loewe sued for treble damages
under the Sherman Anti-Trust Act
and lost his case at the trial level

Loewe appealed to the Supreme Court,
and the Supreme Court decided,
unanimously,
that the boycott was a “scheme”
and declared it “to be within reach of the law”
Again,
union actions were declared to be,
though not in so many words,
a conspiracy to raise wages,
that labor was a commodity
or an article of commerce
subject to the provisions of the law
And Martin Lawlor, the union’s business agent,
and two hundred forty union members
were found to have ‘caused’
eighty thousand dollars damage
to Loewe’s business,
which amount
was then trebled under the law’s provisions,
just as Loewe had requested

Things Found in Books
4

Balancing Acts
Essays by Edward Hoagland
copyright 1992
A Touchstone Book
Published by Simon & Schuster
and on the inside front cover,
in lieu of a card,
the following:

Christmas 1996
To Sheila
A person whose everyday life is a “balancing act”---
but a person who never falls off the wire

(a drawing of a smiley face
with no nose)
Jennifer

i only want to heal (first 5 lines)

i am thankful
for the hardships
without them
i wouldn’t have found
my strength or my voice

my mother’s car

you were a triton
trying to take my body and soul
without permission,
and i said no;
but you ignored that
was it because i was a woman?
did you think because you were a man
you were entitled to someone
even if they said no?
i want to know—
still you forced me to kiss you
three times
i was just a girl and you were just a boy,
but they wouldn’t want to wreck
your future;
nor would they believe me
so i remained quiet
knowing my value as a woman even as a young girl
was nothing but thanking the heavens
i found some strength in my adrenaline rush
when you tried to rape me
i was able to run because my instincts
reacted faster than i could—
your sister didn’t even know, she told me
my mother was there and i ran and i ran and i ran
without looking back;
i could see you watching me as i got into the safety
of my mother’s car.

how many good men are there, really?

so many years
i hear people being praised
as good men

reminds me of my aunt
who said the boy who tried to
rape me was a good man,
and how she scolded me to be nice
when i pulled a face
rather than consider maybe she was
one hundred percent wrong;

how many of these good men
are frauds?

i am going to be skeptical
until the ratio of actual good men
is more than predators

because there are so many threats
in this world i cannot believe
anyone at face value
who is said to be a good man
in fact it makes me more suspicious
because good men don’t usually have to tell you
they’re good men, their deeds
speak for them.

Vending Machine

Scruffy hair gathers around his face
He faces me, scuffing boots on the floor
He gathers himself before he says
Whatever it is he has to say
Today man gathers his thought
We used to gather our fruit
Apples, red and shiny with evil chance
And berries- blue and black and straw
Now I stand before a vending machine
He has big brown eyes and buttons down his front
His legs are short, eyelashes long
Enough description

I want him, to touch my lips
My berry tongue and my apple heart
The whole package costs 14.99
Not bad, I say to myself
He nods, in agreement

I slide the cash into my vending machine
Tell him to accept my love
I run my fingers down his unbuttoned front
And his spine, which is ridged by bumps
There is a moment when the ten and the five and my everlasting love are
All inside the vending machine, and I have hope

Then slowly, surely, hopelessly, the bills slide out, again

God?

In early history
The Greek and Roman gods
Gave humans models for behavior
(and debauchery)
The God of the Old Testament
Bonded the Israelites together
On the 40 year trip to the Promised Land
And gave us the Ten Commandments
The God of the New Testament
Gave us
A message of peace
And changed Western Civilization
Christian philosophers such as
Anselm, Augustine, and Aquinas
Rebranded Greek philosophy
And led to centuries of deep thought
The so-called Judeo-Christian Tradition
Is often called the underpinnings of
American tradition even though
Christians always marginalized Jews
The actions of courageous
Religious leaders such as
The Rev. Martin Luther King Jr.
Led the Civil Rights Movement

Then it started going downhill
Atheism and Agnosticism
Grew in appeal as people began
To reject such unscientific tenets
As Virgin Births and Afterlives
Worse
Fundamentalist ministers blamed
Gays and lesbians for 9/11 and
Stories of pedophile priests abounded

And church attendance is way down
It seems to me
That God may now need us
More than we need Her/Him/It.

bio

    John F. McMullen, “johnmac the bard”, is the Poet Laureate of the Town of Yorktown, NY, a graduate of Iona College (BA – English Literature) and the holder of two Masters degrees from Marist College (MSCS – Information Systems & MPA – Criminal Justice), a member of the American Academy of Poets, Poets & Writers, the Hudson Valley Writers Center, the Mahopac & Yorktown Poetry Workshops and the Mahopac Writers Group, the author of over 2,500 columns and articles and eight books, six of which are collections of poetry, and is the host of a weekly Internet Radio Show (over 280 shows to date). Links to the recordings of all radio shows as well as information on Poet Laureate activities is available at www.johnmac13.com.

Like a Rocket

I quit drinking a long time ago,
Decades ago.

But, man, I had some fun.
I was wild, Suzy, crazy wild.

Not fake, suburban, frat boy wild,
But dangerous, impulsive, no-turning-back

Wild. I was a hazard to myself
And others. I was like a rocket with a fiery tail

Shot into the sky
Shot into my arm

Shot without warning
Or concern.

No looking backward
No looking forward

No looking inward
Or any other ward there was;

No, no, and
No some more.

Picture a cat pouncing on a passing chipmunk
Throwing him into the air, murderously and playfully.

I was both
The cat and its helpless prey.

I was neither, too. I was
A rocket,

A skinny, drunk, high as a kite
Rocket

With a red and yellow fiery tail burning
With insecurity, inability and indiscretion.

I was a rocket
Shot into the black, sweltering,

City night,
Trajectory - to be determined.

Seward Ward Bio

    Seward Ward is a poet, painter and longtime New York City bartender. He has published poems in the Washington Review, Dogwood, Avalon Literary Review and Art Times with work upcoming in The Cape Rock. He lives in northern New Jersey with his wife, daughters and two unnaturally large cats.

Poem That Smells Like Irish Whiskey

I always dreamed of meeting my love
in a bookstore.
But I met her in a bar.
And the one before her,
in a bar.
And before that,

in a bar.

That’s just like me.
Dreaming of sophisticates

and fucking drunks.

Seward Ward Bio

    Seward Ward is a poet, painter and longtime New York City bartender. He has published poems in the Washington Review, Dogwood, Avalon Literary Review and Art Times with work upcoming in The Cape Rock. He lives in northern New Jersey with his wife, daughters and two unnaturally large cats.

Alms of Ouroboros

Those politics
will eat you for breakfast
and leave the empty plate
smeared with grease

That’s not God in your needle
That’s not love in your message
That’s not virtue in your stained glass
That’s not power in your eyes

I can see you
the same way I
can see straight through myself

just another tail
chasing itself
around the cycle
we have suffered
and survived before

Mounds of dirt
vials of blood
bones and ash
piled atop the earth

Anthills
Molehills
Kingdoms
Fiefdoms
Empires

are all
sooner or later
eventually
kissed by their sacrifices
and smashed
by the hands of time

That’s not gold in your teeth
That’s not love in your mission
That’s not honor in your oilfields
This is not your reaping of wheat

About Scott Thomas Outlar

    Scott Thomas Outlar hosts the site 17Numa.com where links to his published poetry, fiction, essays, interviews, reviews, live events, and books can be found. His work has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net. Outlar was a recipient of the 2017 Setu Magazine Award for Excellence in the field of literature. His words have been translated into Afrikaans, Albanian, Dutch, Italian, French, Persian, and Serbian. He has been a weekly contributor for the cultural newsletter Dissident Voice since 2014. His most recent book, Abstract Visions of Light, was released in 2018 through Alien Buddha Press.

Go Cult Yourself

with a needle
with a sermon
with a fat piece of land

with a message
with a madness
without a penny in your hands

About Scott Thomas Outlar

    Scott Thomas Outlar hosts the site 17Numa.com where links to his published poetry, fiction, essays, interviews, reviews, live events, and books can be found. His work has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net. Outlar was a recipient of the 2017 Setu Magazine Award for Excellence in the field of literature. His words have been translated into Afrikaans, Albanian, Dutch, Italian, French, Persian, and Serbian. He has been a weekly contributor for the cultural newsletter Dissident Voice since 2014. His most recent book, Abstract Visions of Light, was released in 2018 through Alien Buddha Press.

Slap Thrice and Pretend It’s a Discount

There isn’t much innocence left
as far as I can tell
on any side of the war
no matter which one you choose to wage.

They are sold a dime a dozen these days.

Smoke in your lungs, smoke in your eyes,
smoke in the sky, smoke filling the cheeks
that can only be turned
so many times
before they begin to burn.

About Scott Thomas Outlar

    Scott Thomas Outlar hosts the site 17Numa.com where links to his published poetry, fiction, essays, interviews, reviews, live events, and books can be found. His work has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net. Outlar was a recipient of the 2017 Setu Magazine Award for Excellence in the field of literature. His words have been translated into Afrikaans, Albanian, Dutch, Italian, French, Persian, and Serbian. He has been a weekly contributor for the cultural newsletter Dissident Voice since 2014. His most recent book, Abstract Visions of Light, was released in 2018 through Alien Buddha Press.

The Squirrel

While dawn innocently breaks,
I reverently wait for that squirrel.

Each day, she scurries with joy
head slightly cocked, chirping,

looking-up with a foolish grin
having found another buried treasure.

Inspired by my fuzzy friend,
I leave hoping to find my treasure.

Aftermath

Jump off a cliff into the abyss holding the hand of a lover
Ride the tsunami into hell and get sweaty in the steam
There’s an uncommon common theme here, are you picking up
on it—like a phone call that will end when my phone or I dies

Every life is a cycle, but you break up my life cycle until I go to heaven
and hell, not just the latter, making my trauma seem like opera
open faced like the roast beef and both our feet, always on all twenty of our toes
In order to have money, women, or problems you must have the other two too

It’s easy to be a white man, as long as you aren’t Hitler, you are doing pretty well
The bar is so low that it’s sitting in the dirt and so are we watching the shedding buffalo
I don’t know what democracy dying sounds like because I’m not listening anymore
I’m not deaf it’s just her breath on my neck is my meth and I prefer my smoke without mirrors

Bio

    John Maurer is a 23-year-old writer from Pittsburgh that writes fiction, poetry, and everything in-between, but his work always strives to portray that what is true is beautiful. He has been previously published in Claudius Speaks, The Bitchin’ Kitsch, Thought Catalog, and more than twenty others. @JohnPMaurer (johnpmaurer.com)

Government is God

Alopecia or cholera, either way I repeatedly turn my collar to the wind
Don’t send letters to senators, send the flaming pitchforks and the spitting derision
Another criminal president; another devil trying to convince us or himself that he’s heaven sent
The White House has gotten a little too white, am I right?
I like starting fights because I like getting hit

God can’t see everything, but the government can through every camera
see you born
see you killed
see your tits
see your breakup texts
see your heaps of hedonistic take-out orders
The government is like Santa Claus except they are real and they steal your gifts

Making money off of war
making money off of imprisonment
making money off of bribes
making money off of taking money
making money off of selling guns to:
Kids, gangs, international cartels, our friends, our enemies

God can’t save us because he’s not real, the government can’t save us because they don’t want to

Bio

    John Maurer is a 23-year-old writer from Pittsburgh that writes fiction, poetry, and everything in-between, but his work always strives to portray that what is true is beautiful. He has been previously published in Claudius Speaks, The Bitchin’ Kitsch, Thought Catalog, and more than twenty others. @JohnPMaurer (johnpmaurer.com)

Poets are an Endangered Species

This is not what I planned
but admittedly I didn’t plan

To be broke and hopeless
to be dying and sick, in that order

I dropped my pen one too many times
so now I’ve fallen for it

Like it’s a wand and this is a trick
casting spells on myself to think what I spell will help

The less they are reading
the less I am breathing

With empty pockets, you expect me to pay time to meter
you don’t supply a dime and still try to guide my lines

Breaking rules and rulers, breaking pencils and trashing stencils
You can be giant, James, I’m the peach with the impeached president in-between my teeth

The art community expects the government to take care of the mentally ill
The government expects the art community to take care of us

I lick my own wounds
while watching my family bleed to death

Bio

    John Maurer is a 23-year-old writer from Pittsburgh that writes fiction, poetry, and everything in-between, but his work always strives to portray that what is true is beautiful. He has been previously published in Claudius Speaks, The Bitchin’ Kitsch, Thought Catalog, and more than twenty others. @JohnPMaurer (johnpmaurer.com)

The Body in the Brain

All of us are bodies in brains
with the brains in our bodies telling us
you don’t have the right body in your brain
you don’t have the right brain in your body

Like a cat-lady taking candid photos of a stray dog
Screaming, MEOW! MEOW! MEOW!
Then eating her cat food from the can with the bent-up flatware
Using the chair as a table and the table as a chair

Not wallowing in the death of the willow
For I am a hedonist for anhedonia knowing it will split roots anew
into another masterpiece I’ll have to watch scraped carelessly off the canvas
so horses can be made into glue to be used for posting pop-art propaganda posters

Waging war on ourselves with a thousand spears and not even a thought of a shield
Driving with two tires on each side of the two lines, making every road go only one way

Bio

    John Maurer is a 23-year-old writer from Pittsburgh that writes fiction, poetry, and everything in-between, but his work always strives to portray that what is true is beautiful. He has been previously published in Claudius Speaks, The Bitchin’ Kitsch, Thought Catalog, and more than twenty others. @JohnPMaurer (johnpmaurer.com)

Engaging with James Baldwin

In the autumn of my years,
I was sitting alone on a park bench
admiring a bed of daffodils, and wishing
it were spring again

A young man sat down beside me,
proceeded to read a paperback novel
and (out of the blue) asked for my opinion
of James Baldwin

I confessed I loved all his novels,
and we engaged in feisty chat for a while
about literature, life, Human Rights, taboos,
and (of course) sexuality

His smile on me was like the sun,
as warm, friendly, and sensual as Apollo
might treat an acolyte, my dour wintry years
melting into springtime

At last, we went our separate ways,
exchanging names and phone numbers,
both expressing our desire to meet up again
sooner rather than later

I didn’t really think he would call,
was delighted when he did, and so began
a friendship that would gladly run the gamut
of light and dark

As lovers, we would never have lasted
where a union of like minds and free spirits
engaged with each other, lending my autumn
a new lease of life

Opening Up

Envelopes unopened;
scared to look, acknowledge even;
feelings like flowers left
at a grave if only to give the dead
a raison d’être

Profiles of the Great
interrogating me wherever I go
about my response to the cost
of living, voices chanting dark spells
at every checkout

Fear, clammy hands
on matchstick arms, humanity
strutting its hour on stage
(art of least resistance) chalking up
mock victories

Words, like mandarins
in white coats supervising a trainee
working from a manual
on staying bottom of the class without
really trying

Envelopes, daring me...
Fingertips fumbling with terror
(Can I really do this?)
No stigma in old wounds ruling out
perfection

Now, OPENING UP...

A Guy Walks Into a Bar

houston texas, july 17th
a friend and I are getting day drunk
why not?
a guy walks into the bar
hounds tooth jacket,
check
tweed vest,
check
bow-tie,
check
handlebar mustache,
check
look it’s sherlock holmes, i say
the man sits down next to us
are you english, i ask
i thought it was possible
an english country gentleman
lost in the dregs of a big american city
he smiles,
then...
more shots!
are you a professor, i ask
he smiles again,
an actor perhaps?
he smirks
is he fucking with me, i wonder
how can a guy walk into a bar
in the middle of summer
in houston texas
dressed like that,
and not expect questions
is he a quack
an old hipster, who doesn’t quite get it
is he trying to make a statement
well, okay
here’s your chance
I’m asking you
say something
don’t you have anything to say?
—silence—
well then...Fuck You!
suddenly, the red-headed bartender turns banshee,
pounds her fists upon the bar,
and in glorious ginger rage howls,
Get Out!
as we stumble out of the bar
into the agony of the mid-day-sun
i turn to my friend and say—
i’m hungry
I felt like Henry Chinaski

About John Kojak

    John Kojak received his BA in English from The University of Texas in 2015. His short story “Don Pedro” appeared in Beyond Imagination magazine, “American Hero” in Down In The Dirt, “Beauty and the Beast” in Third Wednesday, “Happy Hands Cleaning Service” in Bête Noire, and “Elizabeth Beatrice Moore” in Pulp Modern. His poetry has also appeared in Poetry Quarterly, Dual Coast, The Stray Branch (featured writer), The Literary Commune, Dime Show Review, The Los Angeles Review of Los Angeles, Chronogram, Harbinger Asylum, and soon The American Journal of Poetry.

A Good Year For The Roses

her voice was honey mixed with
barbed wire, pleasure
and pain
better than any poem i’ll
ever write
even better than the one
i wrote for her, before
which she claimed i
stole
as if a black man wasn’t capable
of creating beauty

i was offended , but maybe
i should’ve taken it
as a compliment
that the words weren’t really
mine
just as that voice i heard that night
wasn’t really hers
but merely, the speech of
angels

My Hollow Heart

Our home feels hollow, cruelly vacant
as I wander the rooms, wishing you were here.
Harshly silent, gravely still
I shiver from the unbearable reality.
I close my eyes, but the throbbing sears.
As your image brings my heart to tears.
For memories once warm now fade.
Sweet images my broken heart
now plague. I fight the urge
to feel indifferent, to pretend, to forget
For a cold heart feels no pain.
A painless heart, however, becomes
just a vessel for pumping blood, thus
diminishing your memory to the mundane.

bio

    Michelle Howard is a recently retired 2nd grade teacher who has been sharing her passion for poetry with children for the past 20 years. She is looking forward to sharing her poetry with an adult audience.

Sheila’s Ole Man

Henry had words
that sounded like
mortar rounds
or hand grenades
going off.

He threatened
& gesticulated
shouted his to kill words;
words meant to destroy completely.

Henry saw everyone
& everything around him
as an adversary.

He’d rant on
at the bar
about his fat ass fucking wife,
his idiot fucking mill boss,
his lazy fucking coworkers
his two worthless fucking kids
& he always drank
too fucking much.

Henry would
stagger in the house with
a twisted look.
There’d be,
more often than not,
rage on his face,
anger clenched inside
his balled fists
& he’d take it all
out on his family-
terrorizing his wife,
son and daughter.
He especially liked
the belt
& used it on all three.

But Henry’s daughter learned;
had hand grenades
of her own;
better words-
words meant to soften
the blows of existence
its impact.

It was Sheila’s means
of escape & granting herself
reprieve...

We drove one day
to South Boston.
We were going to visit Henry.
She brought flowers.

On Henry’s headstone it read
“H.S. Benjamin’
An Angry Man Turns Below”

Ominous Day

As a gladiator here,
I proudly drew my sword and fought.
I was revered in Pompeii,
winning too many battles to count.

On one ominous day,
when I saw Mount Vesuvius erupt,
I drew my sword
and charged toward that mountain.

Bamboo

He gave her the name
of the bamboo near my home

this bamboo that I love
that grow so high, so strong

and I didn’t want to care
for this strange creature,

even though he named her
after something I love

but more than that, he gave her
a name and he made her

more real than these bamboo trees.
It made me look for her,

want to give her food, water,
though I had to learn that before

she would accept anything from me
she would have to first come to me,

feel my hands along her, giving her
love, before she’d even think of food

#

and he thought, maybe we should
take her in, give her a home —

and I thought, I know I love all
but I don’t know if I can do this...

you know how it is, you think of
logistics, can you really bring in

another life in its final years
just to be heartbroken again.

So we’d bring out food, day after day,
give her extra water in the desert heat

and he said next week, next week
I’ll do it, I’ll bring her in

so we can check on her health
and then keep her forever

until this morning, we brought
out food, and there was no sign if her

not for minutes,
not for hours

she might have been
hiding in the bamboo

so we checked again, and a day went by
and there was still no sign of her life

so all we could do after then
was toast to the bamboo

that grew too proud, too strong
near our home

and contemplate the relationship
the might have been

like nothing
ever happened

In Waco, Texas
a grand jury
found enough
evidence
in the case
against a man
indicted on four counts
of sexual assault
to send the case
to trial.

Now, usually,
when a grand jury
sends a case
to trial,
that usually means
there’s enough
evidence
to convict.

But I just heard
on the news
that instead,
he pled
no contest
to one charge
of unlawful restraint
in return
for the dismissal
of four charges
of sexual assault.
With this plea
from this fraternity
president rapist,
who had nothing
to offer the state
in a plea deal,
he gets this lower charge
in exchange
for
counseling,
a $400 fine
        (which is less
        than the fine
        for leaving
        a disabled car
        to get help),
plus three years
probation.
Added bonus,
if he stays clean
until probation’s over,
his record
would be
expunged.

This means
he wouldn’t have to
register as a sex offender —

it would be
like nothing ever happened.

This woman
was repeatedly
raped,
strangled,
and left
for dead
face down
in the dirt.
She was brought
to the hospital,
where they
called the police.
There’s an enormous
amount of evidence.
A conviction
is almost sure.

Four counts of
sexual assault.
And they treat it
like nothing ever happened.

Women think
we’ve shattered
the glass ceiling,
but we still
have to shatter
the mentality
that woman are objects
and rape is not a crime.
We try to plead our case,
but nothing ever happens.

Maybe we women
have to shatter
more than ceilings,
but also men’s mentality.
Maybe we should
even shatter
a few of your bones,
the way you shatter our souls
with every act of rape.

Shattering your bones
would not even
cross the line
you rapists cross
with your misogyny
and violence.
Is that what we’re left with?
Is that what we have to do?
Should we start to get down
as low as you
to start
to try
to even
the score?

If we’re so equal,
is it not our turn
to exact our revenge?

(Former Baylor University Phi Delta Theta president
and student Jacob Walter Anderson was arrested
and charged with sexual assault in 2016.)

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), KOOP (91.7FM), 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, Prominent Tongue, 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 (with poems written for every element in the Periodic Table), a year long Journey, Bon Voyage! (a journal and photography book with select poems on travel as an American female vegetarian in India), 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 her 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). In 2018, Scars Publications released “Antarctica: Earth’s Final Frontier” and “Antarctica: Wildlife” (2 Janet Kuypers full-color photography books from the first passenger ship to Antarctica in 2017), performance art books “Chapter 48 (v1)” (2009-2011) and “Chapter 48 (v2)” (2011-2018), the v5 cc&d poetry collection book “On the Edge”, and the interview/journal/poetry book “In Depth”.

This City (Chicago)

This city has a smell
As I walk down the streets
With my groceries
I smell a moisture in the air blowing in off the lake
I smell the decay of gardens left in disrepair
On the busy streets
I smell the rush of people
On their way to somewhere
On the busy streets
I smell the diesel fumes
From trucks filled with groceries
As they rumble by
From busses filled with people
On their way to somewhere

As I pass under the el
I smell the ozone from the electric arcs
The acrid smell of hot brakes
As the train clatters overhead
Filled with people
On their way to somewhere

That sound

I do not live here - any more
I was not born here
I am not from here
That sound of the el
The smells
They tell me I am home

I did not know it when I lived here
But i know it is true
This city is my home
It’s winter is cold, black, unforgiving
I must leave
But I want to come back

The city where I live
Is filled with poets, artists and musicians
They look back and opine
For better times that never were
The city where I live is confused
It is being pulled into the future
Faster and faster
It’s people wake up each day
One step behind where they were yesterday
They do not understand the big city

This city though
The city of the big shoulders
It smells of anger
The anger of, “why can’t you keep up?”
The anger of, “why are you in my way?”
This city
This city is rushing headlong into the future
Chopping buildings in half and flattening bridges
This city has ripped off its rear view mirror

There is no need to look back

Except ‘85... ‘85 was a good year

I listened to this city as a child
I did not know it at the time
I did not feel it then
This city is my home
Its winter is cold, black, unforgiving

I want to come back and stay

Maybe next time

The Anatomy of Things

    David’s left leg is a bit mangled, and he still wears a brace after twenty years. It is not getting better, and sometimes his pain is worse.
    He tells me the accident happened in Frisco, that he had just turned a corner and suddenly came upon a woman with the best backside he had ever seen. Then the Harley went down.
    I guess that as time goes by that woman’s backside gets more and more perfect to him. I guess it has to.

The Mail

    Mary - Mary was quite contrary. When she was younger, she was a stone fox. Now, at 80, she was a bit more stone and less fox, maybe a bit leathery.
    She had had her choice of men, but none were ever good enough. As she pushed them away, time pushed back at her.
    A few men did write her for years, but eventually quit when she did not reply.
    She goes out to get her mail, as she does daily. Everything is addressed to “occupant”, but she examines each piece carefully and smiles tenderly. If the neighbors are watching, they will never know who the mail is from. It could be an old lover; it might be an old lover.
    Even at death’s door, she will keep a little mystery. Even death will have to respect that, will have to woo her.

Ups and Downs

    Nathan felt that his life was just a series of ups and downs, as though he were in a elevator, as though it stopped at floor after floor, but he could not, did not get off. Maybe others did get on and off, but they acted the way people do on elevators, saying little or nothing even as their flesh is pressed against strangers.
    He pushed the buttons on his i phone, and his stomach went up and down. Pain came to him as he realized he was an elevator operator. And all around him people were swiping left and right. Then the word turned sideways, and everybody and everything was going up and down, up and down.
    Nathan prayed to God. He prayed for a power failure.

Walking After Midnight

    New England towns are not called “sleepy” for nothing. Even the rowdies drop off the map and into slumberland after a certain time. Anybody you meet after that either has trouble sleeping or has a troubled sleep.
    Connie was on the opposite side of the street, an outline against darkness. And when the human stage is so stark and uncluttered, it seems a mortal sin not to acknowledge another human being.
    Who spoke first, I do not remember, but she crossed to my side and we went back ostensibly for coffee at my place.
    Sometimes people tell you things, whether or not you want them to. Connie tells me she has been turning tricks to support her old man’s habits, been hitching rides with “respectable” businessmen and offering herself a la carte.
    She tells me she just wants to be wanted for herself, to be held, to remember what that is like.
    That is what she said. But it is morning, and she is going to hitch back home. Soon her boyfriend is going to need her, or at least his fix.

Symbols

    Flowers. Colors. Crosses. The sun. His wife’s broken dishes. His boss’s nervous tick. A crooked painting. A metal fence. The air in our lungs. The blood in our veins.
    Everything could be, was, a symbol. Symbols were symbols of other symbols, ad infinitum. Everything meant something and meant something else. Even nothing meant something.
    But nothing could not be everything. By definition. By hope. No, it could not be.
    The weight of countless iterations and possibilities became crushing. He needed to breathe.
    He needed to begin again, needed to be reborn.
    The knife he held would cut through the flesh of resistance. Blood would flow like the river Jordan. He would cross to the other side, the land of milk and honey. Confusion would fall away like a torn cloak. The air would be sweet.
    Suddenly he hiccuped, laughed involuntarily, and said, “Then again, maybe not. And dropped the knife.

Escape Velocity

    At the arc’s edge, hands clutch chalk and limelight. As a thousand breaths threaten to draw her down, she catches her balance on the lip of a childhood wish, the tight wire strung between her garden fence and the Grand Canyon. Bug-small, she spreads invisible wings that cover school playgrounds, bus shelters, the downtown skeletons of supermarkets and subways. There’s no trick to this: delicate steps, a head for the impossible, a unicycle pushed to escape velocity, all mapped out in chalk hearts and temporary tattoos. The crowd gasps, then cheers, but still she won’t come down.

Flotsam

    Nothing is lost at sea: the waves gather their own, back to the primordial. Ships, wedding rings, children and voices relinquish their claims to breath, their conceit of signification. When we look at sand through a microscope, it assumes the weight of fetishes and offerings to immeasurable gods; when we look in a mirror, we see our eyes full of oceans, fidgety and impatient. We are 65% water, with 210 grams of salt, yet I never learnt to swim, and my dry gills itch beneath my collar.

Tearing Diaries into Small Pieces

    It’s a year of anniversaries, centenaries, bicentenaries, parades, TV specials, and newspaper pull-outs: a year for remembering, taking stock, looking forward. We keep years like ice cubes, neater than nature, out of their preferred state, and if we ever had a Comfort Zone, we’ve lost our way back, don’t even remember its textures and dimensions. I have kept a copy of the text I sent: casual seconds mushrooming significance, their spores germinating in my heavy gut. It’s 402 years since Shakespeare died, 100 since the end of the Great War, and 1094 days since I spoke to my mother.

The Kill

    Much has been sung about the land of opportunity, this America that seemingly infinite choruses herald up as the God blessed one. I don’t know whether these songsters really believe that or whether they just enjoy hearing themselves sing. Either way there is a lot of it that goes on and it takes only a drop of the hat to get it started. I suppose it all depends on where you are coming from. If you are coming from somewhere over there, out there, or almost anywhere beyond the hallelujahs and amens, you kind of wonder how can they honestly do that. If you are coming from among the songs and waving flags then I expect it’s just your special kind of opiate and it just feels too good to matter whether it is true or not. Bring it on for you are ready, you think. Hell you’ve always been ready. This is America. But even here the clock of existence has changed. No clock remains set in place.
    I know it has been with great confidence that this America was built with a devil may care brand. The things that were read and seen were served up especially designed to compliment that confidence and thereby easily tweak a little piece of the action. But suppose we were to bring together where we have been and where we are going. Not in the sense of a history which they say can be rewritten at any time. Nor in the sense of the experts for they are almost always fixed. But in the sense of the marginal, the less blessed, those outside of the fix and unlike us. It is a consideration that all good patriots of the hunt must do in their search for the truth.
    The fixed promises of the hunt which we must lay aside in order to do this will resist this temporary retirement, for these promises are built upon the rule that they must always figure in when it comes to the perceptions that are necessary to really see. Our songs are always quick to demonstrate this principle with their anthems of moving heroism, where the hero, who diligently adheres to the principles of the promises, performs glorious things. To abandon these promises and travel awry will raise voices of Gregorian admonition and emergency instructions to return to that well trod trail and it’s accompanying muzak. Many are the institutions built to house these structured forests of provision. Laws are handed down, in the name of civilization, to avoid the unsightly bypaths that we might lightly reconnoiter. But laws of structured promise can not contain the truth of the unsightly real if we deign to look. In an honest and necessary hunt, to see all that can be seen is required. We must see the eyes cloud and the being fade as well as the bullet strike. We must feel the melancholy hollow in our breast as we stand at the abyss. We must know what we have done, without the tutor of singing voices and structured promises. We must see the kill as it is and allow no further insult to visit it. We must be.

The Mannequin

    After I showed my paperwork to the girl at the desk and signed in, David, an upperclassman at Boston University who was helping freshmen move in, brought me to an elevator in the rear of the hall. In the short time it took to get to the fourth floor, he managed to tell me a bit about the alleged haunting by Eugene O’Neill. Shelton Hall was once an apartment building, and O’Neill and his wife Carlotta, whose psychiatrist had an office on Bay State Road, lived in suite 401 starting in 1951. Eugene died of Parkinson’s disease in 1953.
    David said, “His last words were ‘Born in a hotel room and goddammit, died in a hotel room,’ ” as we reached the door of my suite, a pair of bedrooms (each shared by two females) with a common area. I was having trouble with the key; it wouldn’t turn.
    “Let me help you with that, Molly.” He placed his warm soft palm on my wrist. His hands were big with long delicate fingers, like those of a guitarist. I noticed how clean his nails were and I could smell his body odor—a mix of sweat and freshly baked bread. I felt my nipples harden. Maybe he would be my second? I thought. And I hoped he would be better than my first, a boy from my high school American History class, who I later found out was gay.
    The door swung open quickly. We walked through a drab common area with the same azure blue carpet from the hallway. There was an old red-and-white plaid couch, an electric stovetop, and a small t.v. My room, which was labeled A, was on the left. This time the key worked well. My roommate had already moved in; her things were on the left side of the room, the section with the best view of the Charles River. My side was close to the bathroom, which I wasn’t crazy about, and was darker with poor overhead lighting.
    David pushed the bin to my bed, which was covered by a navy blue spread and two lumpy pillows. “It’s not the best,” he said, “but the view from the ninth floor is spectacular and the dining hall serves pretty good food.”
    “Actually, I think the building is charming. I’ve always wanted to live in downtown Boston.”
     “Guess your roommate’s name begins with an A.” He nodded towards a very loopy pink wooden A that hung on the wall above her dresser. On the top shelf of the bookcase beside the dresser was a gold metal crucifix and a picture of what I assumed was her family. All of them were blond—father, mother, brother, and her. There was even a yellow Labrador retriever.
    David followed my eyes. “She looks pretty vanilla. Almost seems like one of those fake photographs that comes with the frame.”
    “Let’s look. Maybe it is.” I laughed and he stood close as I pulled the cardboard backing from the frame and took out what was an authentic photograph. On the back was written, “Mom, Dad, Joey, me, and Saint Paul.”
    “Who the fuck is Saint Paul?” David laughed. He hovered over my shoulder and I smelled him again. I wanted to kiss him.
    “Must be the dog, unless it’s her brother. But he doesn’t look like a saint. He looks like a pain in the ass.”
    “It’s my dog.” The voice came from behind us. David jumped.
    We both turned. A pear-shaped, very tall Ashley stared at us with an irked expression. Her blond over-permed hair reminded me of a poodle and she had gained at least thirty pounds since the picture was taken.
    “Sorry,” David said, putting his hands in pockets. “The picture just looked so perfect. We thought it was one of those fake ones that comes with the frame.” He smiled and laughed—flawless white teeth.
    “You had no business touching my stuff.” Ashley stormed forward and grabbed the picture from the bookshelf. She pulled up the bottom of her pink t-shirt to rub off our fingerprints, then she slid the photograph inside of the cardboard backing, pushing down the clips, and held it tight to her small chest.
    “Lighten up,” I said. “It’s not like we were going through your panty drawer.” I extended my hand to shake hers. “I’m Molly Bonamici. This is David. He’s one of the helpers for students moving in today.” She turned and put the picture on her bed in between two stuffed teddy bears, as if that would protect it from future affronts. She had a fat ass that made the green and pink lines of her plaid shorts even uglier.
    “Aren’t you going to shake my hand?”
    “Not right now,” she said. “I’m still pissed off, but my full name is Ashley Adams.”
     “I guess I’ll get going.” David raised his eyebrows at me.
     I thanked him. He winked at me before he walked out the door and mouthed, “Good luck.” I loved his smile.
    Ashley busied herself unloading a bag of construction paper, glue, scissors, and markers onto the desk by her window. I walked to my side of the room and checked out the bathroom. It was old-fashioned with black-and-white subway tile on the floor and white painted walls. There was a claw-footed bathtub with a black shower curtain, a decent size medicine cabinet, and 6 black shelves on the wall. I splashed water on my face, and wiped my hands on my jean shorts.
    When I came out of the bathroom, I found Ashley lying on her bed, reading a book entitled, The Elements of Language Curriculum. I opened my suitcase and began putting my clothes away in the oak laminate dresser, hanging some things in the closet on my side of the room. “Are you an education major?”
    “Yes,” she answered without looking up. “I’m in the College of General Studies.”
    Students who are not outright accepted to Boston University are enrolled in the General Studies College, a sort of probationary acceptance, with matriculation later on. “What grade level are you interested in teaching?”
    “Elementary.” She flipped a page and pretended to read.
    “We need good elementary teachers. One of my favorites was Ms. Hopkins. I think I had a crush on her.”
    Ashley looked up at me, frowning. She fingered a gold cross around her neck.
    “Oh, I don’t mean ‘crush’ in that way. I’m not a lesbian if that’s what you’re thinking.”
    “I wasn’t thinking that.” She looked me over, eyes moving up and down. “Where are you from?”
    “Revere. I’m from a very Italian neighborhood, not too far from here.”
    “Where’s that exactly?”
    “Just outside of Boston. About five miles to the north.”
    “Can I ask you a personal question?” Ashley shut her book.
    “Sure.”
    “Do you know any people in the Mafia? . . . One of my parents’ favorite movies is The Godfather.”
    “The stereotype of the Italian Mafia is mostly hype from movies. But to answer your question—yes. One of my Nonna’s friends, Mr. Scarfone, has ties to the Mafia. He’s involved in small-time things like gambling, money laundering, and drugs. Nothing major. He doesn’t smash horse heads onto bedposts.” I laughed.
    “That’s scary.” She rubbed the top of her hand.
    “If you met Mr. Scarfone, you would like him. He seems like a nice old uncle. He tells stupid jokes, but he’s always kind. . . Where are you from?”
    “Lenox, Massachusetts. We are mostly white so I don’t think we have a lot of Italians.”
    “I see. . . .That’s where the Boston Pops plays during the summer. I’ve always wanted to go to Tanglewood.”
    “My parents are violinists,” she said.
    “That’s cool. I like classical music.”
    “I hate it.” She put her book down and sat up on the side of her bed, watching me put my books on the shelves. “Did you read all of them?”
    “Yes.”
    “I hate reading long books. I prefer children’s books and young adult fiction.”
    I knew we were not going to be friends.
    “Oh, and I like the Bible, too.” She tilted her head upward, tossing her poodle-do with one hand. I noticed a pimple on her chin.
    “I don’t like the Bible much. Mostly it’s a bunch of bullshit. The New Testament isn’t all that bad. I like the Gospel of John, especially its Prologue: ‘In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.’ The idea of words being portrayed as divine appeals to me. I’m an English major, and of course I love books.”
    “But it’s not words that the Gospel is talking about,” she said. “ ‘The Word’ means Jesus.”
    “I don’t think so.”
    “Of course it does.” Her face flushed. “John was talking about Jesus.”
    “That’s an interpretation.”
    “Are you a Catholic?”
    “I’m an atheist. I think religion is the cause of most of the world’s troubles.”
    “How can you say that? Jesus died for our sins.” Her voice shook.
    “Ashley, I doubt you are an expert on the Bible. But let’s change the subject. Have you met our suitemates?”
    She slid back on the bed and propped herself up with pillows, moving the teddy bears and picture aside. “No. They haven’t arrived.”
    “I wonder where they are?” I said, thinking, please let them be more interesting than this stunod, as Nonna would say.
    “Maybe they’re coming from far away. BU attracts students from all over the world.”
    “Yeah, maybe they are coming from Mali or Guinea.”
    “I never heard of those cities. Is Guinea where guinea pigs are from? I think they are so cute.”
    “They are not cities. They’re countries. Both in Africa.”
    “Oh.”
    “This is soooo adorable,” someone said, entering the common area. The voice was that of an older woman—raspy, and slightly nasal.
    “That must be one of them.” Ashley bounced off the bed, patted her t-shirt, and fluffed her hair. “How do I look?”
    I laughed. “You look fine.”
    “Well, don’t you want to meet them?”
    “I think we should give them a few minutes to get settled. Is it okay if I use the bottom three shelves in the bathroom?” I wanted to put my toiletries away.
    “I guess so.”
    “Or would you prefer the bottom shelves? I just figured because you were taller, the top shelves might be easier for you to reach, Ashley.” I wanted to call her Lurch, as in the Addams Family.
    “That’s fine. You can have the bottom shelves.” She looked at herself in the mirror on the back of our door, smiled, and walked into the common area. I moved just aside the door to hear the conversation.
    “Mom, it’s hideous. But that’s fine. A college room is not supposed to be the Ritz.”
    “Emily, turn around. One of your suitemates is here,” Emily’s mother said.
    “I’m Ashley. Ashley Adams.”
    “Emily Finnegan. And this is my mother.”
    “Just call me Lorna.”
    “Nice to meet you both,” Ashley said.
    “You too, darling,” Lorna answered.
    There was an awkward silence. I wished there was a peephole in the wall so I could spy.
    “Well, I guess we should continue moving my things in,” Emily said.
    “Oh, I can help if you like.”
    “No sweetheart. Go set up your own room. I’m sure you have a lot to do as well,” Lorna said. It was obvious that Emily and her mother wanted to get rid of Ashley.
    “Really, it’s no bother.”
    Emily said, “Actually I prefer to move the things in myself. Plus there’s a guy downstairs who’s offered to help, and my sister is waiting by our car. So we have to hurry. We’ll talk later.”
    So Emily didn’t seem to care much for Ashley either. I had a feeling that she and I were going to be friends. At least we had one thing in common—an antipathy for Ashley. Ashley came back into our room and shut the door tightly. I quickly opened a dresser drawer and pretended to arrange my pants. I could hear voices in the bedroom next to ours, but the words were indistinct. I got the sense that Emily was unhappy with the dorm, college, or something else going on in her life, and her mother was trying too hard to make everything seem wonderful. I’ve always been intrigued by the inflections of emotion in people’s voices. Most emotions felt like foreign languages to me, but over the years, I had become very good at translating them and reading people. Sometimes, I would reenact conversations I’d overhead, watching my facial expressions in the mirror.
    “They were a bit rude.” She sank into her bed and folded her arms. Her t-shirt lifted slightly, revealing her white belly.
    “Why do you say that?”
    “I offered to help them move in and they brushed me off.”
    “Maybe they just wanted to spend some time together. You know, the whole mother-daughter thing. Child leaving the nest.”
    Her face was steely. “I think she’s a bitch.”
    “Who? The mother or the daughter?”
    “Well I guess both of them.”
    “Don’t you think you are being a bit harsh?”
    “I was just trying to be a good Christian and offer help.”
    “Atheists can be good, too, ya know.” This girl was really starting to annoy me. I started brainstorming ways to avoid spending a whole school year cooped up with her. “Christians don’t hold a copyright on goodness.”
    “I didn’t say they did.”
    “No, but you implied it.” I pulled a pair of black panties out of my drawer and placed them on top of my dresser. Then I walked over to the mirror and began to disrobe, tossing my black t-shirt and cut-off jeans onto the bed. I fluffed my long brown hair, which was a bit sweaty, threading my fingers through the sticky sections. Ashley pretended to read her textbook. I decided to give the prude a show. I unclasped my black bra, shimmied out of my black panties, and threw them onto the bed as well. I turned and faced Ashley—full frontal nudity. “Do you think I have nice breasts?”
    Her face was blotchy. She looked up from her book, feigning a nonchalant glance. “I guess so.”
    Then I put my hands under my breasts, cupping them. “I like them. I think they are the perfect size. 36 C. I like my vagina, too, especially the dark thick hair around it.”
    Ashley threw her book on the floor. “Do you have to talk so much about your body? I really don’t care that you like your titties.”
    “Wow.” I walked over to my dresser and eased my legs into the fresh pair of panties. “You’re so uptight. I would think you’d appreciate the beauty of the human body. After all, the human being is one of God’s creations. And I think he thought pretty highly of us because he made Adam lord and master over all of the animals. You should review the book of Genesis, Ashley. I have to pee. Excuse me.” I left the bathroom door ajar so she could hear the tinkling of my urine.
    I continued putting my belongings away; Ashley pretended to read. After a while she dozed off. I would have fallen asleep, too, if I were reading The Elements of Language Curriculum. From my bed I watched her face for a while. Her mouth was wide open and she was snoring lightly. I walked over and stared down at her. She must have been dreaming because her eyelids were fluttering, indicating REM sleep, a fact I had learned in Health class. There was drool pooling in one of the corners of her mouth; her lips were chapped. Her body was so limp and helpless. I imagined smothering her face with one of my pillows, like a murderess in one of those tacky made-for-t.v. movies that I loved so much.
    I quietly opened her dresser drawers, periodically turning to see if she was close to waking. I rifled through her panties, silly underwear with images of Winnie-the-Pooh, hearts, and one with Christmas bulbs. She had an entire drawer of preppy sweaters and turtlenecks—a medley of lime green, navy blue, forest green, red, and black—all made of wool or 100 percent cotton fabric. I heard a loud snort, so I turned quickly, bracing my hands on her dresser. Ashley opened her eyes.
    “I must have been exhausted. Was I snoring?” She rubbed her cheeks with her palms and blinked a few times.
    “Yes. You were very loud.” She wasn’t.
    “Oh, sorry. I hope it isn’t too much of a bother, but I’m sure you will get used to it. You can buy some earplugs. Everyone in my family snores.”
    “Hey, why are you standing by my dresser?” She sat up quickly. Her textbook fell to the floor. “Damn.” She leaned over and picked it up. I saw the crack of her white fleshy ass. One of her teddies fell off the bed.
    “I was concerned about you,” I said. “Your breathing sounded irregular.”
    She placed the book on her bedside table. “Really? What do you mean irregular?” The area around her eyes twitched, and I forced myself not to smirk.
    “It’s no big deal. You’re alive. At least for now.” I laughed.
    “Do you think there’s something wrong with me?”
    “Don’t tell me you’re a worry wart, Ashley.”
    She stiffened, her back firm against the headboard. “I’m not a worry wart! That’s silly. I was just asking what you meant exactly.”
    “Methinks she doth protest too much.”
    “Huh?”
    “Hamlet.”
    “I read that. Edgar Allan Poe, right?”
    “Yes. I’m impressed by your knowledge of literature.”
    She smiled. “Well, that’s why I decided to become a teacher. I believe I have a vocation. I am determined to help children grow up and become intelligent readers so their lives can become enriched by the myriad works of great literature.” She pronounced myriad as MY-ree-ad.
    “I’m sure you will succeed.”

    The courses at school were too easy. I was enrolled in a Freshman Composition class, Intro. to Psychology, The History of Western Civilization (in 562 pages), which I zoomed through, and Major Authors I (most of the material I had read). I had always been in the advanced classes in high school, even skipped a grade. My I.Q., my Nonna liked to brag, was 148. I called Nonna a few times; she agreed that Ashley was a prig and wished she wasn’t my roommate. “You deserve better. But don’t worry, mia bambina, those types always get their comeuppance.”
    I did end up befriending Emily. She was a pretty girl with an atypical, but lovely face. Oval-shaped, flawless skin, kewpie-doll lips, a small quivering chin, and large eyes, like tarnished gold coins. I admired the way she exuded purpose and conviction. We hung out, exchanging stories about our lives, enjoying each other’s company.
    Emily’s roommate, Candice Kox (her real name) from California, never showed so Emily enjoyed a large private room for the semester. I was envious. Ashley had become a thorn in my side, making snide comments on a regular basis about my personality and habits. She was a neat freak and complained about petty things like my hair in the sink or my unmade bed. I had even overheard her calling me “Molly, the pig” in a phone conversation with her friend Jean. I wanted my own room like Emily.
    I couldn’t stand the way Ashley would return from the university chapel after mass with a smug look on her face, dropping comments like “God is good” and “Every day is a blessing.” She wanted to get under my skin, and she did, insulting me several times by innuendo. I kept my anger at bay, though, confiding only in Nonna. I did not want others, especially Emily, to know my nasty, vindictive fantasies. I would find a way to make Ashley pay for the continuing disrespect.
    One afternoon three weeks later, the Resident Assistant called Emily. When the phone rang, we were watching the evolving love affair of Luke Spencer and Laura Webber in the soap opera General Hospital, arguing over whether Luke was cute or not. I thought he was too old and ugly for Laura. But I didn’t care for her much either—she was too histrionic and breathy for my taste, a crisis junkie—so I told Emily that Laura deserved the ugly toad. Emily said I was mean.
    She was laughing when she picked up the phone. “Hi Arnold. . . . . . . Really? How big?. . .” She looked at me from beyond the open door to her room. “She’s with me now. I’ll tell her.”
    “We have some mail downstairs. Two large boxes for me, and a smaller package for you.”
    “Let’s go. I’m sick of looking at his bad perm.” I turned the television off and we went downstairs. Arnold loaned us a dolly to bring up Emily’s boxes.
    When we had set the mail down in our common area, we both excitedly opened the packages. Hers were from her mother, and mine was from Nonna.
    Emily let out a scream and jumped back when she opened the first box.
    “What is it?”
    “Oh God. My mother sent me a mannequin. It scared the shit out of me.” She put a hand over her heart. After she caught her breath, she pulled out the plastic torso of a female, followed my limbs, hands, and a head. At the bottom, her mother had thrown in a brown wig. “She is so crazy!” She opened up an envelope from inside and read the note aloud, “ ‘Baby, couldn’t resist buying this mannequin. Found it in a clothing store on Park Avenue.’ ” Emily paused and looked at me. “That’s Park Avenue, Rochester, not Manhattan.” She continued reading. “ ‘I figured you could name her after your no-show roommate and prop her on the bed to keep you company. Hope you are well. Don’t spend all the money too soon.’ ” Emily pulled a check out of the envelope. I was curious how much, but didn’t ask. The second box was the waist, legs, and feet. We screwed the mannequin together and baptized her “Candice Kox” after the missing suitemate.
    “She looks like you.” Emily laughed.
    “Yes,” I said, laughing, “like a cold heartless bitch.”
    “Open your package.” Emily stared at Nonna’s cursive on the brown paper. Inside was a Tupperware container full of chocolate chip cookies. There was also a note and a check for $500.
    “Well read the note,” Emily said.
    I could smell Nonna’s Shalimar perfume on the light blue stationary. “Dear Molly. Here are some cookies for the sweetest cookie in my life. You must swear to eat them all yourself! Don’t give any to your dorm friends, especially that roommate with the stick up her ass. A curse on you if you don’t eat every last one. You are much too thin. I love you, mia bamina.”
    “She sounds sweet. I never knew my grandmother. She died before I was born.”
    “Nonna’s special. She raised me for the most part. My parents were always busy with the restaurant they own.”
    We heard the key in the lock.
    “Stuff Candy in the boxes. I’ll explain later,” I whispered. The thought of having Ashley joining our fun irked me. She had made a comment that implied I was a whore when she overheard me telling Emily about what happened with David. “Sex before marriage is a sin,” she said with disgust, “and I would be ashamed to admit it.” I bit my tongue.
    Later, Emily congratulated me on my restraint, and suggested that I just avoid discussing anything personal in front of her. I thought Ashley’s beliefs were idiotic, but I had more important things to accomplish than educating a moron. You can’t change the thinking of a stupid person, so you find alternative ways to deal with them. Nonna was my sounding board.
    “You two look suspicious.” She was carrying a bag from 7-Eleven. “I bought some snacks if you want them.” Then she saw the cookies. “Oh, but it looks like you already have some. Those look really good.”
    “They’re from my Nonna. I’d give you two some but my grandmother made me swear I’d eat them all myself. She thinks I’m too skinny.”
    She looked at my body. “I wish I looked like you. I think you look perfect. I gotta lose weight. I just wish I wasn’t such an overeater.” She went into the bedroom and closed the door.
    “She deserves credit. She’s always watching a VHS tape of ladies in leotards doing something called Fitness Dancing. She confessed to me that sweets are her weakness and she just can’t resist, especially during her workout sessions. Said the sugar motivates her.” I stood up and ran in place. “She does this with two one-pound weights in her hands.”
    “How long?”
    “Three minutes max. Then she collapses on the bed for a while and afterwards eats from her stash of Entenmann’s cookies.”
    “I hope she doesn’t eat your cookies. Your grandmother would be upset.”
    “I doubt it. She’s a Christian, remember? When she reads Nonna’s note, I’m sure she wouldn’t dare.”
    I helped Emily slide the boxes of Candy into her bedroom and said I would tell her about an idea for an O’Neill haunting game when we met up with Michelle and Mark, other students from our floor, at dinner. Michelle was a tall, heavy-lidded black girl from Brooklyn, always dressed in flashy orange, pink, and yellow; she hoped to become a famous actress. Mark was an obese white guy with frizzy red hair, blue eyes and a cherubic face, who wanted to become a screenwriter. We always met at 6 p.m. at the back of the dining hall.

    It was Burger night. The dining hall smelled of bacon, cheese, grilled onions, and French fries. I was continually impressed by the food at BU. Every night they had a different theme—Asian, Vegetarian, Italian, even Lobster Night. I got a very well-done burger with cheddar cheese and French fries; Emily had her burger with no cheese. She smeared a lot of mayonnaise on her bun, which I found repugnant. I was more traditional—a ketchup kind of girl. When I was a kid, I pretended it was blood.
    At the table, Michelle and Mark were discussing President Carter’s alleged sighting of a UFO in 1969.
    “He’s a smart man. There has to be some validity to the idea of extraterrestrials. What do you girls think?” Michelle said. She had ketchup on her chin. I handed her a napkin and pointed.
    “I believe in intelligent life elsewhere in the universe, but I absolutely don’t believe these extraterrestrials are anywhere near earth. In fact, sometimes I think there is very little intelligent life on earth, period. And if there were such beings visiting from somewhere in the universe, I’m sure they wouldn’t want to mix with us; we are much too stupid.” I bit into my burger. “This cow was probably smarter than at least thirty percent of Americans.”
    Emily laughed.
    “How do you explain all the UFO sightings?” Mark said. “There’s gotta be something to them.”
    “Forget about the extraterrestrials.” Emily waved her hand dismissively. “We have ghosts to talk about.” She turned and looked at me. “So what is your plan, Molly?”
    I told Mark and Michelle about the mannequin. “I was thinking we could begin phase one of an O’Neill haunting game. Test it out on Ashley.”
    “How? . . . Can you pass me the salt, Emily?” Mark asked.
    “I’m going to David’s tomorrow for dinner. We’re ordering pizza. I have an idea for when I’m gone.”
    “Oh, he’s the hot blond guy,” Michelle said. “Hmm. Wonder what you two will be doing after you eat?” She smirked.
    “Discussing the meaning of life.”
    “Yeah, honey. Just don’t create any life.”
    “Molly, I’m dying. Tell us what the plan is,” Emily said.
    “Okay, you got to know a little about O’Neill’s life. I did some research this week. Evidently, he got angry at his daughter Oona for marrying Charlie Chaplin. She was eighteen and Chaplin was 54!”
    “Ugh. That is gross,” Michelle said. “She obviously married him for his money.”
    “I was thinking you could put a cane in the mannequin’s hand, a Charlie Chaplin hat on her head, and a nametag that says Oona.”
    “What the fuck type of name is Oona? Are you sure that’s right?” Michelle squinted her eyes and retracted her neck.
    “Yes. I’m sure. And what does it matter. Ashley certainly doesn’t know.”
    “Molly, where are we gonna get a cane and hat?” Emily said.
    “Oh that’s no problem.” Mark knocked over his coke. Michelle sopped it up. “Sorry. . .”
    “Jesus, control your enthusiasm.” She rolled her eyes as she moved the napkins over the puddle.
    “My roommate is studying to be an actor. He has access to the prop room for the BU Theatre. I can ask him,” Mark continued.
    “And when I’m at David’s place, you can position the mannequin in front of the door, knock a few times, hide in the corner and project a high-pitched voice saying something like, ‘Hi, I’m Oona. Have you seen my father Eugene O’Neill?’ “
    Mark said, “Oh my god. She’s going to be scared to death.”
    We laughed.
    Emily said, “I don’t get it. Why don’t you want to help us do it, Molly?”
    “She hates me enough. I don’t want her to think I had anything to do with it. But I do want to walk in on the scene. Ashley exercises every night from 8:30 till 9 pm while she watches that stupid aerobics tape. That way you can be sure she’s in the suite and not off studying, or over her friend Jean’s. Stage it for 8:45. I’ll be walking down the hall from the elevator when it happens.”
    “Okay, I’m in,” Michelle said. “I hope Ashley has a sense of humor.”
    Emily and I looked at each other.
    “We’ll see,” I said.

    Sex the second time with David was not as exciting. I get bored easily. After I’ve tried something once, the novelty quickly wanes. He asked me why I was in such a hurry so I told him about our plan. He thought it was ridiculous, but wished us good luck nevertheless. At 8:42 I got off the elevator. I saw Mark trying to position the mannequin, which tumbled over a few times before he got it exactly right. I was disappointed that Oona was not wearing Chaplin’s signature derby hat. In its place was one of those conical jester caps with bells. At least Mark’s roommate was able to obtain a cane. Michelle and Emily were laughing, squatting in the hallway by the next dorm suite. I stood for a few minutes in front of the elevator, pretending to look for a key in my purse. Two girls with grocery bags got out and smiled at me, then headed towards their room in the other direction. They did not notice the scene I had been observing.
    I looked at my watch, then glanced to where Mark was pounding on the door. I scanned the hall, hoping no one else was around. Mark dashed to where Emily and Michelle sat. Ashley opened the door wearing a pink leotard, pink stockings, and white sneakers with pink laces. She was eating one of my chocolate chip cookies, holding the Tupperware container. I thought, “Bitch. I told you not to touch them. But you did. I knew you would.”
    Emily projected in a high squeaky voice, “Hi. I’m Oona. Have you seen my father Eugene O’Neill?” Ashley let out a shrill scream, then collapsed onto Oona, moaning for a bit. Michelle threw a set of bells she was jingling against the wall and ran towards Ashley, followed by the others. Oona/Candy’s head came off and rolled down the corridor. Emily kicked the wig and cap into the air. Mark picked them up and said, “Oh Jesus! For the love of God, let her be okay! Oh Jesus!” I hurried towards them.
    “Ashley, are you alright?” Michelle said, her face sweating. No answer. Emily was ashen. Mark ran around in a circle, looking at the ceiling, repeating “Oh shit! Oh shit!” twisting the cap and wig in his hands. Every so often there was a jingling of bells.
    I flipped Ashley over and checked her neck pulse; there was none. I yelled, “Somebody call 911.” Then I began administering CPR, after I wiped her mouth clean with my shirt.
    Doors opened up and down the hall. “I already have,” a hysterical girl with mascara streaming down her face yelled.
    I kicked what remained of Oona to make space and she completely fell apart. My adrenaline was rushing and the force of my punt caused one of her hands to fly and hit the mascara girl in the stomach. She screamed, “Her hand has come off!” Sobbing, she ran into her room and slammed the door.
    I was counting my compressions, the heel of one had over the center of Ashley’s chest, my other hand on top of the first. I tried to keep my elbows straight, remembering Ms. O’Rourke, my Health teacher’s words.
    “Mark,” I shouted after the thirtieth compression. “Stick your finger in her mouth. Make sure her airway is clear and there are no bits of cookie.”
    He grimaced and held his head back as he slid his middle finger inside.
    Michelle said, “It’s not like she has fangs, and she won’t bite you. She’s barely breathing.” She pushed his wrist. “Come on now. Move that finger around. Pretend it’s a twat. . . .I’m sorry, that was inappropriate. I’m just freaked out.”
    At times like this, everything happens so fast. Arnold, our RA, was soon there, as well as the Boston University police. Students getting off the elevator were told to get back on and go to another floor. I continued my chest compressions alternating with breaths, trying not to press my lips too firmly against her mouth. Her breath smelled like nail polish remover. It seemed the lights in the hall glowed for a second, and there was a foul smell of gas. Ashley had shit her pants. I knew she was dead.
    “Good job, Molly,” Emily said, holding her nose.
    When the paramedics showed up, they took over but to no avail. They placed her limp body onto a stretcher. I stood back with the others. “How could this happen?” I said, “Ashley is so young!” Arnold hollered at the crowd of students, “Get back in your rooms.” People quickly obliged. Doors shut all around.
    I turned to look at Emily who was ironically, “tossing cookies” onto the azure blue carpet.
    There was a patrolman looking on, even firemen, and in a short while, a Detective Corrigan from the Boston Police. Arnold escorted Emily, Mark, Michelle, and me down to his office on the first floor. Detective Corrigan eyed each one of us during the elevator ride. He was a scary-looking man with a craggy face, a perpetual scowl, and hollow cheeks. His color was gray. I thought he looked half dead himself. No one spoke until we were all seated in Arnold’s office.
    There were three folding chairs that I let the others sit on. Detective Corrigan sat in the cushy leather chair behind Arnold’s desk.
    “Do you want me here?” Arnold said to him.
    “No. I want to speak with them alone.”
    Arnold seemed relieved and left quickly. I grabbed a box of tissues from Arnold’s desk and handed it to Mark, motioning for him to pass it on. He gave it to Michelle, who wiped the sweat off her face. Emily grabbed a few tissues and daubed tears on her cheek and puke that had smeared on her sneakers.
    “I wouldn’t worry about your sneakers, young lady. We have more important matters to attend to.” The detective’s voice was menacing and his black eyes darted over each of our faces.
    “You,” he said to me.
    “Yes, sir.”
    “You seem pretty calm. Aren’t you upset?”
    “Of course I’m upset, sir. I just don’t show my emotions much.”
    “What’s your name?”
    “My name is Molly Bonamici.”
    “Since you seem the most controlled of your friends, why don’t you tell me what happened? And by the way, what you did was pretty heroic. Where did you learn CPR?”
    “High school.”
    “And you remembered exactly how to do it?” His eyes widened, two black holes.
    “Detective Corrigan.” I stared at his nametag, then into his eyes. “I don’t forget things.”
    He moved forward, putting his elbows on the desk, interleaving the fingers of his hands underneath his chin. “Okay, Molly. Tell me what happened.”
    I told him about the alleged haunting of our floor by Eugene O’Neill. He asked me if O’Neill was a former student, with no seeming knowledge of the playwright. When I said he wrote Long’s Day Journey Into Night, he snapped that I should get to the point before this became a long day’s journey into night. He had to file the paperwork before the end of his shift.
    “Who’s this Oona?”
    “Oona is Eugene O’Neill’s estranged daughter?”
    “Is she a student here?”
    “No, she’s dead.”
    “So does she haunt your floor, too?” He was twirling a pen in his hand, reclining in the chair.
    “No, she’s a mannequin.”
    “Excuse my French, Molly, but what the fuck are you talkin’ about?”
    Michelle widened her eyes, as if to say, “don’t piss him off.” Emily was on the verge of laughing.
    Detective Corrigan barked at her. “This isn’t a joke. A friend of yours is dead.”
     Mark looked down, tapping his foot and picking a scab on his hand.
    At last, Detective Corrigan got the information he needed for his file. But before he left, he lambasted all of us, saying what we did was terrible and we’d have to live with it for the rest of our lives.
    Mark burst into tears. The scab on his hand was bleeding a little. Emily and Michelle recoiled, backs stiff against their chairs, speechless.
    “Yes, Detective Corrigan. I realize we will all live with this for the rest of our lives. We are truly sorry that a silly joke ended in Ashley’s death.” The image of Oona the mannequin in an electric chair flashed in my mind.
    After he left, Arnold came back into his office. He was more sympathetic.
    “I know you’ve been through a lot. I’ve spoken with the authorities, who will contact Ashley’s family. You have to be aware that that there could be some disciplinary action. The dean was, well, very pissed off. Expect to meet with him soon. You can go.” He opened the door for us.
    I waited until the others had left, then said, “Arnold. I was the one who came up with the idea. If there is anyone who deserves the blame, it’s me. I don’t want my friends to be expelled.”
    He laughed softly. “Molly, I doubt any of you will be expelled. It was a stupid prank that led to a senseless death. And what you did upstairs was remarkable. We are fortunate that you kept your cool and administered CPR while your friends were in meltdown. You tried, and that’s what matters. You showed great strength in a crisis. I couldn’t have been as calm as you.”
    “Thank you, Arnold.”
    He patted my back as I left. On the elevator, I thought about my actions. I was sure that there were others who would have done the same thing. Nonna certainly.
    Ashley was a bitch. Obtaining cocaine from Mr. Scarfone, the mobster friend of my grandmother’s, was easy. I had read 1.2 grams of coke ingested orally was sufficient to kill a person. And no one would ever know the real cause of Ashley’s death. She had confided in me about her heart condition, Long QT syndrome, which is passed on genetically and would have likely caused her to drop dead some day.
    Her family, being very religious, was staunchly opposed to autopsies. One of the perks of being a sociopath is that you learn how to easily gather necessary information by manipulating people, using their weaknesses to your advantage. I knew Ashley loved sweets during her workouts and I had placed the cookies on top of my dresser, the direction she faced while doing her “fitness dancing.” I also knew that whenever she paused or was interrupted, she ate a cookie. Ironically, Ashley and I had something in common—a genetic inheritance. I guess you could say we both had heart conditions. Of course mine was more useful. Sociopathy wouldn’t kill me.
    Nonna was always saying that she would do anything for her “precious granddaughter,” so when I asked her to put the lethal dose of cocaine in each cookie, she said, “Sure mia bambina. What’s one more ingredient? Not a problem.” Being just like me, she understood my needs.
    Once in my room, I would call to thank her, and remark on the effective wording in her note. Ashley’s Christian values had evaporated in the face of temptation. Like Eve, she had eaten the forbidden fruit. Nonna would be happy to know that Ashley had died for her sins and was now resting in peace. I would tell her, too, that the chocolate chip cookies were a perfect hit.

Bio

    James Mulhern has published fiction in many literary journals and has received accolades. Three stories were selected for different anthologies of best short fiction. In 2013, he was chosen as a finalist for the Tuscany Prize in Catholic Fiction. In 2015, Mr. Mulhern was awarded a fully paid writing fellowship to Oxford University in the United Kingdom. That same year, a story was longlisted for the Fish Short Story Prize. In 2017, he was nominated for a Pushcart Prize. He has received other awards. His writing (novel and short story collection) earned favorable critiques from Kirkus Reviews.

The National Health

    Received wisdom about Sarah Hewlett stated that she had nothing to offer except her body. I didn’t see a problem with that.
    “I’d like to be only a body. Acting and reacting purely on instinct. No thoughts to slow me down or make me doubt myself.”
    “Easy for you to say, Tom,” she said.
    She sucked on the cigarette she’d taken away from me.
    “Plump it up?” she said, lifting her head and blowing smoke toward the ceiling.
    “Nothing to plump, but I can flip it over to the cool side.”
    “Need nicer pillows. Or you could fatten up your ass and I’ll use that.”
    “Lift your head again.”
    I slid my pillow onto hers.
    “Prince you are,” she said. “Anyway, easy for you to say. You can go back to uni in the States any time and put your brain to work. Brain’s on holiday now, talking bloody rubbish.”
    She would have laughed if I’d explained that my ideas about the body and the instincts had come from somebody with a fine brain, D.H. Lawrence.
    I’d met her around the time of the tenth anniversary of the Great Train Robbery, and the flurry of newspaper stories had given her an idea.
    “Think what we could do with money like that, Tom. Course, have to do it smarter than those blokes. Piss off across the Channel right away, not get caught.”
    “What’s wrong with our life here? Getting pissed and shagging all the time.”
    I’d soaked up all the slang.
    “You could do with getting pissed a bit less,” she said. “As for what else is wrong with our life, you have no idea.”
    She took a drag from her cigarette. I have a lot of memories of her doing that.
    I was happy enough and didn’t want the money. But a heist for its own sake—like throwing back a fish you’ve caught—sounded thrilling, and I told her so.
    “We’d be beyond good and evil,” I added.
    I’d read some Nietzsche at my university.
    “No clue what that means, Tom. Just know I’m fed up being nice to blokes I don’t want to be nice to. Want to be beyond their evil.”
    The difference between Nietzsche and D.H. Lawrence was that I hadn’t even felt like I understood Nietzsche when I was reading him. I’d thought I understood Lawrence, but then in the last week realized how poorly I’d absorbed him while struggling with the possibility that Alan had sodomized me. Alan, whose heavy eyebrows and cleft chin half-hidden by dark stubble made him resemble George Best. Was it my body or my brain that made it hard to accept? Maybe Sarah, who knew so much about the body, would be able to put the possibility to rest.
    The bodily play we indulged in, constant in my memory, was frequent in reality, hence possible routes to the awkward conversation I needed to have abounded. The afternoon I bit my tongue about D.H. Lawrence, we resumed our play after her cigarette.
    I pulled away before she could swallow. A tightrope as fine as a string of chewing gum connected us. Noticing my surprise, she detached the string from the head of my penis and scooped it into her mouth. Ducking her head and putting her hands to her mouth, she made a muted sound that I suppose was the ladylike version of spitting. She looked at me with what must have been an exaggerated version of my own expression.
    “Really all right if it’s sticky,” she said.
    I made a face that I hoped teasing would bounce off of. She was undeterred.
    “‘A panel of prominent physicians will investigate the crisis of sticky semen,’” she said, imitating a news announcer’s tone.
    “What are you going to do with that?” I said as I glanced at her hands.
    She ran them through her hair and left glistening streaks.
    “Greater viscosity, more protein.”
    “Really?”
    “I don’t bloody know,” she giggled.
    She became pensive.
    “Must be blokes at the National Health who know.”
    The Great Train Robbery’s anniversary was in August. I’d been in England a few days when I was served in a pub called The Crown by a girl with raven hair and dusky eyes.
    “One for you” I said.
    Not a girl: she had a few years on me.
    She drew herself a half.
    “Like your looks, Tom: bit of Marc Bolan.”
    I needed a haircut.
    It intrigued her that I was American and a college student thrilled by nearby Stratford-upon-Avon. One thing led to another, including too many pints.
    “Should’ve worn off by now,” she suggested several hours and two cups of foul black coffee later as she pulled hard.
    “A dead parrot,” she said. “Passed on, ceased to be. Bereft of life.”
    “Sorry. This never happens.”
    “What every bloke says, but I don’t care.”
    “I’ll make it up to you.”
    She pushed me away.
    “Can’t hoover them off. Attached to my chest.”
    I eased up.
    “They want a rest,” she said. “Slide down a bit?”
    She shushed my apologies.
    “More useful down there if you’re quiet.”
    I decided my university could wait. I’d entered on a tourist visa, but Sarah’s boss said he would pay me off the books “to collect glasses.” Soon I was tending bar alongside her and staying perpetually aroused and giving my brain a holiday and talking rubbish. Not reading, just retaining an impression of what I’d read at home and trying to work out the implications of Lawrence’s philosophy of the body and the instincts for what Alan might have done to me as I watched the streaks dry in her hair until I dozed off.
    I woke up with a question.
    “You usually swallow. You like the taste?”
    She was smoking again.
    “Taste isn’t bad. Bit salty, mind, so if I develop high blood pressure. . .”
    “Just salty?”
    “Hard to describe tastes. I’ll save some for you to try.”
    I made a face.
    “Bloody hell,” she said. “And all the things we do. . .”
    She shook her head.
    “Think it would be like giving yourself a blow job,” she said. “But I’d fancy a bloke who could do that. Heard that one in three hundred can. And one in a hundred can bugger themselves.”
    I pictured the acts.
    “There are more who can bugger themselves?” I said.
    “Not you, though. How many inches you think you’d need?”
    “I’d need a tape measure.”
    “Only to get it right to the fraction,” she said. “You blokes know your little things better than you know your faces. Like to see you shut your eyes and describe every accordion fold and blood vessel and mole for one of those police sketch artists.”
    “Don’t have a mole.”
    “Proving my point. He’d produce a photograph. School of art, right? Photographic realism? Bet the masters start out drawing their cocks. ‘Better get this exact,’ they think. ‘Most important bloody thing in the world.’ Or bet if a thousand blokes could detach their cocks and heave them in a pile, each one could pick out his own just like that.”
    She paused.
    “Wouldn’t, though,” she said. “All go for the biggest. Thousand cockless blokes killing each other for it.”
    “Anyway.”
    “Anyway, blow job’s a different story. Just need a flexible upper body. See how close you can get?”
    I imagined arching my upper body toward my penis.
    “I’d hurt my back.”
    “Because you’d be that greedy,” she laughed. “Wouldn’t be able to wait.”
    As fluidly as if I were describing going to a ballgame or to my grandmother’s house, every detail that had seemed so painful suddenly spilled out of me: how, on an evening when Sarah had stayed in because she didn’t feel well, Alan saw me on my own at The Crown and bought me a drink and then suggested going elsewhere, and kept buying drinks and took me to his club after the pubs closed, and finally drove me back to his flat in his Jaguar.
    He’d probably been on tonic water.
    The drunken sleep that ensued left me with memories only of his persistent cajoling voice—“Let me in, Tom, let me in”—and his hand between my legs, trying to coax a response.
    I’d heard the first instance of sodomy would hurt. So I should have felt something in the morning, I thought. I hoped Sarah would confirm that.
    “What would it prove if he buggered you?” she shrugged. “That you shouldn’t drink so much? Hope you knew that already.”
    “I just don’t like thinking it might have happened.”
    She sighed.
    “Think he gave you a blow job?”
    I forced myself to imagine it.
    “Wouldn’t be as bad.”
    “Such a bloke!” she said. “Got to be in control. But you can give up control to get something back. Might have made you his kept boy if you’d opened your legs.”
    She laughed.
    “Look at you squirm! As for whether your toffee-nosed admirer buggered you, be grateful it didn’t make you pregnant and didn’t hurt.”
    I still had my preconceptions to cling to.
    “I guess the fact it didn’t hurt means it didn’t happen,” I said.
    “Not necessarily.”
    Her tone was confident.
    “Not everyone’s cup of tea,” she said, “but some birds prefer it. Get a deeper feeling of penetration. And of. . .”
    She stopped to think.
    “Perhaps of being filled up more completely. Make sense?”
    “How would I know?”
    She laughed again.
    “The key for a first-timer is it has to go in gently,” she said. “Alan would know that.”
    This worked in my favor. He’d have known, but not cared.
    “There’s also the angle.”
    She raised her forearm diagonally in front of her chest.
    “A sharp angle—like this—won’t work. I mean, for the one getting buggered.”
    I recall trying to work out the significance of the angle.
    “Most important is plenty of lubrication. The orifice we’re talking about isn’t self-lubricating.”
    She watched me take that in.
    “Bet Alan doesn’t buy it in tubes,” she said. “Bet in that posh flat there’s a spare bog with the tub full so he can scoop out a gallon for his guests. Lorry backs up to his building, bloke hands Alan the hose through the window and pumps the goop directly into the tub.”
    I didn’t ask if lubrication would matter to the one doing the buggering.
    “Wonder what American ponces use for goop,” she said. “Peanut butter?”
    She was trying to make me laugh, but she saw my discomfort.
    “You should bugger me. You’ll feel better if you see it’s not always torture.”

    What did Sarah get out of our relationship? I suppose my callowness made me an all-consuming project that became the rationale for minimizing her contact with other males. What she said about being fed up with being nice to men only hit me later, but our employer, Clive, could see it.
    “Causes you physical pain to smile at the blokes who pay your wages, luv?”
    He took her chin in his hand.
    “Got facial paralysis? National Health can deal with that.”
    He walked away.
    “Loads of birds who’ll smile at a thirsty bloke, luv.”
    Shortly afterward, Angela Davis was found innocent of conspiracy, murder, and kidnapping. The Sun, its Page Three women great favorites in The Crown, that day was studied by our patrons for its front-page images of Davis.
    “Innocent!” said one of Clive’s faithful. “She shag all the jurors?”
    He was with three or four other regulars.
    “Fucking Angela Davis.”
    “That an adjective or a verb?” asked the best educated of the men.
    He was a lawyer—not a courtroom lawyer, but a “solicitor”—who enjoyed parsing the speech of his comrades.
    “Could be a verb. Wouldn’t mind giving her one.”
    Sarah rolled her dark eyes toward me.
    “Faster with that pint, luv. Mouth tastes like an Arab’s armpit.”
    “I can do with the taste of an Arab armpit now and then.”
    “Point taken,” the lawyer said. “It’s the vaginal pits of their birds I don’t fancy.”
    Sarah finished pulling his pint of Guinness. Gripping the handle, she slid the mug rapidly across the bar toward him. An inch of dark liquid broke like a wave over the rim, drenching his gray wool trousers and spattering the matching jacket. He looked at her with his mouth open.
    “Question, Michael Page,” she said. “How is it you can talk with marbles in your mouth but all that ever dribbles out are hard, nasty little turds that suggest mental constipation?”
    I remember his mouth gaping wider as Sarah’s eyes swept over all the men.
    “‘Clever’ talk. Bleeding Oscar Wildes. I see a different wild: savages.”
    “You little—” Page said, but he looked at me.
    “Tell me, Pagey,” Sarah said. “What was the point of years of buggering younger chaps and getting buggered by older ones in your posh school? Aside from buggery’s intrinsic value.”
    He looked at me again to confirm my willingness to hit him.
    “Constant wanking aside,” Sarah continued, “guessing buggery’s still your favorite. Side benefit to having your asshole stretched. Different sort of value. The, uh—”
    She glanced at me.
    “Instrumental value?” I said.
    “That’s it. Make shitting fast and easy for you, Oscar?”
    We waited for Page to respond. Clive was there.
    “Bloody cheek,” Page said. “Clive, you going to let your staff speak to me like that?”
    Sarah preempted Clive’s speech just as she had the lawyer’s.
    “Not his staff anymore.”
    She walked out of the pub.
    “Can I—” I said, jerking my thumb in her direction.
    I followed before Clive could answer. Her cigarette was ready.
    “Don’t know what you’re doing in this sick bloody country,” she said.
    I gave her a light.
    “Bloody swings like a pendulum do?” she said. “Bobbies on bicycles two by two, rosy-red cheeks of the little chil-drenn?”
    She threw the cigarette into the street.
    “Nasty habit,” she said. “Cocks swing like a pendulum do, more like it, and rosy-red—but do I need to tell you what’s spread wide apart for them? Force them wide apart, anyway. More manly like that. Meaning I’m done in this town.”
    “I’ll go with you.”
    “No luv,” she said. “Collect your books and get on back to school.”
    She laughed.
    “Listen to me, Thomas: like bloody Maggie May.”
    So I recall, though the song came out in July and Angela Davis had been acquitted of all charges against her in June, making me doubt the accuracy of many of the details I’ve related. But I believe Sarah left town that evening. And I’ve kept my transcripts from that academic year, so I know I’d collected my books and gotten back to school by September.

Amanda Rosaleigh Blake: A Profile of a Socialist Youth of the middle late 1960’s and 1970’s

    Amanda Rosaleigh Blake was one of those ultra progressive teenagers and young adults who came of age in the mid to late l960’s and l970’s in the United States. Her birth date corresponds with those who are called “Baby Boomers,” many of whom, including Amanda, were socialists and belonged to the Democratic Socialist Party of the United States. Amanda was born in January, 1946. Until her middle teenage years most of her friends were one to three years older than she was. When she was fifteen years old and in her sophomore year in high school enormous social changes were occurring which were to substantially transform her life with respect to this and other aspects.
    Some of her older friends were thoroughly into Johnny Mathis and others like him. Amanda saw these singers as talented, but their sound and style turned her off. She drifted away from these friends. Others of her close friends were of the same mind that Amanda was. She maintained close relations with these socialist friends, and made new ones in the socialist party who were her age. She and her new group of friends were turned on by the Rock Music of such groups and individuals as Buddy Holly and the Crickets, the Big Bopper, and Fats Domino.
    During Amanda’s tenth year in school, l961-62, her bra came off never to return to bind her body again. This aspect of liberation made her positively giddy. Also, her views of sexuality took a radical turn toward a progressive view of that subject. These changes in perspective brought corresponding transformations in her behavior and activities. At a more general level, Amanda’s leanings toward socialism began to assert themselves with considerable force.
    Amanda’s family tree on her father’s side was filled with numerous abolitionists who worked for the Underground Railroad before and during the Civil War. Many of these women and men were also socialists. Amanda’s great-uncle, the late Ernest Burleigh Blake, and her grandfather, the late Justin Burleigh Blake, were examples of ones who combined abolitionism and socialism in the same person. The brothers came of age in the 1890’s. The ideas and attitudes of the abolitionists and socialists were handed down through the succeeding generations. Justin and Ernest were influenced in their choices by their parents; Catherine Elizabeth Burleigh Blake and Varnum Paine Blake lived through the Civil War, and were important persons in the Underground Railroad. The Burleighs were in the upper class of society in which case children were given their mother’s maiden name as a middle one. A more modern example of this practice is the Kennedy family. Their middle name was, of course, Fitzgerald. The Blake’s were also high in society, especially in the left wing groups. Varnum’s middle name was after Thomas Paine, the revolutionary Englishman who gave his total support to the American Revolution. Thomas was in Varnum’s family tree. He was also a socialist and a progressive with respect to all other issues. Amanda and her father were heavily influenced by this heritage. Also, in Amanda’s sophmore year in high school she had a world and American history teacher who had socialist and other progressive leanings. She liked him a great deal, and her association with him pushed her farther in these directions.
    There has been some confusion between the various forms of socialism as these have been applied in China, Russia, and other EurAsian countries, on the one hand, and the Democratic socialism extant in several European countries, including the Scandinavian ones and England, and espoused by socialist politicians and other socialist thinkers in the United States, on the other. Generally the Russian and Chinese versions have been referred to as Communism. The Russian and Chinese varieties of socialism have authoritarian governments. Although there are democratic aspects to their economies, the political authoritarianism tends to pollute the democratic parts of the economies.
    The western Europe-United States varieties of socialism are associated with democratic governments and democratic economies as well. The general rule of the latter is that pure socialism is connected with human needs such as health and medical care, education, moderately priced cars, regular clothes, and the like. “Capitalism” sometimes appears in the area of economic luxuries and other wants. Goods and activities in this category are formal clothing, expensive jewelry, investments in real estate, and small businesses. Thus, the area of luxuries and other wants includes a few “capitalists”. Capitalists are enclosed in quotes because it is not the system we know today. The workers in general control how much capital the owners are allowed to amass. The amount is strictly controlled. The greedy rich do not exist anymore. The socialist will not allow this, i. e. persons with large amounts of capital in their hands. The workers in the small area of capitalism still own the means of production collectively.

    The earlier socialist thinkers in the United States include such persons as Eugene V. Debs and Norman Thomas. Both of the men were presidential candidates several times in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. Debs was active during the earlier part of this period as a labor organizer before he entered formal politics. He was a major person in establishing the International Workers of the World (I. W. W., also known as the “Wobblies”). He was sometimes jailed for his radical views and actions concerning labor issues. Norman Thomas came into view a couple of decades later. He ran as a socialist candidate for President several times, and before this served as head of the Socialist Party in the U. S.
    Beginning in l968 and l969 when Amanda was between twenty-two and twenty-three years old things were joyous and seemed to propel those, like Amanda, who were immersed in the spirit of the times into a high that was quite intoxicating. She finished undergraduate school with high honors at age twenty, and began teaching in senior high school at that time. She taught a senior level interdisciplinary course which she created. It dealt with a synthesis of anthropology, history, sociology, psychology, and political science applied to the analysis of the current important issues of the time. The issues were identified mainly by the students during the first week of class.
    Amanda had taken several courses in philosophy in undergraduate school. This knowledge underlined and pervaded the above mentioned interdisciplinary syntheses. During the era of the mid to late 60’s and 70’s, socialism once more became an increasingly popular position just as it did later in the early 2000’s, this later time with much greater force and scope than it ever had before. The Socialist Party of the U. S. gained thousands of new members especially after 2010. Also during this time, several socialists were elected to public office at various levels. The best known of these was Senator Bernie Sanders of Vermont.
    A major concern of Amanda’s was teaching the class in a progressive manner and from a socialist perspective. Students’ interests were incorporated into the activities. As indicated, the issues were identified mainly by the students during the first week of class. The ones which most concerned them involved problems of human sexuality and its development, extreme gaps in income which create grinding poverty, on the one hand, and a few disgustingly greedy wealthy people, on the other, the need for safe and legal abortions, gun control, obesity as a social and health problem, crime and juvenile delinquency, spouse and child abuse, frequency of divorce, problems with early marriage, and others. Although this obviously does not exhaust the various issues in which the students were interested, it provides an idea of the kinds of things that attracted them.
    That year not only was teaching the students an exciting frontier, Florida teachers were in an uproar over their working conditions, salaries, benefits, the need for collective bargaining, and their freedom of expression in the classroom. They were threatening to strike on a statewide basis. As a start, they imposed sanctions on the state system. Some counties had already or were in the process of striking. This kind of rumbling among the troops created an atmosphere in which many, including most definitely Amanda, thrived. It provided a sense of camaraderie which included feelings of uplifting joy. For Amanda it was the most intense initiation she had into the spirit of the late 1960’s and the 1970’s. It was, above all inspiring, especially for the young professionals. It was something one carried with her or him throughout the day.
    The fall of l966 was the beginning of Amanda’s first year of teaching in senior high school. This year was greatly intensified by a local strike in the county in which she was employed. Broward County as many know is the home of the city of Ft Lauderdale. It was an amazingly successful strike. Three quarters of the four thousand Broward teachers walked out, i. e., three thousand walked out and a mere one thousand did not. Amanda was delighted to have this experience during her first year of teaching. The schools were, of course, shut down for the duration of this strike.
    The judge involved in dealing with the strike ordered the school board to give every teacher a $500 bonus. The award was for failing to get the contracts to the teachers until quite late. They did not receive them until the second week of school. Conveniently enough for the School Board, that was just before the teachers called the county wide strike. The contracts would normally have arrived prior to the beginning of school.
    The following years were chaotic. In February 1970 a statewide walkout was called. There were some confusion involved with the Broward County group. Only seventy-six out of four thousand teachers walked out. The confusion concerned misunderstandings involving the terms of the local strike’s settlement. All of the seventy-six members of Amanda’s group were fired due to their small number. The group members had to sue in order to get their jobs back. It took nearly three years to get this project finished. A major reason so few Broward County teachers walked out in the stateside strike is that many of the approximately three thousand who participated in the local strike thought the settlement of the local strike prohibited them from participating in the statewide strike, and that they risked jail if they did so. This was not the case. It only prohibited them from initiating a strike or leading one as the head of an identifiable group.
    The fall after the statewide strike, Amanda went back to the University to obtain a doctorate. Her PhD area was social and philosophical foundations of education with additional course work and a research emphasis in anthropology. This was in preparation for her becoming a college professor in teacher education. Amanda’s doctoral program was also filled with great joy and happiness. She began the program in September, 1971, and completed it at the end of summer quarter, l973. She was an unusual student. The program only took her two years. Most students took at least three years to complete it. Some took even longer as they needed an extended time to finish their dissertations. Amanda completed her dissertation research by March, 1973. She wrote her thesis from March until May, 1973. She worked with great rapidity. A psychological high based on her vision of a socialist future inspired her in this. Amanda did her research on “An Experimental Problems of Democracy Class in an All Black High School,” just prior to complete desegregation. She was guided in her writing by her favorite anthropology professor, the famous Dr. Solon T. Kimball. Sol worked in this project with a senior high social studies teacher, Mr. Al Daniels.
    A major purpose of the experimental class was to thoroughly incorporate students’ interests into the class activities. This would include building a democratic structure in the class. Dr. Kimball and Mr. Daniels often left the class while the students were reporting their research findings on their anthropological projects. This had the effect of encouraging and allowing a democratic classroom group to emerge. It was amazing how rapidly this occurred.
    Changes in the professional area were related to transformations in the aesthetic domains. The musical developments were mentioned briefly earlier. The music of the earlier part of this period in particular, Buddy Holly and the Crickets, Fats Domino, The Big Bopper, Jerry Lee Lewis, and Chuck Berry in the late 1950’s are excellent precursors of later new music in the late 1960’s and 1970’s. These included Bob Dylan, The Doors, Elton John, Stevie Wonder, Jimi Hendrix, Isaac Hayes, The Stones, The Animals, Tom Petty and the Heart Breakers, Jim Croce, John Denver, Rod Stewart, the Beatles, and several more. There was an enormous outpouring of creativity in the musical area during this time. There were also some excellent movies coming out with social and political messages and meanings. These included Midnight Cowboy, the Graduate, Reds, West Side Story, Little Big Man, and Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid.
    Amanda married her first husband during the time she was working on her PhD, a terrible mistake. She was between twenty-three and twenty-four years old. Her attitude toward sex and sexual behavior had already taken root solidly, but she was unable to see some of Jason’s flaws for a short period because they were more or less hidden. For one thing he changed his attitudes and behaviors toward her after they married. He subtly began to act as though he owned her. She rapidly saw through the subtleties and grew disgusted with this. She began to cheat on him with other men. She could not live with the dishonesty, so she soon leveled with him. He was angry as well as threatened. She was unmoved by his emotions. She told him that she had recently come to believe that monogamy was a stupid and unrealistic arrangement especially for younger persons. She wanted a more open situation and more or less demanded it.
    He protested vehemently at first. She countered his criticisms by telling him that he had ruined their sex life by nearly totally ignoring her sexual desires and needs, that is, her specific sexual desires as a woman. Moreover, she informed him that this travesty began on their wedding night. They had sex before they were married, and he acted completely differently before the marriage. Since before the marriage there was no expectation that they would engage in intercourse, he engaged in extensive manual stimulation. He did oral sex once. Big deal thought Amanda. This should be his standard practice. It has been for all of my other lovers. There weren’t that many, but enough to make an unfavorable comparison. However, it was evident even that one time Amanda had an enormous and pleasurable orgasm. Since, he did not follow up on this experience, she had to guess that he did not care about her pleasure, that he was ashamed of doing oral sex, or both.
    During the conversation she discussed the need for oral and manual foreplay if the woman was to have a satisfying orgasm. Amanda was amazed that in response to her assertions he actually claimed that a woman is supposed to have orgasms from straight intercourse. Amanda simply could not stifle a huge laugh.
    “Where have you been all of your life, Jason?” She taunted him. “Except for you and two or three other throwbacks everyone knows about the truth of my assertions.”
    Since Jason did not pick up on the delights of oral sex that meant that he also missed out on them. Amanda was not about to do something for him that he refused to do for her. This behavior after their marriage indicated that he resented giving Amanda pleasure. After mulling this over Amanda could only think, Man what a “Sicko”. How did I miss this before we were married? I did think about asking for a divorce on our wedding night. After that it only took a very few months, about six-and a half, to get one!
    Amanda also felt that his attitudes and behaviors were contrary to true socialist values, which Jason claimed to embrace. When she confronted him with this perception, he denied it. In the end, Amanda admitted he did not go that far as his upcoming extra-marital affair will show. However, he was uncomfortably close to some boundaries he should never cross.
    There was a Louisiana couple they befriended, both of whom were graduate students. The husband of the couple, Eric Landreneau, was of Cajun heritage. He and Amanda fell deeply in love with each other. Jason and Paula, the other wife, also had deep feelings for each other. Like Amanda and Jason, the Landreneaus were having marital problems. The role played by Amanda was taken be Eric in the other couple. Paula was more or less in the place of Jason in the second couple. The two couples had deep talks with each other. In the process Eric and Paula allowed Amanda and Jason to turn them on to marijuana. Subsequently, they each slept with the other one’s spouse. This was by no means one of those swap deals. It was something that happened between each of the couples independently of each other.
    Neither Amanda nor Eric had ever experienced the strong erotic feelings they had with each other. They were both quite passionate persons. This was the first time the two young lovers, who were in their late twenties related to a lover who was on their level passion wise. As mentioned earlier, the other two had strong feelings for each other, but they were not as intensely passionate in their natures as Eric and Amanda. This opened the door to a certain amount of destructive jealousy on the formers’ parts. Not surprising the communication and understanding between Eric and Amanda, and between Jason and Paula, were often better than that between the two spouses.
    An example of this was illustrated when Amanda accidently got pregnant in November, 1974 three months after she and Eric began relating sexually. Paula thought Eric would be hung up about the pregnancy even to the extent of trying to get Amanda to have the child to see who the child’s father was and what this would mean. Amanda could not imagine how Eric would react to the news of her pregnancy when she told him the evening after she told Paula that morning. However, she could not fathom him acting in the way Paula was sure he would. And indeed, he did not—far from it.
    She told him when he came over to her house that evening, after considerable hemming and hawing on her part; not only about the pregnancy but that she had an appointment to get an abortion the next morning. She was a little nervous as she did not know what to expect. His response delighted and warmed her. She loved him even more than before.
    He sighed with obvious relief and replied, “Oh is that all it is? Gosh, I was afraid you were going to tell me you didn’t want to make love with me anymore. That’s why I was so nervous up until you told me what the real communication was about. I’m so relieved.”
    “Oh Eric, my sweetheart, How could you even think that I would want to stop making love with you. You feel my strong feelings toward you. I would never deny them. I have never felt such strong erotic love feelings before.”
    Amanda thought to herself with a warm heart, Wow, in my wildest dreams I could never have guessed that he would provide such a beautiful response. He is more of a sweetheart than I ever knew before.

    “I haven’t either, beautiful Amanda.” Their feelings were beginning to be aroused and soon they were headed for the king sized bed in the main bedroom and were making intense beautiful love. Time got away from them and they did not stop making love until after eleven o’clock. The events that transpired that evening between Amanda and Eric shook Paula to the core. She did not know her husband as well as she thought she did.
    In addition to the incredibly intense passionate sexual feelings Eric and Amanda had for each other, there was another important aspect of their relationship that drew them close together. This other aspect was that they were both left wing socialist democrats. Moreover, they did not merely vote, but they were active in the socialist cause together. Eric and Amanda conversed about these issues often. Their respective spouses more or less agreed with them, but Eric and Amanda were far more active in the socialist movement than they were. They took an active role in the local and state socialist parties. Amanda was the president of the local party which put her in contact with county presidents all over the state and officers at the state level. Eric was the county’s representative to the state board, which also put him in contact with socialists all over Florida. Both Eric and Amanda met regularly with the local group as well. Through the local organization, they not only maintained contact with the state organization, but with the national one as well. They often wrote essays for the journal of the National Socialist Party of the Democratic Left. Jason and Paula did not maintain anywhere near that level of activity. Their participation most often did not go any farther than voting. The two “odd” couples lived in different worlds for sure!
    As far as Eric and Amanda were concerned, their respective spouses were damn poor socialists. Like others of the socialist persuasion who were truly involved, they knew that voting was not enough—not nearly enough. They could not help being somewhat ashamed of their inactive spouses. Neither of their marriages had a prayer of lasting if only because of this crucial difference. Eric divorced Paula two months after Amanda parted company with Jason.

“The Battlefield of Love”
Reflections of a happily married man.

A Rose in the Dark

    The sun shone bleakly in the sky, its meager light struggling to shine through the thick foliage of the forest. Birds sang their songs up in the crowns of the trees, fluttering from one branch to the other. A blanket of total tranquility lied over the forest.
    The peace was only broken by the steady gallop of the horses of the soldiers who were traveling to their upcoming knighting the morrow at Camelot, and rowdy conversation.
    “Finally we shall get what we deserve,” a man named Leon quipped.
    “It’s been about time,” Perceval agreed. “We’ve been risking our arses for the past two years. It’s the least they could give us.”
    Merlin remained ostensibly silent, refusing to join the verbal parade of self-aggrandizing his fellow soldiers have engaged in. He found it difficult to happy about anything, when even if they had won the war, he had lost everything in the process.
    “But as per the usual order,” Leon proceeded, “We shall just get a worthless medal and an assurance of their sincerest gratitude – a lamentable stipend. It is not us who gets the real glory.”
    Merlin wondered, ‘What kind of person cares so deeply about this matter? All that is important is that our island, our world, is at peace again.’
    “Yes,” Gawain quipped. “King Arthur will be hailed as the hero. The bringer of peace, of a golden age! Yet all he had ever risked for Camelot’s victory were the lives of his men. Ours.”
    The others emitted an animalistic yell of agreement.
    Merlin was beginning to thoroughly tire of their grand displays of virility and their ill-fated attempts at wisdom.
    “And, let’s say, that King Arthur had participated in the war,” he suddenly said.
    All heads turned toward the magician, eyes widening in shock.
    “Lo and behold, he speaks!” Gawain jeered, only to be ignored.
    “Led his men into battle, like in the golden age of less civilized people,” Merlin proceeded, wondering if his thoughts would be perhaps too complex to process for the band of buffoons he had been cursed to spend his first minutes of freedom with, “And then died. And then the kingdom would have been left without an heir, it would have fallen into chaos, and we would have de facto lost the war.”
    “Fascinating,” Gawain replied disinterestedly. “But what truly intrigues me is where all this seemingly baseless arrogance is coming from,”
    “Oh, no,” Leon said. “I know who he is! This is Merlin, King Arthur’s little lap dog. He’s the bastard child of his aunt. He was always invited to family dinners and the likes. I saw him sitting with them on occasion. Arthur and him used to play together as children.”
    The others jeered in acknowledgment of this morsel of information.
    “A little protégé!”
    “And he seeks to condemn us for not sharing his biased opinions?”
    “Do you even deserve to be here, or is the fact that you miraculously managed to stay alive a mere excuse to knight you?”
    “What I would have done,” Gawain declared, puffing his chest out, “is knocked up that pretty little bride of his, thereby solving the heir problem,” he said, looking pointedly at Merlin, who raised his eyebrows in utter shock, “and then went off to battle.”
    The others cheered loudly at the proclamation to display their appreciation.
    The confidence of those stupid enough not to see their inadequacies was truly enviable.
    Merlin’s only reaction to Gawain’s master plan was a shake of the head and a heavy sigh that shook his lungs with the weight of his disappointment. He supposed this outcome served him right for trying to reason with fools.
    “Fascinating,” Leon added, “but what truly intrigues me is where all this seemingly baseless self-confidence is coming from? What makes you think she’d even breathe in your direction?” Even Merlin cracked a smile.
    He was heavily tempted to open his mouth again, even if in vain, to protect Arthur’s honor. When the war broke out, King Uther was still alive and Arthur had been a mere prince. He could still vividly recall the dinner he had assisted to, where Arthur had began to plead and bargain with his father to be allowed to fight.
    ‘You’re my only child, Arthur. If you die, my bloodline dies with you, and if you die during the war, without an heir, the kingdom will be plunged into chaos.’
    ‘Why are you so certain of the inevitability of my death?’
    ‘It’s a risk I am not willing to take,’ Uther replied firmly. ‘This was the last I waste my time discussing such a self-evident question.’
    It pained Merlin to have the honor of the man he respected the most be besmirched in his absence. King Arthur was the kindest, fairest, and most courageous man Merlin had ever had the pleasure of knowing. At the same time, he was also the man who had taken everything he had ever held dear away from him.
    So he kept his mouth shut, closed his eyes, and suddenly the disparaging remarks of his fellow soldiers became a song to his ears as pleasant as the chirping of the birds up above.

    As it broke night, the group finally arrived to the Castle, after a strenuous, three day-long journey. The residents of the Castle being fast asleep, it was the personnel who was there to welcome them.
    Merlin’s body shook with excitement, revitalized more by his emotion then the royal greeting he had received, a greeting he had always fantasized about getting. Now none of it mattered at all: he had never been, in the past two years, as close to Morgana as he was now.
    Could she be awake, tossing and turning, wondering if he was amongst the group arriving for their knighting tomorrow? Did she long for him as he longed for her, as a man longs for the first rays of sun after a bleak night, for air after being submerged for too long, for a shred of peace after the hell of war?
    Merlin wondered if he was being unreasonable, illogical. Two years had passed and she had since been married. She even had children, fulfilling her wifely duties. Negativity cast its shadow on his heart, as a sole, foreboding rain cloud has the ability to ruin an otherwise sunlit day, souring the taste of hope in his mouth, turning it into burning disappointment.
    But how to forget the very thing that had kept him alive during all the bloodshed and horror of war? The person who he told himself he would return to once the nightmare was over, to keep himself going?
    The one person who shared his gifts, and understood his pain, the only one he could be himself with without having to fear retribution for what he was? For as different as their respective upbringings were, they held traces of the monsters that had fathered them that no one else understood; the madness, the anger, the melancholy. The succubi that had violated their mothers had granted them unparalleled powers, but condemned them to having to conceal their gifts from the world, to placate the weak and the scared, and the powerful and paranoid who feared for their positions in the world. Their fathers had condemned them and their mothers to a fate no one would willingly take, a destiny that could only be enforced by painful means; some people were simply born with tragedy in their blood, he concluded. And by virtue of the fact, they would be forever united by liens that could not be severed.
    Yes, he told himself, there was still a chance for them.
    There had to be.
    After all, she had vowed that she would never marry another man out of her own volition. She had sworn on her life. Sworn despite the obvious affections of many a man – from much more noble lineage than Merlin’s – that she would never forsake him, that her heart would forever be his.
    Tomorrow, he thought. Tomorrow will be the jury over our fates for the rest of our lives.
    Certain of a positive outcome, his tiredness lulled him to sleep; he could finally allow the last two perilous and debilitating years to catch up with him; that night, Merlin slept like a newborn, knowing himself secure and loved, for the first time since the war had broken out.

    The following morning, awakening felt like a violation. He was roughly shaken awake before he had slept off even just a tenth of the horrors he had experienced.
    If he thought the day of his knighting would be the most perfect one of his life, he had turned out to be wrong. As servants dressed him, he could barely manage to remain upright.
    Caught in a state of half-sleep, half-dreaming, he felt like an imposter in his only moments of lucidity. It was solely due to immense luck that he had gotten where he was today.
    Clad in finer silks than he had ever possessed before, he felt like about as ridiculous as a dog dressed up in human clothes, feeling the pompous attire was wasted on someone who felt like he was two legs in the grave already.
    Then his weariness gradually ebbed away to give way to zeal. It was as though the part of him that had fallen during the war had risen out of its own ashes.
    While he still had immense difficulty recalling his previous life – one of wine, dancing and reckless merriment – he no longer mourned the loss of his youth and innocence. In exchange for all his sacrifices, a new type of existence would be awarded to him today – one in which he could perhaps even dare to hope to one day be able to marry the Lady Morgana.
    He stood a few paces from the rest of the soldiers, who grimaced to display their distaste and affront. Merlin was painfully aware of their dislike of him, but he couldn’t bring himself to care: he was solely focused on the woman in his heart.
    “Wasn’t he supposed to marry the Princess Guinevere, anyway?” Gawain wondered out loud, making no effort to conceal his jealousy as he devoured the queen with his eyes through the open doors.
    As if you would have a chance with her otherwise, he thought, jealousy and protectiveness flaring up within his chest, but didn’t voice his opinion.
    “He was, but that was during times of peace,” Leon explained, as though to an obtuse child. There was a wistful look about him as he stared at the thrones. “But the Queen’s father is a warlord,” he said, shrugging as though to indicate that such was the royal way of life. “Her usefulness outweighed Princess Guinevere’s.”
    The reminder ignited a fire of encouragement within him that made him stand taller and smile brighter. He was too overjoyed to be able to contain his emotions. She wasn’t married out of her own volition, he thought. Hope shone in his eyes like a bright light on the horizon of a dark, turbulent sea. His life, this day, he knew, would be forever altered – he could feel it in his bones, he could smell it in the air.
    The loud noise of a hundred clarions was heard, and the soldiers stepped inside the white and gold hall, the sunshine coming in through the windows making the castle brighter than the heavens themselves.
    Arthur and Morgana sat on their thrones on the opposing end of the hall, clad in red and gold. Merlin only had eyes for the latter. Her skin was whiter than the marble of the hall, her hair darker than midnight, her eyes greener than a thousand lush pastures. His heart beat faster with each minute, and he counted the seconds till she noticed him with bated breath...
    Then their eyes met, and his fantasies were shattered.
    He knew he had been deluding himself all this time, for survival, for a shred of hope, for some semblance of happiness, because he could not bear the truth: that the girl whose love had kept him alive in the trenches did not have any for him any longer. While he had been stuck in limbo between death and a life not worth living, she had moved on.
    Though not all transitions are happy ones, he determined in an instant. When he looked at her, she seemed decades older; long gone was the carefree lady of court with a sparkle in her eyes and a magic to her laugh. Her face was lined with the hardships of the past two years, and he must have looked the same to her; their unwanted fights, even if not comparable, in addition to being torn apart from each other, had taken their toll on the two lovers.
    Morgana’s eyes filled with so many things when black met blue – relief, that quickly turned into guilt and sadness – but she could not cry. Merlin smiled slightly at the Queen before kneeling down in front of the King to be knighted. He heard her thoughts, in that moment, as if they were his own.
    At the very least, you hadn’t betrayed your promise, he thought, willing her to hear his own thoughts, wanting to relieve her of her guilt. You didn’t choose a man over me. You were married against your will.
    Then their eyes met once more, and it was evident in their disingenuous smiles and the sad twinkles in their both knew their story had reached its end. But you have fallen in love with him, and have replaced me with him in your heart.
    He turned away from her and walked to the side to give way to the next man in line waiting to be honored by her. It’s not your fault, he burned to tell her, We’re both just pawns in someone else’s game.

    After the ceremony, he escaped the repressive pomp and mandatory joviality of the celebrations that followed and hid from the eyes of the world on the top of a lush, steep hill, where he could mourn freely without prying eyes tearing his actions apart mentally.
    Alone he sat, clad in silk and wearing all the decorations of a knight, but feeling poorer than poor for he had been deprived of her affections. Staring off into the distance, he wondered whether there had been a reason for their love to have come about, any reason at all. What was the point of such a heavenly high if it ended inevitably in being cast into the darkest depths of despair? God truly was cruel.
    He lay back on the edge of the precipice he was sitting on. The beauty and serenity of the English landscape, his homeland, for which he had risked his own life and evidently sacrificed everything, seemed to mock him for the battle that waged on inside of him. You had fought a war, narrowly escaped death daily, and yet in the end, love is what will defeat you? Pathetic, it seemed to say.
    Our Fates choose us, he thought, for he had certainly not chosen his. Or perhaps there was no Fate at all. Only the will and want of the people, and those who were fiercer triumphed over those who were softer.
    Then suddenly, as though struck by lightning, his own reflections inspired the answer to the question that had been eating away at him for hours now:
    Other than their will and want, there was no reason for their relationship to have transpired. Their actions possessed no deeper meaning; they were reduced to love and lust and a desperate seeking of companionship. It was a lucky accident in an indifferent, amoral world, that one had to be grateful for – even if it had eventually been taken away from him – because for a fleeting moment in time, love had made him believe in something greater than himself, in the divine, in providence, in a happy ending – in all the things a man craves to believe in but refrains from for fear of falling flat on his face.
    Alas, he determined, all else was self-delusion – and perhaps even this much was. But he’d rather survive on delusions than choke on the truth.
    Perhaps, he thought, willing his heart to fill with hope, (but stubbornly it remained as empty as the English army had destroyed), Fate will grant me the gift of love again one day. Maybe, a new lover will restore my faith in the Universe.
    But the mere prospect of another woman made his stomach churn in utter revulsion.
    Until then... he proceeded in his head, continuing his train of thought, his teeth gritted with the effort to be hopeful. Then he relinquished all such attempts. Love was stronger than him – a soldier who had survived the bloodiest war yet fought on English soil. With its absence, it could destroy even the strongest man, but upon filling the heart with its presence, it could make a hero out of a wreck – as it had already done with him once.
    If ever...
    He would be frozen in time, mourning a time when Morgana had only been his queen and not Camelot’s, dead himself...

America’s Reichstag Fire

    Not yet half way through its term of office, the still-stumbling administration was closing down for the long Thanksgiving weekend with all staff members looking for a respite from continuing chaos, resignations, and presidential back-peddling, as well as assaults from the media and a persistent “resistance” to the administration.
    With the exception of President David Crane, the First Family was in Boston with the nation’s chief executive set to join them tomorrow for the holiday. However, earlier in the day, chief counsel Richard Packer indicated to the president that it was critical the two of them meet with Stanley Baker, the administration’s chief strategist, before work resumed on Monday.
    At 10 pm that night, the three most powerful men in the country met in the highly secure “Situation Room” of the White House.
    “Mr. President,” Baker began, “Richard and I have been analyzing the administration’s condition and things are not looking good.”
    “How so?” Crane asked, his tone of voice indicating an almost persistent lack of awareness regarding any issues.
    “Sir,” Baker continued, “in addition to not getting a majority of the popular votes in the general election, the administration has not provided solid solutions regarding the major issues addressed during the election campaign, and the public has not bought off on your attempts to portray the media as an enemy. Worst of all, the party has done poorly in ‘downstream’ elections at the state level and that will likely impact your chance of retaining the presidency in the next general election. Stan and I believe a major event is needed to consolidate the administration’s power.”
    The president’s two advisors watched as their boss sat without saying a word, looking off with a vacant stare. It was a look of intellectual impotence they’d seen before when the nation’s chief executive had no concept of what was actually transpiring and was searching for a loud and distracting retort. Dealing with a president with little mental depth and the shortest of attention spans had become like trying to manage a cat on heroin.
    However, before Crane could respond with some inane outburst, Packer continued Baker’s line of thought.
    “Sir,” Packer added, “we believe there’s a need for a ‘Reichstag fire’ event.” The president’s deepening vacant look indicated he had absolutely no idea what his advisors were talking about. Looking to again save his boss from an incident of embarrassing ignorance, Packer quickly continued. “This refers to an incident in 1933 Germany when a fire in the Reichstag parliament building was used by the Nazi’s to quickly cement their ironfisted rule over the country. We’ve not been presented with such an opportunity and we believe it’s time we created one of our own. Something that will allow us to rule with a level of authority that makes the PATRIOT Act pale in comparison.”
    The acquisition of authority by any means possible was something the president understood very well and nodded in agreement as a smile of smug satisfaction spread across his face.
    “If we can pull off such an event, I might not be limited to two terms,” Crane remarked. “I’m guessing you two have something in mind.”
    “Yes, sir,” Baker replied. “We propose an attack on our party headquarters here in the city followed by manipulating the media into presenting the attack as being an act of our political opposition. After all, our opponents often refer to themselves as ‘the resistance’.”
    “That’s quite a move,” the president replied. “Can something of this scope actually be carried out?”
    “Yes, sir,” Packer replied. “Stan and I have worked out the basics and we can provide you with details before Christmas. With your approval, we should be able to carry out the plan the second week of January. It will serve as the basis of your State of the Union address.”
    “That seems to be moving pretty fast for something of this scope,” the president remarked.
    “We envision employing a small strike team that moves quickly and hits hard,” Baker said. “Too much planning invites a level of complexity that leads to failure.”
    “Then let’s consider this a ‘go’, gentlemen,” POTUS readily concluded, indulging his penchant for avoiding details. “Let’s meet twice weekly beginning next Wednesday and look to put things in motion no later than December 20. Agreed?” His co-conspirators nodded. “Then we’re done. See you after the holiday. I’m off to Beantown.”

    After the following Monday’s situation briefing, the president asked Mason Dunn, the vice president, for a few moments of his time.
    “What can I do for you, Mr. President?” the “Veep” asked, effectively masking his contempt for his boss.
    I can’t believe I have to kowtow to this pumpkin-headed buffoon, the vice president thought to himself. He’s got to be the worst possible combination of self-absorbed, preening peacock and ignorant, braying jackass on the planet. It’s going to be a long term of office.
    “Mason, what do you know about a ‘Reichstag Fire’?” Crane asked.
    “It’s a historic event in 1933 Germany that allowed the Nazis to quickly assume control of the country,” Dunn responded without hesitation but surprised at the question.
    “Ah, okay, thanks,” replied POTUS and walked away to speak with Stanley Baker who was waiting less than patiently in a nearby doorway.
    “What’s up with the Veep, sir?” Baker asked.
    “Oh, I was just asking him what he knew about the term ‘Reichstag fire’,” the president replied.
    Baker’s face went white and his eye’s betrayed abject panic.
    “Sir,” Baker said as he quickly composed himself, “we must never use that term in front of anyone. It could lead to a compromising of our plan and prison for the three of us.”
    “Well, okay,” Crane replied, completely unaware of the seriousness of his speaking to the vice president. “I look forward to our meeting Wednesday night.”
    The two men parted but it would be some time before Baker was fully composed. He made a mental note to meet with the chief counsel as soon as possible. It was essential that the president be kept on a short leash.
    The short encounter between the strategist and POTUS had not gone unnoticed by Mason Dunn who made a point to remember Baker’s expression in response to what the president had said to him – presumably about his recent comment to the president regarding Germany’s Reichstag fire. A long-term and astute politician, Dunn found Baker to be completely untrustworthy and suspected something nefarious was afoot. The Veep made a mental note to contact John Carson, the FBI director before the week was out.

    The conspirators’ Wednesday meeting took place in the Oval Office shortly after 9 p.m.
    “So, gentlemen,” the president began, “what do you have for me?”
     “We’ve set the strike for the second Tuesday in January,” Packer said. “It’ll begin with three men accessing the building from the rear and hunting down as many of our own as possible. The hit team will have two minutes from entry to egress and will use clip-fed assault pistols with silencers. Their goal is to enter and exit the building as cleanly as possible. A building full of panicked people will just complicate things.”
    “So,” POTUS asked, “why such a short time limit?”
    “The longer an operation takes, the more chances of error or unanticipated interference,” Stan Baker answered, attempting to re-enforce Packer’s comment about a panicked crowd. The two men worked for an absolute dullard. “Besides, under these circumstances, two minutes will seem like an eternity to the team members. At the end of that time, a van equipped with a suitable directional or shaped charge explosive will drive to the front of the building. The driver will set a ten second timer, then run like hell away from the blast pattern. The device will take out the front of the building, drawing first responders to that area, aiding the team exiting out the back.”
    “Who’s going to carry out the attack?” Crane queried.
    “We’ve tapped into a militia of former special forces personnel who are willing to do anything if the price is right,” Baker continued. “Once the attack is complete, the team will make their way to a private airport, catch a chopper to a vessel waiting in international waters, and essentially disappear as independently wealthy young men.”
    “What about a money trail?” POTUS asked.
    “We’re working with several of your overseas enterprises regarding the untraceable gathering and distribution of funds,” Packer commented. “The total bill should run you about twenty-five million dollars.”
    David Crane didn’t flinch at the amount or question how the money would be laundered. This was just another business deal and a small price to pay to obtain near-dictatorial powers.
    “It sounds like we have things well in hand,” the president concluded, always eager to include himself in a successful endeavor. “Continue to firm up details and let’s plan on meeting again on Sunday.”
    At no time did any of the trio mention or consider the death and suffering that would be the result of their conspiracy. As long as they benefited, nothing else mattered.

    Early Thursday morning, Vice President Mason Dunn met with John Carson, the nation’s FBI director at the Bureau’s headquarters.
    “Good morning,” Mr. Vice President, Carson said, greeting his visitor. “From your call, it seems there’s something of critical importance to be addressed.”
    “Well, I think so,” Dunn replied, “but I’m strongly hoping it’s much ado about nothing. I’m concerned that the president may be involved in a plot to create a national crisis in order to seize more executive power.”
    Carson shifted in his chair. Such an act was something he anticipated with this administration but was hoping it would not come to pass.
    “What makes you think that something might be in the works?” the director asked, concerned that an already unstable administration was about to fully embrace evil.
    “On Monday, the president asked me what I knew about Germany’s Reichstag fire. In the year or so I’ve known him, he’s never gravitated towards such a topic. I gave him a short explanation about it being an event that provided the Nazis with the opportunity to seize complete power in the 1930s. He thanked me for my answer and wandered over to talk to chief strategist Stan Baker. I’m guessing POTUS mentioned his question to me because Baker went pale, and this is a man who is the master of self control.”
    “Anything else?” Carson asked.
    “The buzz at the White House is that the president, Baker, and chief counsel Packer have had at least one unscheduled, after-hours meeting,” Dunn said. “That’s three out of the ordinary events I’m aware of,” he concluded.
    The vice president’s information confirmed the director’s growing and worst suspicions about the administration.
    “Mr. Vice President,” Carson replied, “I’m going to look into what you’ve told me immediately. It may be nothing so I’d like to ask that you not mention your concerns or this meeting to anyone, and I do mean anyone. Also, don’t be concerned if you don’t hear anything from me until after the new year.”
    “Of course,” Dunn said, aware that what Carson didn’t say might be as critical as what the director did say.
    As Dunn left the director’s office, he couldn’t help be feel that he had just thrown his boss under the bus. If his intuition was correct, within months or even weeks, the Veep could find himself as the primary tenant at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue. So much easier than having to deal with an election, he reflected as a smile emerged across his face.
    After the vice president’s departure, the director set in motion surveillance of everything the president and his two chiefs would do in the coming weeks.

    Early one morning shortly before Christmas, John Carson sat at his desk and conducted a final review of the surveillance data gathered regarding the activity of the president, Packer, and Baker.
    The evidence was clear and left him with only one course of action – the president must be removed from office by extra-legal means.
    Using a secure line, Carson placed a call to Janice Cooper, director of the Secret Service. Miles away, Cooper checked the caller ID on her corresponding secure line and wasn’t too surprised at who was calling. Since the inauguration, the current administration had presented both the FBI and Secret Service with never-ending headaches.
    “Good morning, John,” came Janice’s greeting, “although I’m guessing it’s not going to be a good morning for either of us.”
    “You’ve got that right,” Carson replied. “I’m afraid we’ve reached a point where we need to implement ‘Operation 25’.”
    “I’ve been expecting this for a while,” Cooper said, weary exasperation in her voice. “Can you be at my office at 9?”
    “No problem,” John replied. “See you then.”
    “Operation 25” was a plan that the FBI, in association with the Secret Service, had in place to quickly remove a sitting president from office if such a president was showing signs of becoming a threat to constitutional rule in America. The plan was secretly conceived shortly after America acquired nuclear weapons and took its current name from the twenty-fifth amendment to the Constitution which addressed orderly succession in the government.
    Director Cooper wasn’t the least bit surprised that the nation had come to this point in time. With foreboding, she had watched the president’s actions during the primaries, through the general election, and his time in office. In addition to Cooper considering the man to be a complete waste of human DNA, everything he said and did made it clear that he was a train wreck waiting to happen. She had come to consider the president to be a vicious misogynist and pathological liar, someone not worth any of her agents taking a bullet for. Then there were increasing concerns regarding his mental health. The possibility of catching Crane in an act that would result in his removal from office brought her unbridled joy.
    By the end of the day, the two agency leaders set in place a series of actions that would monitor the burgeoning plot and, as needed, take the steps needed to neutralize any illegal activities as well as an out-of-control president.

    Through the month of December, the president and his two co-conspirators continued their twice-weekly status meetings. Just before New Year’s and barely two weeks from the anticipated attack, President Crane was given the most detailed information he would receive before a final decision was made.
    “So,” the president began, “how close are we to a final ‘go’ on this?”
    “We’re there, sir,” Richard Packer replied. “The strike team has been training in an abandoned warehouse set up with a floor plan that simulates what they’ll be dealing with. Additionally, they’ve been housed in four separate residences that are far enough away from each other to assure anonymity but close enough so they can meet face-to-face as needed to reduce the possibility of any communications surveillance.”
    “Do you think anyone’s on to us?” POTUS asked.
    “Not a chance,” Stanley Baker answered with complete confidence. “We’ve got this thing locked but no point in taking any chances. With your approval, Mr. President, we’ll give the strike team clearance to move on the second Tuesday of January.”
    “Done,” replied the president. “Also, you both need to be aware that, if this goes south and any investigation leads to my office, I’ll disavow all knowledge and you two are on your own. It’s nothing personal, just the way I handle any deal I’m involved with. I’m sure you understand.”
    “Of course, Mr. President,” replied Stanley Baker. “And you need to be aware that the two of us have more than sufficient information squirreled away to take you down with us. As attributed to Benjamin Franklin at the signing of the Declaration of Independence ‘We must, indeed, all hang together, or assuredly we shall all hang separately’.”
    “And, as Franklin never said, Mr. President,” Richard Packer added, “we own you. The three of us are all but surgically conjoined so don’t even think about telling either of us ‘you’re fired’.”
    It was at that moment Crane realized he had made a non-negotiable deal without an escape clause – a deal that could cost him his freedom, fortune, and possibly his life.
    As the president sat in desperate and confused silence, Baker spoke.
    “I think we’re done. We’ll meet again in four days for a final evaluation.”
    The president nodded with impotent weakness as Packer and Baker departed the Oval Office.

    Four days later, the trio met for the last time and all was in order for the anticipated strike.
    “I’ll ensure the hit team is contacted by the end of the day regarding final clearance,” Stan Baker announced. “After that, all contact with the team ceases and there’s nothing for us to do except monitor Tuesday’s news. The hit should occur between nine and eleven in the morning. In order to keep suspicion away from us, our schedules for that day should be as normal as possible.”

    Shortly after sunrise on the appointed day, the strike team’s bomber placed a duffel bag of personal items into a small van disguised as a delivery vehicle from an area bakery chain. When he drove away, there would be no physical trace that he had ever been in the neighborhood. His hit team comrades would do the same.
    The bomber then secured the shaped charge device into the right side of the van’s cargo area and closed the sliding door. Just as the door was secure, the mercenary was felled by a single shot of tranquilizer round from a sniper’s silencer-muffled rifle. No sooner had the unconscious man hit the ground than two FBI counter-terrorism agents rushed from their hiding place at the side of the bomber’s residence. A moment later, the two women loaded the listless and bound body into the van.
    While a demolition expert disarmed the shaped charge, a generically marked moving van pulled in front of the residence and the bomber’s vehicle was loaded into the large trailer with several agents piling in after the loading. The Bureau’s sniper and other agency drivers slipped away in non-descript grey sedans with phony plates. Elapsed time from the shot fired to the moving van pulling away was less than a minute.
    Any possible attempts by civilians to record all or part of the take-down were neutralized by agency jamming equipment that shut down all forms of communication within a mile of the site during the swift operation.

    Several blocks away, the driver of the strike team stopped at the last of the team’s rental homes to pick up the final gunman from his residence. As the mercenary placed his duffel bag in the back of the team’s SUV and reached up to close the rear door, three FBI snipers found their targets. As with the team’s bomber, agents rushed the fallen assassins and loaded them into the SUV.
    Again, another generically marked moving van pulled in front of the residence and loaded the SUV with the three would-be assassins into the trailer with several agents clambering in after the loading. As at the bomber’s residence, other agents left the scene in non-descript grey sedans with phony plates.
    Operation 25 was on track to be swift, effective, and nonlethal. A long day was having a successful start.

    Hours later, noon approached and the White House staff was making preparations for lunch. However, the president and his two chiefs found themselves with knotted stomachs and little appetite as David Crane cornered his strategist.
    “There’s been nothing on the news, Stan,” he said, looking like a man facing his executioner. “Are you sure these guys just didn’t take the money and run?”
    “No, sir, that didn’t happen,” Baker replied tersely as he attempted to deal with the unstable president. “I’m the one who’ll release the money when I know the job is done. Besides, everyone on the team was subjected to and passed extreme vetting for this mission.”
    The chief counsel noticed the two in tense conversation and walked over.
    “Any word yet?” Packer asked, his question directed at Baker as he all but ignored POTUS.
    “No, and I’m as concerned as you are,” Stan replied. “But someone’s about to wet himself and is likely very close to some outburst that will bring everything down around us in seconds,” Baker continued with a contemptuous look at the president.
    “Mr. President,” Richard continued, mustering what little respect he had left for Crane, “until we have to say anything, just shut up and, for Christ’s sake, don’t even think about using any of your mobile social apps. We all need to remember that a fish can’t get hooked unless it opens its mouth. Now, I’m going to get something to eat before I vomit bile.”

    Several miles away at Andrews Air Force Base, a cavernous C-5B Galaxy cargo aircraft was loaded with the two large trailers from the morning’s raids. The shaped charge device as well as any munitions taken earlier had been rendered inert, and all personal effects as well as the four still unconscious mercenaries were secured inside the intended attack SUVs. FBI director Carson supervised the loading and would remain on-site until the plane’s departure within the hour.
    “Phase 2 of Operation 25 is complete,” was the brief message he spoke into his mobile.
    “Copy,” came the reply from Janice Cooper. “We’ll move on POTUS between and eight and nine when the White House is pretty empty and quiet.”
    “The mercenaries and all the evidence should be locked down at the interrogation site well before that time,” Carson added.
    “Good,” Cooper responded. “We’ll have everything closed out by midnight.”

    At the White House, tensions continued to rise.
    “Maybe it’s best to shut down business around here about six and empty the place as much as possible,” Richard Packer suggested as the three conspirators continued to stay in touch as much as possible without drawing undo attention to their situation.
    “Stan,” the president asked, “have you heard anything from the team or attempted to contact them?”
    “No, to both” Baker replied, not bothering to address Crane with “sir” or “Mr. President”. The three of them would be lucky if they weren’t sharing consecutive federal inmate numbers by tomorrow morning. “Let’s plan on the three of us dining in the Oval Office between six and seven and I’ll try to contact the team lead during that time. It’s risky but by then we’ll have no choice.”
    “If we don’t hear anything on the news by then,” Richard Packer concluded, “let’s agree to avoid contact until dinner. I’m concerned we may be generating some negative attention over our frequent contact.”
    “Agreed,” Baker said in a tone that indicated that their boss was becoming little more than an afterthought and a possible liability.

    A few hours later, the three executives gathered for their somber meal as Stan Baker made several fruitless attempts to contact the team leader.
    “Nothing,” the chief strategist grimly informed the other two. “It’s as if they’ve vanished off the face of the earth. The good news is that it’s as if we never attempted any ‘Reichstag fire’ event to begin with. However, after we finish here, I’ll go by the house the team leader was using to see if there’s any trace of them. For all we know, they may have developed ‘cold feet’ and are now in the wind.”
    “No witnesses, no evidence, no crime,” Packer chimed in. “We should be in the clear.”
    “And, except for basic expenses, I’m not out tens of millions of dollars,” Crane concluded. “Not the worst deal I’ve ever been involved with.”
    The silence of Packer and Baker spoke volumes of contempt they felt for their boss, and each man quietly vowed to himself to leave the White House staff within a month.
    ?As the President watched the two finishing a final brandy and preparing to close out the day, a small convoy of SUVs pulled up to the West Wing entry of the White House and discharged two dozen Secret Service agents commanded by Janice Cooper. She led three of the agents – each carrying a briefcase – to the Oval Office while the remaining agents took pre-assigned positions in the west portion of the executive mansion.
    A few moments later, Cooper’s small team entered the Oval Office, taking the president and his two staffers by surprise.
    “What’s the meaning of this intrusion?” Baker demanded, making it clear that POTUS was less in charge of anything than the chief executive might believe.
    “It’s okay, Stan,” the president interceded, attempting to establish his authority. “Just why are you here, Janice?” he asked with a tone less confrontational than that of the chief strategist. The president’s instincts told him he was about to make the deal of his life.
    “We know everything about the attempt to attack your party headquarters,” Cooper responded, deliberately not including “sir” or “Mr. President” in her comment. “We’ve been monitoring the three of you since late November when we got wind that you had asked the vice president about Germany’s Reichstag fire in 1933. We quickly tracked down your team of mercenaries and neutralized the four of them this morning. For the past few hours, they’ve undergone interrogation at a secure site and have told us everything in exchange for full immunity.”
    “Idiot, you just couldn’t keep your damn mouth shut,” Packer growled at Crane. “Dunn has thrown us under the bus.”
    Despite Crane’s level of facial makeup, Cooper could see color drain from the president’s face but he managed to maintain his façade of being in charge.
    “Well, director,” he responded with a dismissive tone and increasing confidence, “it seems to me that I have the opportunity to offer you the deal of a lifetime. I can give you more power and fortune than you ever dreamed of. Everyone knows how I love to deal.”
    Always with the blustering bravado and arrogance, Cooper thought. Whoever coined the phrase “empty barrel of noise” had this moron in mind. It’s time to end this.
    “No,” the director replied. “Your term in office ends here and now.”
    Before the president or his two chiefs could say anything further, the agents who accompanied Cooper drew their weapons and fired the same type of dart that incapacitated the strike team earlier in the day into the neck of each man. In a moment, the president and his two chiefs were unconscious on the floor of the Oval Office.
    “Remove the darts and get the gurneys,” Cooper directed.
    In seconds, each unconscious man was loaded onto a gurney and wheeled to a separate windowless van. The vehicles made their way through the nearly deserted city to Andrews and, as earlier in the day, were driven onto yet another massive cargo plane.
    A few minutes later, the aircraft was airborne and headed northeast, its destination a recently refurbished Cold War island base in the Barents Sea. The trio would be held there until at least a year after America’s next general election by which time all three would be socially and politically irrelevant.
    Their stay would be comfortable but far from the luxuries to which they had felt entitled in their previous positions in society. There was no golf course.

    At half past six the next morning, Cooper called on the now former first lady at the family residence in Boston. Barely out of bed, the woman was not amused.
    “Director, is my husband dead?” she asked.
    “No, ma’am,” Cooper replied. “However, about eight hours ago, he suffered a massive and violent psychotic break, and severely injured staffers Packer and Baker. All three men have been airlifted out of Washington to a secure location for appropriate treatment of their specific medical issues.
    “Unfortunately, in response to national security concerns and to avoid a constitutional crisis, your husband has been relieved of the office of president and replaced by now President Dunn. In a few hours, the new president will deliver a message covering the past hours’ events to the nation.”
    What Cooper didn’t mention was that the same official lie she just delivered had been made to the vice president. For the stability of the country, entrenched deep state operatives had decided that a concise and believable story of the night’s events would be best. Keep it simple and believable.
    “I see,” the other woman replied, looking almost relieved at her change in society. “What will become of my husband?”
    “It’s been decided,” Cooper said, “that, in order to maintain domestic tranquility, he and the other two will remain out of the country until at least a year after the next general election.”
    “I understand and feel free to keep my husband out of the country as long a you see fit,” was the response, a bitter edge creeping into her tone. “No one in the family will miss him. I thank you for your taking time out of your day for this personal visit.”
    Cooper took this to be the end of their conversation. She rose and took her leave, not wanting to get into the family’s dirty laundry.
    Before driving to the airport for the return flight to DC, Cooper called John Carson at FBI headquarters.
    “John,” Cooper said, “I just spoke with the wife and she’s not going to be a problem. She actually said we can keep her husband out of the country indefinitely.”
    “I’m not surprised,” Carson replied. “All in all, a good day’s work in keeping our domestic Reichstag fire confined to an ember. No fatalities, no permanent injuries, and no property damage. Have a safe flight home.”

The Spider Symphony

    Six months before my wife Marlowe disappears for good, she takes a strange interest in the eight legged creatures that share our apartment.
    We live in a small studio above The Red Light, a Sichuan-style Chinese restaurant known for its gross Americanization of the traditional cuisine. Personally, I love the overly generous portion sizes coupled with the kitschy takeaway boxes, and the constant chatter between employees makes a lovely soundtrack to accompany my writing. It pleasantly fills the gaps in my day during which Marlowe is away in her drab cubicle. The downside to our current locality manifests itself in the empire of oyster pails that have collected in our living room, the ever-present scent of chili-garlic sauce and, of course, the spiders. I do not know what brought them here. I certainly do not know how to send them away. They have infested our home, spinning their abhorrent webs in every corner of the once-pristine apartment, dangling from the ceiling like aerial yogis. My hatred for them is deep-seeded and fierce. I relish in my daylily execution, the black smudge their bodies leave behind on the yellowing wallpaper. Between drafts, I can spend hours concocting new systems with which to better torture them, new and improved ways to separate them from their precious legs. Marlowe used to love indulging me in my sadistic pleasure. One day in early fall, however, she sojourns into the unknown territory of sympathy.
    I awake to find my wife speaking to someone. The apartment is dark save for a single candle that has been lit upon the countertop. In its dull luminescence I can see her shadow painted against the wall, her body hunched over slightly as she converses with this stranger.
    “Play for me,” she is saying, her voice hardly a whisper, softer than the night breeze that pours from our open window. I squint to make out her companion but find nothing.
    “Marlowe?” I ask the darkness. It does not appear as though she has heard me. I begin to call out again, but the sound stops in my throat when I see it. The spider’s shadow dances in the candlelight as it begins the long descent from ceiling to counter. It’s silk elevator progresses steadily downwards towards what appears to be my wife’s open palm, landing between her life line and heart line.
    What happens next I will never be able to scrape from my mind.
    For as the petite creature comes to rest on its landing pad, the room is suddenly overwhelmed with a symphonic lullaby, music unlike anything that exists elsewhere. Every note is imbued with haunting sorrow. The hymn sounds as though it is being played on the world’s loneliest violin, a sonata that has absorbed every lost love, every sleepless night. It bursts at the seams with tragedy. And as I listen, more melodies join the first as fresh lines of silk appear, depositing new spiders onto the counter beside the first. They emerge from outlets and lampshades to congregate before the economy brand coffee pot and play their strange song. A few climb from the floorboards and up Marlowe’s leg. When the stage is filled with arachnids and there is room for not a single more, Marlowe pulls away from the counter and begins to move her arms up and down, the spiders following suit with their pitch, accordingly. I cannot see my wife’s face as she conducts the spider orchestra in our kitchen, but I can imagine that she is smiling.

    We discuss the seeds over breakfast one morning.
    “Marlowe,” I say from my place at the dining table. “I see you’ve ordered a few seeds.” Marlowe does not seem to catch the irony: over eighteen boxes filled to the brim with seeds are strewn about our living space. I opened one of our kitchen cupboards this morning and a packet a fell into my cereal bowl. They cement themselves between the bristles of my toothbrush, the keys of my computer. They roll loosely between the sheets of our loveless bed. My wife doesn’t even seem to bat an eyelash, just disappears behind that curtain of her hair.
    “It’s almost Spring.” (It is October.)
    “Well, I suppose I can appreciate the authority. I’m glad you’ve... found a hobby, if that’s what you’d call this.” To Marlowe, I extend my hand, interlocking her small fingers with my own. I try not to think about the spider that was sitting here mere days ago.
    “Marlowe...” I run my forefinger softly over the base of her thumb. “Are you alright? Is this about... about what happened at work?” From beneath the facade of her pale hair, Marlowe smiles at me, although the gesture lacks warmth; on the contrary, it borders on piteous.
    “I’ve never been happier in my life.”
    The seeds should not thrive in our cramped apartment with its single fogged window and stale air, but they do. They burst from the confines of shallow kitchen pots and repurposed jam jars. Within days of being planted by Marlowe’s steady hand, their stems erupt upwards from the cheap potting soil in a violent surge of greenery, quickly overgrowing their containers and leaking out into the room. Vines run down our countertops and curl upwards at the base of the floor. Pea plants wrap their dexterous bodies around the frame of our bed before spreading to the walls. Even exotic plants that should never blossom in Seattle’s brisk climate begin to flourish: avocado trees drop fruit within the month, red-leaved lobster claw transforms our bathroom into an island getaway. They overgrow the discarded carcasses of the moving boxes and tangle together to form a sort of living carpet. Marlowe spends an hour every morning before work watering them and trimming them back, her lips giving birth to a tauntingly familiar hum as she works. During flu season, I am once forced to take her place in the tending of the jungle, and when I attempt to harvest the newest addition to our pumpkin vine, the twirling coils at its stem retreat from my touch. The leaves turn to a brown paper between my fingertips. With this, I can no longer stand to look at the scornful shrubbery that has dominated my home, and I take to spending most of my time outside. Marlowe and I even forgo our usual Friday night movie viewings for a peaceful walk. Here, in the world beyond my front door, I am comforted by the normalcy of each city block. Plants stay in their containers. Bushes are neatly manicured, lawns trimmed to a routine height of two and a half inches. Not a single tendril of vegetation strays from its intended allotment. I am so absorbed in the pleasant urban scenery that I do not even notice when Marlowe is no longer at my side. In a (rather embarrassing, I’ll be the first to admit) fit of panic, I retrace my steps at a jog, my feet bouncing off the pavement as I search for my wife. I call her name out into the darkness. Around me, neon signs hum with electricity, cars racing by the curb with startling urgency.
    “It’s alright, I’m here,” Marlowe calls out to me. She is standing several meters away from me, her hands cupped together to form a shell-like frame. There is a shifting sound from within.
    “You’ve got something,” I respond dumbly.
    “It’s a bird.”
    “Is it hurt?”
    “Yes. Or no. Someone had left it’s cage out in the rain.”
    “Jesus, Marlowe! You stole someone’s bird?” Instead of answering me, Marlowe simply parts her fingers, allowing the disgruntled creature to exit it’s carrier. It appears to be no more than a common finch. The bird wastes no time, pausing but a single second to orientate itself before taking flight. For the briefest of moments, I can make out flashes of a small feathered body dodging the network of power cables blocking it’s escape, but then it is gone.
    “I can’t believe we just stole someone’s bird,” I say. Marlowe takes a moment to carefully consider my sentiment. When she speaks, she says only this:
    “I could hear it screaming.”

    That night, when Marlowe and I are laying beneath our canopy of twisting leaves, she turns in the bed beside me.
    “Sometimes I think I am going blind,” she whispers. “I look outside and all I see is gray.” I do not understand, but I refrain from inquiring further, as I assume that she is speaking from the depths of a dream. But she does not drift peacefully back to sleep. Instead, Marlowe sits up in bed and frees her arm from beneath the blankets. A single moonbeam falls through our window and lands upon her flesh. In its glow, I can make out my wife’s veins beneath the cover of her thin skin. They are bright green. A vine pierces her flesh and extends around her arm, twirling upwards before breaking away into two Hedera-like leaves. She turns her hand over curiously to better examine the phenomenon. As my wife grows verdure from her body, I turn over in our bed and let the symphony of spiders lull me to sleep.
    In the morning, every animal in the Seattle zoo has gone. Disappeared overnight, vanished without a trace. They take my wife with them.

    What does a woman do when she has lost the love of her life? I cannot speak for the demure blondes who cry softly on TV, or the vengeful ex-wife who pleasures so vehemently in burning her former lover’s clothing, but I spend most of my time waiting. Waiting for a sign. I listen closely to the birdcall outside my window to see if I can hear snippets of language; I observe the slowly withering plants for any subtle nod in my direction. Anything that says it is my turn to leave. The spiders, which have not left but are strangely quiet these days, do not offer me any information. They do not write out secret messages in their webs. Still, I wait, praying that one day I too will be taken in the night. During this period of waiting, which lasts roughly a year and a half, I develop an acute case of skin hunger. I have not been touched since that last night. My doctor, a kind man with a warm disposition, suggests that I get out more often. Meet some new people.
    “Isn’t there anyone you can go to?” He asks. “Friends, family... anyone?” Friends? I have no such things. Just the weight of my wedding band, whose (now desolate) expensive golden sheen had once looked so desirable behind a case of glass. As for family, well... my family is made up of five Chinese men in black aprons shouting insults at one another over sizzling woks.
    I return home unescorted, haunted by the presence of my thousand other selves as they wander about Seattle’s dark streets. One takes solace in drunken one-night stands, another rekindles old relationships and goes out to drink among friends. Some of these ghosts find meaningful connections to cling to in the midst of their wife’s disappearance. Most do not. As I walk towards the glow of The Red Light, these other women break away from me, going down their own separate paths. They disappear down alleyways and behind buildings. In the end, there is only one me left who opens the door to the Chinese restaurant and walks inside, alone.
    Two weeks later, I attend the grand reopening of the Seattle zoo. The park is bustling with children and their parental chaperones, each carrying the obligatory soft pretzel, hand marked with a cartoonish admittance stamp. The enclosures are surrounded by mobs of people conversing amongst one another and laughing at unheard jokes. No one mentions the disappearance of the animals. I maneuver my way to the otters, Marlowe’s favorite of all the exhibits, and find myself wading through a small crowd just to get near the tanks. A single otter drifts lazily through the blue water as I approach. He doesn’t seem to notice me as I stand before him, his glossy eyes blinking in a despairingly non-committal fashion.
    I scream.
    I throw myself against the glass of his tank and pound it with my fists. Blood vessels explode with the force of my attack, blossoming into pale purple bruises. I do not care. I continue to shout at the tank, smashing it’s glass as hard as I can, ignoring the security guards as their hands clamp down upon my shoulders. I fight their grasp.
    “TAKE ME WITH YOU!” I shout at the otter. I am crying now, too. “Why can’t you take me with you, goddammit?!” The otter stares at me as I am dragged away. It seems almost intrigued by my outburst, almost entertained. I have nearly disappeared behind the large cardboard cutout of a penguin when the otter opens its mouth. From beneath its tongue a green coil is birthed, and I am forced to watch from a distance as a single leaf of ivy floats to the tank’s surface.
    I find that it is beautiful.

1945

    I first saw Teresa out my kitchen window back in 1928. Her father, a widower, had moved into our neighborhood. I was kneading dough when I looked up and watched the child glide her sled down a snowbank and slam into a tree. I ran across the street. “Are you hurt?”
    She scowled. “Mind your own beeswax.”
    I ignored her sass and asked if she would like a nice piece of hot homemade bread. She rubbed her bump with a snow-crusted mitten and shook her head. Teresa repeated the stunt and sailed free all the way to the sidewalk. I clapped my doughy hands. The little one smiled. “Can my pop have one too?”
    The next year the stock market crashed, and we plunged into the Depression.
    I’d see Teresa walk home from school, alone, shoulders slumped, eyes downcast. We all wore threadbare clothes, but her charity hand-me-downs never fit her growing body.
    One day, I invited her to see Shirley Temple in Bright Eyes. Coming out of the theatre, she reached for my hand, such sweetness in her grasp. From then on I became her cheerleader, my pompoms the crocheted scarves and sweaters I made for her.
    From the end of the Depression to another War, changes occurred every minute—and right here, in Farmingdale, New York.
    In the winter of ‘42, Teresa got a job at the Brooklyn Navy Yard. I’d be at my window at six o’clock making dinner as she arrived home in a car full of girls. She ran with newfound joy up the steps to the front door, turn, wave to her friends and then to me. Her smile brought riches not even Rockefeller could buy.
    Teresa had every other Sunday off and we’d have lunch on my back porch. “Oh Aunt Lena, I never knew working with my hands could be so much fun. There’s a lot of us gals, cutting and soldering, doing everything the men did. But our paychecks are nothing compared to what they earned.”
    “Well, of course not. Men have families to care for.” My comment hung in the air like a barrage balloon.
    Why, I never questioned my pay working in the factory during the First World War. It would’ve been unpatriotic—but this, I kept to myself. Now we could vote. Women smoked. Teresa wore overalls at work—so much had changed.
    On a spring day in ‘43, she told me about her promotion. “I work on submarines, welding.” She put down her fork.
    “What’s wrong, dear?”
    “They’re cramped quarters. My boss rubs up against me. When I told him to stop, he put me out in the rain to weld, knowing I’d get electrical shocks.”
    “Can’t you go to his boss?”
    She shook her head. “It’s always the girls’ fault.”
    I worried that after the war, young women like Teresa, who built our ships, tanks and planes would question traditions. Men wouldn’t stand for it. If I went to work, Roy would raise Cain, though he did let me sell war bonds.
    In ‘44, Teresa made management, and our lovely Sunday lunchtimes came to an end. Her new boss, a decent man, depended on her. She worked twelve-hour days, seven days a week and took care of her ailing father.
    I helped out by sitting with Pop. One night when she returned late I expressed concern for her coming home alone in the dark.
    She laughed. “With the boys gone, we girls can walk anywhere day or night and feel safe. Even Central Park.”
    Her breezy comment gave me chills. I saw thunderclouds on the horizon. “You respect our boys who are fighting for our freedom, don’t you?”
    “Oh Aunt Lena.” She put her arm around my shoulder. “Of course, I do. But women are fighting for freedom too. Just not on battlefields.”
    The war in Europe ended May 8, 1945, but it dragged on in the Pacific.
    Teresa’s final promotion came in early June. She oversaw seventy-five women in the construction department. I couldn’t have been prouder of her.
    On August 15, the radio blared, “Official! Truman announces Japanese surrender.”
    “Aunt Lena, Uncle Roy!”
    We all had tears in our eyes as I opened the door.
    “I’m going to Times Square, then on to the shipyard. Can you look in on Pop?”
    “Of course, dear.” A car waited for her. The girls waved flags. I held up two fingers making a V for Victory. “Do tell me everything that happens.”
    Roy and I went back to the radio. We heard about the thousands of people who turned out in cities across America. I imagined the red, white and blue rippling and waving, confetti and ribbons, wet eyes and cheering—if only our beloved FDR had lived to see it.
    That night we grew anxious as the hours passed and no word from Teresa.
    The next morning I recall burning myself on the skillet. My mind filled with worry about our girl. Then from my kitchen window I saw her come out the front door. She wore slacks and a blouse and marched down the walkway to the car. Rigid—with dark smudges beneath her eyes.
    I ran across the street. “What’s the matter?”
    “We wouldn’t quit, so they fired us.”
    A girl in the car said, “With the boys coming home, we got canned.”
    “Of course. They’ll need their jobs back.”
    Teresa glared at me. “My boss told me to get married and have babies.”
    “What did you expect?”
    Teresa opened the car door. “I expected more from my country.”
    Back then I didn’t understand the full impact of the war and what its aftermath meant to our daughters.
    Now with Roy gone and Teresa out west, I think about those days and the car full of girls who worked at the Brooklyn Navy Yard. I know now as I watched them drive off to gather and speak up for their rights that what I saw was the future.

Bio

    DC Diamondopolous is an award-winning short story and flash fiction writer with over 125 stories published internationally in print and online magazines, literary journals, and anthologies. DC’s stories have appeared in: So It Goes: The Literary Journal of the Kurt Vonnegut Museum and Library, Lunch Ticket, Raven Chronicles, Silver Pen, Scarlet Leaf Review, and many others. DC was nominated for Best of the Net 2017 Anthology. She lives on the beautiful California central coast.     dcdiamondopolous.com