I’ll Stick With The Civil War One

It might be nice to have a chess set that’s honest
Free from prejudice
The knights have beer guts
The pawns are Goths
The queen is HIV Positive
Like that
I don’t think anyone would buy it
But it sure would be nice to have it

What I Would Have Been, 1968

The one who eschewed the reefer
Who wore a “Nixon’s the One!” button
And said, yeah, sure, but we’ve gotta stand up to the
Communists
Somewhere
Yelling harsh at the hairheads from my Buick,
Not wanting to be them
Or me

Friction

Someone once warned us
That we can not kill fire with fire.
Still, acid tongues and verbal daggers
Continue to fuel each other's anger.
Sometimes we blame it on
Too much alcohol. Sometimes it is
Not what we said but how we said it.
Debate on what is politically correct,
On what is morally right persists.
With conflicting points of view,
Our opinionated arguments never end -
Financial drama, monogamy issue,
Things done and undone,
Words spoken and unspoken,
Whether who left the toothpaste open,
Or a flaking to an appointment.
Misunderstanding comes
From miscommunication,
In disagreement to a middle ground.
The abrasive one cuts the hypersensitive,
As the overdefensive becomes sarcastic.
Are we seriously heading somewhere
With all this pride and ego trip?

Marilyn

I will not survive anonymity

I do not believe I am beautiful
But I do not mind if you do

The doll is magic
I smile as I die
Vulnerability worn so lovely is very becoming

Defeated alone is misery
Cushioned is failure in masses
Provided you do not lose the most
Unless you can look gorgeous while you do it

Tears are a commodity
Beloved is the tragedian
Exploitation only needs an opportune moment
They are slicing the cake so all can get a piece

Oh my, I make a beautiful corpse

I lie there dead staring up at the stars i feel the wind on my face from the passing cars. my body is cold bloody and broken i’d still be alive if he had just spoken. he use to watch me from afar to him i was a falling star. he saw me and he made a wish that my fucked up life would inspire him to write poems that made people admire him. a little attention in exchange for my soul but when his life is over he’ll join me in this hole.....hope it was worth it asshole

About Tray Drumhann

Tray Drumhann’s work explores the dimensions and depth of human nature. His goal is to communicate the personal and cultural dynamics that condition how we view ourselves and others as well as how our individual experiences condition such perception. Notable publications featuring Drumhann’s work include: The Pinch Journal, Tiferet & Adagio Quarterly.

At the Gym

Her Incan eyes
storied in sorrow
scan Glamour magazine
for fashion trends
while she rides
the stair-master
despite a wintertime cough
to maintain a body
that appeals to a man
she hopes will save her
from a dead-end job,
loneliness,
and fears of being barren
on a deathbed
no one sits beside
to hold her hand.

For Work

I pass out flyers for an after school
program. Every day I am at the same
school in my neighborhood, me standing
in my yellow company shirt,
making sure to keep just off school property,
waiting for someone to talk to me.

It is bad but I have kept it
because I am comfortable here,
killing time as a representative
for some nameless thing. Sometimes

I stand by the blocked-off end of the street
and move the road blocks for cars.
Sometimes I talk with the two neighborhood girls
that live across the street from the school.
They think I’m funny. Sometimes
I bring a soccer ball

and make a goal out of the gaps in
these fence posts, just to goof around,
me and the few others on site here,
to kick at the cars while
we wait. I do this,
mind you, for eight dollars an hour

plus commission
which I don’t make, wandering amidst
the hordes of parents, or sitting here on the
fence at the end of the block

writing my poem. The soccer ball
is both an act of solidarity for our
hermanos Puertorriqueños and
to say “my commission has and
will always come

from the shape I make out of
all this waste in my life.” Like every
protest song wrenched from the chest
of the broken down victory is symbolic
and defeat, well. Just

look at me. It’s 8 AM and I’m
sneaking that damn soccer ball
past our site coordinator, the kids
on the playground in their
white-and-blue CPS uniforms
all throwing their hands up, yelling
“Gol! Gol! Que linda!” as I fall to my

knees, clenched fists in the air,
eyes closed in a snapshot of glory
hearing the roar of the crowd swell
in my ears. Defeats, my friends,
come when you engage them.

Wrong Reflection

You can feel
the rush
down to
your toes
when the cop
in your rearview
hit’s the party lights
and your trunk
is loaded
with bad news.

Secret Haven

A year ago, my best friend Harry vanished. The police searched for him and followed a few leads that led nowhere. Until a few hours ago, I thought he was dead. Then I got the call and heard the strangely familiar voice.
“Is that you, Harry?”
“Don’t you recognize your old buddy?”
“What the hell happened to you?”
“I’ll explain everything to you when I see you. Tomorrow morning drive to Cape Cod and take the afternoon ferry at Woods Hole to Vineyard Haven. You’ll find me in town at the Black Dog Tavern. See you when you get there.”
“Sure, Harry.”
“And Adam, don’t tell anyone where you’re going or that you spoke to me. It’s our secret.”
“Why?”
Harry hung up. I miss my friend and I’m a curious S.O.B. So I’m going. Got to see my buddy again.

On this cold November day, I arrive in Vineyard Haven in the off-season. Harry and I were here ten years ago in the early fall after Labor Day when the summer folks were gone. Harry got drunk in the Black Dog Tavern and kept drinking for a whole week. A gifted artist obsessed with various shades of red, he painted red hot beetlebung trees, as well as tupelo trees, sumacs, and swamp maples, in vibrant pastels and watercolors. When the autumn leaves turned crimson red, he cried out: “Hallelujah!”
Now, in this secret Haven, the snow begins to fall. But soon, I’ll see Harry again. I love him. He’s my soul brother. But love hurts. I lost my wife Anna ten years ago. She died suddenly of a heart attack.

As I approach the tavern, I notice three old men staring at me. One fellow with a long gray beard smiles wickedly at me. I look away.
Inside the tavern, the lights are dim, just a few customers in the place. Harry’s in a booth in the back.
“Good to see you, Harry.”
“Same here, old buddy.”
“You gonna tell me what’s goin’ on?”
“Somebody was stalking me. I felt his presence. Got spooked and left town. Came here. Welcome to Paradise.”
“Why didn’t you go to the police?”
“Don’t trust them, only you and these good folks in Vineyard Haven.”
My eyes dart across the place and wherever they land, I find a stranger’s eerie eyes fixed on me.
“Harry, you sure you can trust these people?”
“Yeah, we’re family now. Last month my neighbor gave me a lucky charm I wear as a necklace. Look!”
“Beautiful. But I see a skull and crossbones.”
“Yeah. It’s supposed to protect me. Seems to work. So what are you drinking?”
“Coffee. Got to wake up.”
We eat and drink and Harry tells me we’re going to a Town Meeting and the Vineyard Haven cemetery. Weird guy, my friend.
Suddenly, the Black Dog Tavern whirls and swirls in my brain and I black out.

I wake up in a school gym. And I’m in the center of a circle of fire, surrounded by men in black robes, adorned with rings, necklaces, and pendants with esoteric symbols, including the symbol of the skull and crossbones.
A black-robed man slithers toward me. “Welcome, Adam. This is our Town Meeting and our Secret Society.”
“Harry?”
“Yes, it’s me. Tonight I will join this glorious society. Look at these celestial flames! Feel the power of crimson red! Your death is my rite of initiation-my entrance into Heaven-my apotheosis!”
“Why me?”
Pointing a slick .38 at my head, he says: “To join the New Brotherhood of Death, I must kill someone I love.”
“I know. I killed Anna before joining.”
The others surround Harry.
“Wanted you to become a brother too. But you yearn to be our G-d.”
I watch my brothers set Harry on fire. His body turns crimson red. Tomorrow, we will bury his remains in the cemetery. Only we and the dead know the secret Haven.

Voodoo Curse

My office is a rectangular tomb of darkness where trauma survivors and other sufferers come to heal or die. I listen to their horror stories and sometimes, I’m infected with their toxic thoughts and emotions. My name’s Dr. Joseph Savage. I’m a shrink. But how can I fight supernatural forces?

“Doc, I think my mother-in-law put a curse on me. A voodoo curse.”
I gazed quizzically at my patient, a good looking middle-aged African-American man and a professor of physics at Columbia University.
“You’re a scientist and yet, you believe in the power of voodoo?”
“Until a week ago, I thought voodoo was a lot of nonsense, mind over matter stuff. But now, I know it’s real.”
“What happened?”
“My wife and I have only been married three years. I accepted the position at Columbia so she could live near her mother. She’s very attached to my mother-in-law. She just turned 21 and I’m 42. Seems I married a child from Haiti.”
“How did you meet?”
“Through a friend. Actually, he introduced me to her single mother Verona. I dated Verona a few times and then I met Alicia. It was love at first sight. I became obsessed. Fortunately, Alicia felt the same way. Her mother strongly opposed the marriage. I believe she was and is still in love with me. Yet her love for Alicia was stronger than her bitter feelings.”
“Why do you think she put a curse on you?”
“To stop me from taking her daughter away. I’ve accepted a high-level government job out-of-state. Verona’s furious with me even though I told her she could come with us. Since I told her, I’ve been very ill. I’ve never been sick a day in my life. But mysteriously, I developed heart disease and multiple growths on my body. I don’t know if they’re benign or malignant.”
“And Verona caused this?”
“Yes. For seven nights, she came to me in my dreams, laughed maniacally at me, and stuck pins into a voodoo doll that looked like me. I woke up screaming. And last night, I found a voodoo doll in my bed. I flung it against the wall and shattered it. I went for a long walk while Alicia slept. When I returned, she was still asleep. But the doll was gone.”

Professor Robert Michaels left my office in a state of panic and distress. He requested an emergency session the next day. I found a time slot that was open. Before leaving, he showed me pictures of his mother-in-law and wife. Verona is an attractive Haitian woman with dark penetrating eyes that seem to reach into one’s soul. Alicia is devastatingly beautiful and sensuous with hazel eyes and long black hair. Yet she possesses a seductive quality of vulnerability too.
“If something happens to me, I want you to know what really happened. I’m not mad, Dr. Savage, just cursed.”
I did not tell him that his notion of evil voodoo dolls was irrational or that he had seen too many horror movies. Nor did I point out that voodoo dolls were, in reality, used to bless individuals. He would have felt misunderstood, for he was a full-fledged paranoid.
He did not show for his session. When I called him at home, his wife answered and spoke calmly, dispassionately. He had passed away in the middle of the night apparently of a massive heart attack.

She came to my office after my last patient left, and we made love on the couch in my office. I’m addicted to her and she claims she’s madly in love with me. She killed him in order to be with me, her former therapist. The untraceable poison worked perfectly. And now she will kill the other woman.
“You’re my femme fatale, Alicia.”
“And you’re my Big Daddy, Doc.”

At home, I called Safe Haven, the secret government agency I work for, with a disposable cell phone on a secure line.
“Did you get Professor Michaels’ papers?”
“Not yet. But he’s dead.”
“Get them soon. For the sake of your country.”
“Once the girl kills her mother...”
“By tomorrow night. Or you will become dispensable.
“Yes.”
“Kill both of them. Make it look like a murder-suicide. Use the voodoo paraphernalia to make it look like a black magic ceremony. Voodoo death works.”
“Yes.”

How can I kill Alicia? But they will kill me if I don’t. Tomorrow, I will get the papers and kill mother and daughter. Or I will run off with Alicia.
In my dark dreams, a Safe Haven man breaks into my home carrying a bag of voodoo belongings. He shoots an untraceable poison into my arm. The poison triggers a massive heart attack. As I die a painful and horrific death, silently screaming into the black hole of death, the killer arranges the room with voodoo objects. The police will think I practiced voodoo and that I committed suicide.
Before I die, the killer gazes into my psyche. He looks familiar. I open my eyes and I see my dark alter ego. And I fly into a black hole from which I will never return.

BIO

Dr. Mel Waldman is a licensed New York State psychologist and a candidate in Psychoanalysis at the Center for Modern Psychoanalytic Studies (CMPS). He is also a poet, writer, artist, and singer/songwriter. After 9/11, he wrote 4 songs, including “Our Song,” which addresses the tragedy. His stories have appeared in numerous literary reviews and commercial magazines including HAPPY, SWEET ANNIE PRESS, CHILDREN, CHURCHES AND DADDIES and DOWN IN THE DIRT (SCARS PUBLICATIONS), NEW THOUGHT JOURNAL, THE BROOKLYN LITERARY REVIEW, HARDBOILED, HARDBOILED DETECTIVE, DETECTIVE STORY MAGAZINE, ESPIONAGE, and THE SAINT. He is a past winner of the literary GRADIVA AWARD in Psychoanalysis and was nominated for a PUSHCART PRIZE in literature. Periodically, he has given poetry and prose readings and has appeared on national T.V. and cable T.V. He is a member of Mystery Writers of America, Private Eye Writers of America, American Mensa, Ltd., and the American Psychological Association. He is currently working on a mystery novel inspired by Freud’s case studies. Who Killed the Heartbreak Kid?, a mystery novel, was published by iUniverse in February 2006. It can be purchased at www.iuniverse.com/bookstore/, www.bn.com, at /www.amazon.com, and other online bookstores or through local bookstores. Recently, some of his poems have appeared online in THE JERUSALEM POST. Dark Soul of the Millennium, a collection of plays and poetry, was published by World Audience, Inc. in January 2007. It can be purchased at www.worldaudience.org, www.bn.com, at /www.amazon.com, and other online bookstores or through local bookstores. A 7-volume short story collection was published by World Audience, Inc. in June 2007 and can also be purchased online at the above-mentioned sites.

Bottom Line

As the jurors returned, a vivid scene played in Forest’s mind. His conscious thoughts seldom strayed from that fateful night. The fear he saw in her eyes, the pleas for mercy, moments before he pulled the trigger.
The large caliber round found its target, and a millisecond later Linda Kellerman’s soul belonged to the ages. The prominent CEO had done exactly what he had dreamt about for years. He had blown her brains out, literally.
The once beautiful woman whose family’s investments had allowed Forest’s highly successful enterprises to get off the ground, and who had raised their three children, had committed the cardinal sin of becoming older.
Had he gotten away with pre-meditated murder? Did being able to afford the best defense attorney in the country allow him to remove a boring wife, who no longer excited him, with no consequence?
Forest nervously looked over at his attorney. Had the million dollar plus fee been worth it?
He had scouted Jack Levins well in advance of the actual murder. He knew his record — never lost a case. He also knew that Jack liked the high profile cases, and of course only handled the well to do — the extremely well to do.
His presence in the courtroom was breath-taking. He was a master of his craft — born for this arena; it was truly his medium. His mannerisms and style would make Perry Mason or Ben Matlock look like amateurs.
Time and time again the most determined witnesses for the prosecution turned into whimpering, stuttering, spineless piles of putty when interrogated by Jack. He also possessed the uncanny ability to assess the jurors, finding the ones who were of high moral character and would have difficulty sending someone to their death or life imprisonment without overwhelming evidence.
Constantly, he would remind the jury that before they would bring in a verdict of guilty, they must be sure beyond a reasonable doubt. Relentlessly, he would hammer this into each juror’s consciousness. This tactic proved very effective in planting the seeds of indecision, and reservation about casting what was once a certain guilty vote.
After weeks of finding cracks in the prosecution’s case, he would unravel his opponent to the point of desperation.
And finally you knew victory was his when in his summation he would state: members of the jury, the bottom line of this case etc.
As the jury foreman stood up, Jack Levins winked at his client. He was confident of the verdict. Once again, he had been at the top of his game. It didn’t matter that he knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that on that hot August night, one year earlier the accused had shot his wife. All that mattered was the challenge of the contest.
“We the jury find the defendant, not guilty.”
The bottom line, as Jack would always say, was he had come out victorious. Money once again had prevailed over justice. A rich CEO would walk out a free man, even though there was little doubt about his guilt.
While images of disgust not surprise filled the courtroom, Jack hugged his client. Jack had kept his perfect record intact. The most sought after defense attorney in the country had worked his magic again. What did it matter if he knew his client was guilty? Would he be the best, if he only got off the innocent?
He had won another case; not by making an effort to reveal the truth by uncovering the facts, but with tried and true tricks of his profession, that took advantage of every legal sham, maneuver and loophole.
Jack quickly left the courtroom, avoiding the vengeful stares of the victimized family members — they knew the truth.

After catching an afternoon flight, Jack had a late dinner with his family. While relaxing with his victory bottle of Chteau Lafite Rothschile Pauillac 1966, he searched the news channels for details of his conquest.
“Here it is. Hey, everyone, quiet.” he yelled.
“Superstar defense attorney, Jack Levins has done it again. The verdict is in, and CEO billionaire Forest Kellerman has been acquitted. The speculation that Mr. Levins could never overcome the mountain of evidence against his client was proven wrong, when the jury took but forty minutes to bring in their verdict.
We’ll have more on this later, but first this breaking story. Scientists are scoffing at the recent warnings given by Professor Jerome Harns, a famed volcanologist. You may remember Harns who campaigned vigorously for Green Party and legal reform candidate Lester Mandrake.
In an interview this morning, Harns, considered a maverick by his fellow scientists, predicted that the super volcano located under Yellowstone National Park would erupt in approximately six months. Harns believes that the eruption could leave up to half of North America covered under four feet of hot ash and the estimated 250 cubic miles of rock and dust thrown into the atmosphere could block out the sun’s rays, sending our planet into a permanent freezing winter season for seven years or more.
This cataclysmal event is also expected to trigger a simultaneous chain reaction of high magnitude earthquakes along all of the world’s major fault lines, starting with the San Andreas. This could then produce tsunamis hitting all of the continental shores with towering waves of one hundred feet or more.
The initial catastrophe and the ensuing ice age could wipe out more than 95% of mankind. Harns cited his findings based on years of collected data.”
“Wasn’t he a friend of yours from Harvard,” asked Jack’s wife Sally.”
“Yes, he is a brilliant man. Matter of fact, I’ll be seeing him soon; we have a reunion coming up. But, as far as this eruption thing, I think he’s just blowing smoke — looking for some attention.
“Like the spotlight all to yourself, don’t you Jack?” laughed Sally.
“I knew this pleasant night wouldn’t last.”
“You could always tell me that you have to go to your office and work, wink, wink.”
“And what’s that supposed to mean?”
“You know exactly what it means. How stupid do you think I am?”
“I’m going to bed.”

As the weeks went by, the scientific community came down hard on Professor Harns for scaring the public — in their eyes, unnecessarily. They argued he had no substantiated evidence and his prediction could easily set the stage for widespread chaos and panic. They reassured everyone that there was no immediate danger, that no one really knew when the eruption would occur, and more than likely the event was at least several thousand years off.
However, Professor Harns’ continued to argue for support of his findings. New data coming from Yellowstone only reaffirmed his view. He was now absolutely sure that the huge caldera sitting under Yellowstone Park would erupt the second week of September.
But, his warnings were now falling on deaf ears, as the media had been cautioned by the Federal Communications Commission to stop airing the doomsday prophecy, fearing the public’s reaction.
A spokesman for the F.C.C. said, “We will no longer be broadcasting Professor Harns’ prediction. We feel he is a rogue scientist prone to sensationalism and his uncorroborated remarks will only lead this country into a state of turmoil.”
Soon, Professor Harns and his story were all but forgotten and relegated to the tabloid magazines, alongside stories of alien abduction.
The media rapidly diverted the nation’s attention to a juicy, scandalous affair they had just uncovered involving a high ranking senator.
Yet slowly, Professor Harns started to gather a following. Although only a few hundred people at first, it did include wealthy industrialist, humanitarian, and all-around entrepreneur Clay Hazen. He believed in Professor Harns’ prediction and offered his vast array of talents along with his total financial support.

The Harvard class reunion of 1992 gave Jack and Jerome the opportunity to visit.
“Been a long time, how are you Jack?”
“Can’t complain. Life’s been treating me pretty good.”
“Oh, and congratulations, you’re really unbeatable in the courtroom.”
“Thanks, I didn’t expect a compliment, knowing where you stand on our legal system.”
“Just a courtesy, Jack.”
“You can’t possibly believe that a legal reform bill would ever get through congress? Duh ... do you know what percentage of politicians are lawyers?”
“Jack, don’t you realize that the legal system has a stranglehold on this country? Do you know that in America there is one lawyer for every 250 people — while there is only one doctor for every 450? Don’t you think that is outrageous? Do you think our forefathers ever intended lawyers to wield such power?”
“You’re really envious, aren’t you Jerome?”
“No, not at all. I’m just like the millions of citizens who have had enough; and want their country back.”
“If you were knocking down several million a year like me, you wouldn’t be complaining. Admit it, you picked the wrong field. Volcanologist ... whoopee — what did you make last year, hundred grand?”
“No not quite, but I have no regrets. Anyway, Jack, I think this argument may be a bit pointless.”
“Oh yea, cause you think the world is coming to an end.”
“My prediction is backed up by a lot of data, Jack.”
“Then, how come your peers don’t support you?”
“They just don’t put any stock in the way I evaluate data.”
“Then, why should anyone else. The bottom line is: what have you done, that makes your opinion reliable?”
“Well I don’t suppose you remember the late Warren Liesenfue?”
“No, never heard of him.”
“Well, he predicted Mount St. Helens eruption within one month of the actual event, five years earlier.”
“Lucky guess.”
“I don’t think so, Jack. I’m using the same methods that Dr. Liesenfue used. I’ve checked and rechecked my findings and I am positive that there will be an eruption in six months. As a matter of fact this September is my target date.”
“So, even if you are right what are we supposed to do?”
“If the country supported my idea, we would have the resources to save several million people, but as it is only a handful will survive, maybe a few thousand.”
“Well, Jerome, I’ll trust the majority — that’s my bottom line. I’m not going to worry about your crazy prediction. Things are going too well. My services are in demand all over the country and I might even run for public office.
You know we ought to make a date to meet here ... let’s say October first — I’ll bet you a drink that you’re full of hot air.”
“That’s one bet you’re going to lose, Jack, and I’m afraid it’s going to cost you a lot more than a drink.”

The professor’s solution to save at least a minute portion of mankind was to utilize large natural caves that went far below the surface and existed in several countries. They would stay there until the dust had settled from the atmosphere, and the climate had returned to normal.
One cave in particular, located in Canada, Professor Harns thought would be perfect. It was over two thousand miles from Yellowstone and was virtually unknown, accept to a few Spelunkers. Professor Harns came across it, quite by accident, when he was exploring an ancient volcano site.
Obtaining the rights to the cave was where a person like Clay Hazen excelled. The Canadian billionaire had much influence in his native country, and besides his obvious benefits of unlimited wealth he was the perfect man to somehow finagle the rights to the cave.
Hazen came up with a plan, and quickly organized a secret deal with Canadian officials. He leased over one hundred thousand acres in extreme north eastern Canada, on the pretense of doing a feasibility study for mining radium bearing ore; the cave that was of interest to Professor Harns happened to be located smack dab in the center of that chunk of real estate.
The H.N.S., Humanity’s Next Step, as the followers of Professor Harns were called, almost immediately began the process of setting up the site. It was a logistic nightmare to be sure, with the group now two thousand strong and growing.
The supplies needed to maintain the eventual population of the shelter for a minimum of seven years, was enormous. Luckily, very little fuel would be required for heat, as the cave would maintain a constant temperature of slightly over sixty degrees.
Once again the invaluable Mr. Hazen came through. Since he owned several trucking firms and had previous experience as a logistic coordinator in the military, overseeing the organization of the shelter was right up his alley.
Meanwhile, Professor Harns’ continued attempts to warn the world of the coming disaster still met with unrelenting resistance. He finally recognized the futility of his struggle, for without the support of the scientific community and his Volcanologists colleagues in particular, the effort was doomed.
He knew the remaining time must be devoted to finding more willing souls to join H.N.S. It was now almost certain that after the eruption the only likely survivors on the planet would come from the Canadian shelter. This fact would influence his recruiting methods, as they would become more secretive and selective. The only people who would now be considered to join their group would be on a need basis — people with special talents for that future date when the H.N.S. group came out of the cave to carve out a new civilization.
It was now early August, and the professor’s followers numbered nearly five thousand, the shelter’s capacity. The remaining spots would be saved for the very last days.
Ironically, Professor Harns now feared the country would reverse their opinion on his prediction, and create a potential for mass hysteria. The cold fact was that even if the country changed its mind, time had nearly run out, it could only put his shelter in jeopardy.

The last few months had been very busy for Jack. He had been preparing for a blockbuster trial, involving a famous movie star that was scheduled to begin the last week of September. He would be defending Lilli Victoria, the blond bombshell who allegedly poisoned her third husband.
The event has had the whole country talking about nothing else since it happened three months ago. Jack was sure this was the case that would finally make him a household name, and whisk him into political office.
With the trial scheduled to begin in less than a month, Jack, who was now separated — his numerous infidelities had finally caught up with him, was taking a brief respite in Vegas, and while relaxing in his hotel room some disturbing news came across one of the news channels.
“In our latest breaking news, if you remember the story we ran earlier this year about a prediction of a volcanic eruption from under Yellowstone Park — well you’ll want to hear this.
Last March, Professor Jerome Harns predicted that the super volcano that resides under Yellowstone Park would erupt in September. At the time, his prediction was soundly denounced by the rest of the scientific world, but today veteran volcanologist, Dr. Louis Glouster has come forward in agreement with Professor Harns.
We want to assure everyone that these are the only two scientists that feel we are in danger of a super eruption.
Dr. Glouster reviewed Professor Harns’ findings and found his calculations to be accurate, he agrees that an event of unseen proportions in civilized times will happen the second week of September.
Once again, however, we want to assure our viewers that this opinion is from an extreme minority. Almost the entire scientific community insists that there is no imminent danger at Yellowstone Park.”
“The bottom line is: I’ve got to play it safe,” Jack thought. “Maybe Harns knows what he’s talking about. I can’t take any chances — I can’t be left behind. I’ve got to get a hold of him, before it’s too late.”

The time was fast approaching the predicted week. Professor Harns demanded that everyone report to the shelter no later than September fifth. The following day all entrances would be blasted shut, and then there would be several million tons of dirt and rock between them and the outside world.
The desolate region of the cave, combined with Clay Hazen’s mining ploy idea had kept the shelter’s location in complete secrecy. Never the less Professor Harns had recently stayed clear of the site until the time had come to enter for good — on the chance that he would be followed.
It was early afternoon on September fifth and the Harns family was about to board their private plane. The morning news had been quite ominous. Authorities feared the worst, as huge lava flows were springing up all over Yellowstone. Combined with the increased earthquake activity, the eruption of the super volcano now appeared imminent. Washington ordered an immediate evacuation of everyone living west of the Mississippi.
All major interstates were soon bumper to bumper as millions of people attempted to distance themselves from the Yellowstone area. Airports in the west were rescheduling flights and bringing in as many planes as possible to help with the evacuation. The military rushed in huge cargo planes to help with the epic rescue attempt. C-5s, C-47s and C-17s had already arrived in the Los Angeles, San Francisco and Denver airports. The president was working feverishly with governors in all the eastern states, requesting their help in sheltering the huge number of soon to be arriving evacuees.
Suddenly, a call came through on the professor’s cell phone.
“Jerome, it’s Jack, you don’t know how long I’ve been trying to reach you. The bottom line is: you finally convinced me. I realize that you were right all along. Where do I go? What do I have to do? Is there a shelter?”
“I’m sorry Jack.”
“What do you mean, you’re sorry? You don’t understand — I believe you ... I know it’s really going to happen. You have to help me.”
“Jack, the shelter is full. If we did take anyone else, they would have to possess skills we can use. I’m sorry, but that’s the way it is.”
“What do you mean a skill you can use? I graduated cum laude from Harvard. Which one of your followers can say that?”
“We need teachers, doctors, nurses, engineers, builders, farmers — Jack, civilization will have to start over.”
“I’m the best defense attorney in the country. I’ve never lost a case. They want me to run for political office. I’m a winner. You know that!”
“Jack, I’m optimistic about the new society that will eventually emerge from the shelter. We will definitely benefit from the mistakes of the past. Someday, my descendents may look back on this eruption as a great turning point for mankind.
Your ability to get a murderer off is a skill, hopefully, we will never need again. The days of the lawyer-driven world will soon be behind us, thank God, and that Jack is the bottom line!”

From Thames to Lethe

The sky fell in a dark manner over the castle creating an eerie aura. All was silent and still as the wind moved the trees in a swaying motion. Charity woke up with a start on the ground perhaps fifty feet away from the Tower of London. She pushed her hands against the cold dirt pulling herself to her feet. Frantically looking around her, she momentarily forgot who she was. The taste of metal filled her mouth and as she bit down on something hard. Taking her fingers she pulled out a golden coin covered in blood.
“Why is there a coin pushed between my teeth! I cannot remember how I ended up here or why this is happening.” Staring up at the castle before her she exclaimed, “I have lived there!
That was my home. My name is Lady Cole and something dreadful happened inside those stone walls”.
She studied her ripped gown and saw splatters of blood near her shoulders and chest. Holding out her arms she saw dark blue bruises lining up from her wrist to her elbow.
“What happened to me here?”
Trembling from the cold, she walked farther down the road towards a familiar river. It looked like a bottomless pit filled with thick black water. The reflection of the moonlight gave it a ghostly glow. As the bare trees fell overhead beckoning one to come closer.
Charity rubbed her arms to rid the chill from her body as she saw a silhouette of a man alongside a boat.
She waved her arms frantically, “Sir! Over here!” Still the man did not move but stared ahead at the river before him. Still she screamed, “Do you not see me? I am Lady Cole! I beg you sir to assist me!” Running over the mounds of rock and dirt she tripped over stuck branches and pushed the loose strands falling out of her bun behind her ears. Still she ran towards the only living aspect around her. Her chest ached and her breathing became heavy. She clutched her hand to her heart as she fell in front of the man. The ground was moist as she looked up and realized she was near the river bank. Staring at the man, she realized he was in his later years with a heavy gray beard. He wore a black overthrow with long sleeves that matched with the dark sky. A rope tied around his waist with black pants and boots.
Hastily she lifted herself up and stood face to face with the man with the piercing blue eyes. She exclaimed in an exasperated manner, “Sir, have you not heard me calling for assistance?”
He lifted up one of his old hand as if to silence her, “My child, you should know that if you called for any other being, it would be in vain. No one besides me can hear you.”
“Well of course no one else can hear me; you are the only breathing person around here except for the cold bodies I see!”
He chuckled and said, “Judging by your gown you must be either a lady amongst the court or one of the king’s pleasures.”
“I will not be talked to with such hostility. I am Lady Cole, a woman amongst the court of King Henry VIII. I do not know why blood spatters my gown but I intend to return to my rightful place”, she then lifted up her gown and started walking.
“You will not get far child! You do not belong in such a kingdom no more. Your mannerism is telling me you are confused and losing your head” he then waited for her response.
Her green eyes held fire as she replied and marched up to him, “I do not belong in such an institution as the damned sir. If you would excuse me, I will go to my waiting maids.”
She watched as his eyes changed for just a moment, perhaps a flicker of pity?
He then sighed, “My dear, it is not your mind you have lost, though it would have been lost in that same process I suppose. You were under the King’s wrath. Judging by the splatter on your gown around the shoulders and the bruises that plague your arms...you were executed.”
She stepped away and put her hand to her hand. Then realizing where her hand was, she dropped it in an instant. Memories started rushing back to when she was staring remembering her dear family to the poundings on the door; the fear in her heart as they grabbed her and pulled her into a boat towards the tower. The damp and cramped conditions of the cell and the odors of feces and deteriorating bodies filled her senses. Then her walking up to the guillotine hearing the cries and cheers of the people, her head laying on the stone block and the swiftness of the wind upon her neck...
She stated in a barely audible whisper, “I remember now. How is this possible? Am I not acceptable by the lord?” She grabbed the corners of her gown and sat on the ground as if traumatized.
The old man walked silently towards her and said, “If you do not remember, you wished to punish the accuser who sent you to the guillotine. Perhaps this is the reason why you are no other than in Purgatory as they say. I am Mathias Loncastre, the chosen oarsman to transport you towards Hades Rivers” he then held out his hand.
However, she just stared at him in utter confusion. Her eyes kept darting from him towards the black waters of Thames. Finally after a minute she responded, “I was to be beheaded to make way for a lady such like myself to become Queen of England. I did not choose the fate of being of the King’s moment’s desire but it happened. Why am I to be punished for his undeserved power? My death should have brought me towards the sky to forget about past misfortunes rather than dwell into the cold caves of the underworld!”
The oarsman sighed in exasperation and shook his head. His hands fiddled with a rock tied on an old rope around his neck, “I cannot begin to fathom why I was chosen to lead the dead into darkness. Believe me, I held a life before this and my revenge became the death of me. I will explain all your questions until your skin turns blue.” His eyes crinkled in amusement as Charity just gave a stern look. All turned serious as he replied, “Perhaps it is not the best time to jest about your current condition. Have you found any sort of token to give you the ride towards the next life?”
Charity fumbled for the coin in her gown’s tarnished pockets. Pulling out the coin she studied it, “It is nothing like the currency held in England. I have found it between my teeth. I daresay you should tell your...people to find a better place to give to the dead.” The coin was silver and rough due to the carvings of a head on top of the coin. The head wore some sort of headdress with large Egyptian looking eyes. On the flip side of the coin held a carving of a parrot like bird that filled the whole surface.
Charity then placed the coin in the palm of Mathias’ hand. She watched as he took the coin between his index and middle finger and brought it to his lips and kissed it. He then dropped it into a pouch tied near his waist. He then smiled at Charity and said, “You are fortunate to have had maids that respected and loved you; for they must have put the coin in your mouth. It is an ancient coin from Greece I should say. If you were not given this coin, you would be damned to aimlessly walk the earth for hundred years before you were allowed passage on my gondolier.” He then hesitated for a moment then said, “Now we have spent long enough contemplating your current affairs. Will you step aboard my abode?” He then held out his hand and waited.
Charity took one last glance at the fortress that plagued her last year. In the darkness it was menacing, showing the evil that corrupted a kingdom of privilege and power. A chill swept down her spine and she shuddered as she climbed into the boat.
The wooden boat rocked as they descended into the abyss of the water. The moon swept behind a cloud dimming all light to a faint gleam. The ravens circled the tower of London mockingly and their cries turned into a faint whisper. Charity watched as the scenery changed and as her former residence soon disappeared behind thrift of fog. She was not such a person to succumb to fear so easily, yet moving into the unknown shattered all courageous demeanors. To break the silence she asked, “Mathias, how did you become a slave to such a fate as this? You mentioned having a life before you took the dead to their fates.”
Mathias face turned cold and hard. His eyes drifted to a faraway place as if fighting all memories. Finally he said, “No one had ever cared about how I became what I am. There was a former oarsman by the name of Charon who would transport the dead to the rivers of Lethe. I menaced the gods I once doubted and was cursed with this fate. I held a family which I cherished beyond measure. I had a wife who bore me a son and a daughter. The house was simple and nothing to exclaim over but it was filled with generosity and laughter.” Charity smiled as he recalled the memory. Yet darkness dimmed his eyes and sadness overtook as a tear fell down his haggard cheeks.
“It was a cold winter that overtook us. The crops would not grow and we were poor to begin with. We had nothing to feed our animals and we could not eat since they grew sick from hunger. A disease swept the villages, harming various residents. It overtook my children of ages four and eight. My wife being the giving mother that she was, refused to stand by and watch them die.” He hesitated then said, “The doctor did not know how to treat the illness and told people to avoid others infected; to wash all clothes in boiling water and rest. He told us to pray for a miracle and for salvation to save us from death” he then looked towards Charity.
Charity held compassion and sympathy in her green eyes. She nodded her understanding and her consent for him to continue. Mathias cleared his throat and choked on a sob, “My wife got infected. I begged her to keep away from the children, to wait till the doctor had time to come. I watched as they suffered and felt chilled with the cold. Each night I cut lumber for a fire to pass heat and keep them warm. Fevers and sweat poured down their cheeks and I felt helpless. Ten days later my children passed away and two days after that...my wife.”
Charity’s tears stained her cheeks as she imagined the loving mother caring for her children, sacrificing her heath to save them. Her hand reached and laid on Mathias’ arm in condolences and she whispered her deepest regrets. Mathias pulled his arm away and his countenance turned grim, “I cursed the fates and I cursed the gods above! I swore my vengeance against them for taking my family and not myself. That night was a storm. The lightning and thunder pierced the skies and the wind moved the poor foundation of my home. I came outside in the rain and reached my fists in the air and promised I would find my family and bring them back towards the living. I got part of my wish that night. The gods gave Charon his leave and peace and made myself hold the power of moving from the living to the dead.” He then grew silent and moved the oars with a deadening speed.
Charity sat still, too paralyzed to move. Her heart went out to the bitter man who lost all he loved. As she was about to comfort him, her eyes widened in disbelief. The waters erupted and the currents grew dangerous. The sea pulled back like a boomerang and showed a land of rocks on each side. As the fog soon parted, she witnessed a large cave. Her arms crossed over her chest and she darted her eyes towards the large structure before her. Her eyes adjusted to the darkness and she heard the moans and cries of souls around her. She could not find where it came from but she felt tugging on her sleeves and the pulling of her hair. The air chilled dramatically and the sadness over took her. She found herself reaching towards the waters, striving to help the lost souls. Her mind lost all reason. Mathias realizing what was happening pulled her further back into the midsection of the boat. He grabbed her arm roughly and said, “Do not let the cries pull you into the deep. They are lost souls forever wandering. We are almost towards Lethe and my deed would be completed.”
Charity stared at him defiantly, “I know of Lethe and I read its stories. It is the river where one forgets one’s past life. How can you subject a person to losing the one aspect that holds them into the living world? You of all people who held a family so dear cannot wish such a fate on someone!”
Mathias’ voice rose in anger, “Do you not wish to live again? To drink from the river and be given a second life?!” The boat rocked furiously as he yelled and stood before her. “I lost all that held meaning in my life! I have realized they are no more! I shall not find them, for their souls are in another carcass. Their memories are forgotten about me, yet I am still haunted by their faces each time I close my eyes. So child, I bear you to drink from that river as we are descending upon it now. Accept this fate as a new beginning as a gift from the gods, you have not offended them as I have done!”
The boat moved into a circle of river lighted by a silver gleam. A weeping willow surrounded the water on the sides as the strings of its leaves fell into the deep waters. Charity gave out a cry as she saw flesh of people lying on rocks near the tree. They appeared to be alive yet one can tell by the paleness of their skin that life fled from their eyes. Some were in the water with their hands folding into a cup as they brought the liquid to their lips and fervently drank its contents. Others reached out and grab the boat holding it within their grasps as their soulless eyes reached towards Charity. She heard their faint whispers but their lips would not move, “Have you seen my child? I cannot find him! Where am I? The night took my life.” The woman’s cries pierced her ears as she tried to pull away but the cries persisted. “Bring me back! She is alive, more alive than any of us! Find me my child!!”
Charity gave out a scream and pulled her arm away. Her arm held bloody scratch marks where the woman dug her nails. Mathias took the oar and swung it around warningly as the bodies moved away. His eyes moved to the water and desire swept his eyes. “My dear this is your salvation, drink from this substance. Have your chance to make your life fulfilled. Do not let this opportunity waste.”
She stared into his eyes and obeyed. Her hands fell into the cold water as held it in her hands. She then turned her head and looked at Mathias. “I cannot drink from this water. I am not ready to forget my parents and the love which they shed upon me. I wish to reflect on my past life before I descend into a new one.”
She then took the water in her hands and lifted them into the air. Her hands went in a sweeping motion as she threw the water at Mathias’ face. He staggered back astonished as the liquid seeped into his lips. He cried out, “What have you done?! I cannot just drink a few sips; I must drink it all to forget. You have plagued yourself with the fate of the dead. I hold pity for your future here.”
Charity just smiled and replied, “I will hold your place and bargain with the gods. You have held tragedy in your life. Such an event of losing one’s family does not give the gods a right to punish you to eternity of transporting lost souls. You must now live again, I will tell Persephone, Queen of the Dead of my tale. I am not worried, for I wish not to forget my life.” She then grabbed the oars from his hand and watched as he was compelled to drink more of the liquid. His body lost his solid form as his soul drifted from his body. It moved swiftly towards the opening of the cave and soon vanished into the night. She could have sworn she heard the soul whisper, “Thank you, may you live at peace again.”
Later on for her heroic decision and giving the gift of life to the oarsman, Charity was given the gift of new beginnings as well from the Queen. However, for her gracious compassion of love, she held all memories of her family as if it were something of a dream. All nightmares were soon forgotten from her mind as she was able to live once again.

Absolution

The door bolt echoed throughout the crossing, alerting Father Dorian to the presence of a visitor. The aged priest writhed in his seat, leaning toward the access to the confessional. His hand, flush and thickset, brushed the curtain aside just enough for its owner to peer out into the church. The offering candles flickered in the air stirred by the creaking door. A pause. Then the same door closing. Soon the candles resumed their lifeless vigil in the red candle glasses.
Footsteps followed one by one, the candles stirring again not quite dying, as though each step sent a gust of wind throughout the empty church. The priest could see her now. It was a woman, slender in a dark suit. Stiletto heels marked each of the resounding steps in perfect time, chipping at the granite tiles of the floor. She wore a hat with a veil which under the dim lighting obscured her face. The only exception was the ruby lips which he could see clear across the church. The footsteps came closer. Forceful steps. Deliberate steps. Father Dorian pulled the curtain shut and waited in the shadow.
The footsteps stopped outside the confessional. Silence. Then the sound of the curtain moving and the woman stepping into the booth. Father Dorian shifted in his seat again leaning forward. He could see her outline through the screen. She stood for a moment. Her face and neck just out of sight. But he could see her body. Angelic and nubile, her body was. Her skirt ended just below the knee like a Catholic school uniform. She was lithe and wide of hip with breasts supple but diminutive. Unblemished by earthly temptations—or so she seemed. The priest drew a breath and ran a hand through his thinning hair.
He judged this woman to be about 25, though in the darkness it was difficult to say. And the tight fitting suit on such a thin body made her look ten years younger. Trembling with excitement, the old priest wetted his lips. What delightful secrets would she reveal him tonight? Impure thoughts? Yes, please tell them to me, my child. Sins of the flesh? Oh, this was too wonderful to be true.
The woman made the sign of the cross and then knelt, her face hidden beneath the veil except for those shining ruby lips. So innocent. Disturbingly innocent, as though that heavy luster of red had been applied to the lips of a child. If anything, her lips seemed to belong to another soul entirely, one far less...experienced. All the better, Father Dorian thought scarcely able to avert his gaze from them.
The woman drew a breath, which startled the priest. He fumbled with his rosary beads and strained to see through the confessional screen between them. Then he cleared his throat and prompted, “Bless me, Father.”
Silence. There was the sound of sniffling. The glint of a tear ran across the edge of her lips.
“Bless me, Father,” he said again.
More silence. More sniffling. Then she answered.
“Bless me, Father. For I have sinned. I seek absolution. It has been a long time since my last confession. More than ten years...” Her voice trailed off into a whisper. And there was a fullness about it. Deep and alluring. Seductive even. But those lips...innocent as the snow and then painted over with blaring gloss. A mask of womanhood deliberately obscuring the innocence beneath. Even more so with the crying. Father Dorian clenched at the curtain to steady himself. The contrast was so jarring, he felt dizzy. It made him giddy in a way he had not felt for years.
“Have you attended mass in that time?” he said leaning almost into the screen.
“No...well, yes. When I was younger. But I stopped when I got older.” Her perfume wafted through the screen, replacing the lingering amalgam of incense and his own unbathed sweat.
“You’ve missed mass,” he said. He was fixated on those lips. As though there were nothing else to her. Such perfect lips. So perfect for...he smiled silently. So childlike. Father Dorian shifted his corpulent frame restlessly in his seat.
“Yes,” she answered with a clearing of her throat.
“My child, there is no need to be sorrowful. You have been given this chance to reconcile. God forgives. God welcomes you back into his arms.”
She did not answer at first. Just the sound of her breathing. “Father, there’s something else. I cannot have children. It’s my punishment. From God.” He could see another tear now. It ran just past those alluring lips of hers. Only then did he realize that he had not seen a glint of teeth, only the inviting darkness within her soft, wavering lips. What exquisite sins were they capable of?
Father Dorian struggled to maintain his composure. He breathed slowly before he spoke to hide his exhilaration. “My child, your affliction is not punishment for any sin of yours. It is most likely a medical condition that requires the attention of a doctor. It is simply your lot in life. The cross you bear. One of the trials God has chosen for you. But it is not His punishment.”
“I’ve been to a doctor. Many doctors. I already know the answer.” A delicate hand wiped the tear from her cheek with a handkerchief. And upon witnessing it, the old priest was compelled to mop the pig sweat from his brow with his own handkerchief.
“Why don’t we talk about your confession?”
“I murdered my baby. I... I had an abortion. I was very young at the time. There was some serious scarring. Even in the remote chance that I can conceive, it would be virtually impossible for me to carry full term. And it would be life threatening, even if I did. That’s why I can’t have children. That’s why God is punishing me. That’s why I need absolution.”
Father Dorian sighed heavily and stroked the flabby skin under his chin. “I see. This sin has come between you and God.”
“Yes,” she said. She was weeping. “I think about it every day. Can you help me, Father?”
“I’m afraid it is not as simple as that. The Church regards abortion as a mortal sin. It brings the automatic penalty of excommunication. You may continue to attend mass, but full reconciliation will take some time. We will have to refer your case to the diocese.” Still mesmerized by the lips, Father Dorian eased out of his seat onto the kneeler. If he could reach through that very screen and touch those lips, he would do it. Awaiting her reply, his hand moved underneath his brocaded robe and groped toward his belt buckle.
“But I came to get absolution tonight.”
Oh, yes. What is the price of absolution for a sinner such as this? Perhaps there was way for absolution, if she were willing. Perhaps even if she were unwilling...he could show her. He began to unfasten the belt buckle. “These things take time. I applaud you for coming here, because it demonstrates your willingness to reunite with God. There may be something I can do. We can start by discussing your case in greater detail, my child.” Yes, greater detail. Tell me everything you did. I must hear it!
Silence. Then the voice that replied was suddenly older, more confident and certain. “Stop calling me that.” It was biting, chiding almost. Not the sobbing voice of a forsaken teen. It possessed purpose. It was frightening. This was not right.
Father Dorian scrambled away from the screen, his back pressing into the antimacassar, his hands now gripping the armrests of his chair. “Very well,” he replied, his voice doddering. “What would you have me call you?”
“Mary.” Her answer came in one forceful word. Not my name is Mary. Not I want to be called Mary. Just Mary.
“Mary,” he repeated.
“Yes, like the Virgin Mary.” There was a mocking quality in her tone. “Oh, but I’m not a virgin. Not now. I mean I was.” The ruby lips smiled for an instant as though acknowledging a private joke. There was a familiar quality about them now. What did it mean? Father did not answer. “Doesn’t that name mean anything to you, Father?”
“Other than Saint Mary, the Blessed Mother?”
“That’s not what I’m talking about!” Her voice was loud and forceful. No trace of that childlike innocence any longer. Her head turned toward the access, and he could no longer see her lips. She stood up and rushed past the curtain, her footsteps echoing on the floor.
Father made the sign of the cross and rose from his seat. He grasped for the curtain, but it was torn aside before he could reach it. Startled, Father Dorian backed against the wall of the confessional, the crucifix above his right shoulder and the rosary dangling in his hand. She was standing in front of him. The woman. Mary. She threw off the hat, her face contorted with rage. Beaming eyes above lines where her tears had run. And the beautiful but yet innocent lips were twisted into a sneer of disgust.
“M-m-my word, Miss...Mary. What in heaven’s name are you doing? This is a place of worship.”
“Don’t you remember? Look at my face.” She was shouting now. What did he remember? It was the lips. Familiar. When had he seen them before? “You still don’t remember, do you?” Which one was she? Her name was Mary. How long had it been? More than ten years, she said before. But it was not possible...or was it? There was one named Mary. His eyes widened in horror.
It happened so long ago. Yes, the same lips but without the ruby gloss. A child’s lips. She was still a child at the time, too young to wear makeup. The same angelic body. He had taken her. Not once but many times.

“Please, get away.” His voice was pleading as he recoiled beneath the crucifix, as though she were the devil from which it would protect him.
The woman reached into her jacket and retrieved a silver revolver. “I said I came seeking absolution tonight. I never said it was my absolution. This is for you, Father.”
The old priest shook all over now. “Oh God, please no,” he said.
“I was only fourteen. You put your hand on my shoulder when I was praying. You were the only one in my life who treated me like an adult. You knew exactly what buttons to push. You told me there would be no sin.”
“Stop. Please stop,” he blubbered.
“You told me that the Virgin Mary was even younger than I was when the angel appeared to her. And that I was special, because I she was my namesake. I believed everything you said.”
“No, I’m so sorry. I don’t want to remember. Please.” Spittle ran down his chin, as he cowered in the back of the confessional.
“You drove me to the clinic, you bastard! You paid for it. You said it had to be secret. You said that no one could ever know. My mother never even knew I was pregnant.”
“I was ill,” he cried. “I was very sick. But I’m cured now. You’ve got to believe me.”
“How many others were there? Hundreds I’ll bet.”
“Stop, please. Stop.”
“Were they only girls, or did you fuck boys, too?”
“No more. I can’t bare it.”
“I already know, Father. I’ve talked to people. I’ve done some investigating. There were boys too, weren’t there? And only I got pregnant, because I was older than the others. You liked them much younger.”
“Please. I can’t bear it any more.” His shrieking and sobbing resonated throughout the church.
“You have to bear it, Father. You have to. I bore it, because of what you did to me. I came here for absolution. And I am not leaving without it. I told you I did not come for my absolution. I came for yours. I have one more confession to make, Father. I don’t know if it counts, because I have not actually done it yet. But I am about to. It’s murder, Father. Tell me is it a greater sin to kill a priest?” She cocked the hammer on the revolver.
“You can’t do this. You can’t kill me. Your immortal soul is at stake.”
“Then you can burn in hell right alongside me, you son of a bitch!”
“Father Morelia will hear. He’ll call the police. Help! Someone help!”
“I can assure you that Father Morelia is quite tied up at the moment.”
“It was a sickness. I could not control it.”
“It’s too late, Father. You got away with it for too long. How many other lives did you ruin? You don’t have any idea, do you? Put it this way. I’m going to kill you for all of the other lives you ruined. It’s ironic, isn’t it? Jesus gave his life to save our souls. And me...I’m giving my soul to save other lives. To save the lives of all the other children you’ll get your filthy paws on, if I don’t.”
“I was ill! Please.”
“You took my child, Father. I can’t have children because of you. You took my innocence too. It’s too late. Goodbye, Father.”
She pulled the trigger. Blam. The first shot rang out. Father Dorian gripped his chest, where the bullet tore through his flesh. It burned like fire. Like all the fire in hell. The front of his robe turned the color of crimson wine. He tried to take a step forward and then careened backwards into the confessional wall. Blam. Another bullet cut through his shoulder, splattering blood across the crucifix on the wall. Drops of blood on the wounds of Christ.
Father Dorian’s rosary snagged on the shelf as he toppled to the floor. He gripped it to keep his balance, but the cord broke scattering the beads in all directions. Father Dorian looked up at her from where he lay one final time with pleading eyes. She raised the gun to his head such that he could see down the barrel. It was too late to reconcile.
Father Dorian saw Mary’s lips curl into a smile one last time as her finger tightened on the trigger. Blam. The third shot rang out. Like the sound of a hammer. Striking against the nails on the True Cross. He lay slumped in the corner, the stain of blood swallowing up the white of his robe. He saw the smoke curl up from the tip of the barrel. Mingling with the haze of incense. He watched her in his last remaining moments of life. Without a word, she used a handkerchief to wipe off the traces of blood that splattered on her feet and face. After which, she retrieved the discarded hat and returned it to the top of her head. Then she made the sign of the cross and turned toward the door. Each step of her stiletto heels echoed throughout the crossing. Like the ticking of a clock. Until the candlelight faded, and he fell into darkness.

Robert Hynes bio

Robert Hynes is a beginning writer and career soldier, who penned the story “Absolution” during his tour in Iraq. His articles have appeared throughout military professional journals over the course of his career. His most recent work of fiction appeared in the Gryphon Publication’s Hard Boiled in January 2010.

The Bedtime Story

Tommy and I lived with our mother in a white trailer at the foot of a red mountain. The mountain was huge, reaching into the sky like a monolithic giant, and was positioned just so that the sunrise would never hit us, leaving our little trailer in its shadow until early afternoon. Our home was only a five minute walk to the base of the rock wall, and there were never any other houses or roads or people there.
Scattered all the way up to the foot of the mountain were boulders that had broken off from their source. Large parts of the mountain’s rock wall had turned deep brown in the sun. Mom said that it was because of moisture inside the stone. She said that it was a lot like getting a sunburn in summer, only the mountain could never get rid of the sunburn like we could. One time Tommy used a whole bottle of sunscreen to cover a small boulder we were sitting next to. Mom laughed and told him that rocks couldn’t use sunscreen, and Tommy got upset because he couldn’t help the rock from getting burned. We got sunburned the next day because Tommy had used the last of the sunscreen, and Mom had to make a special trip into town to get more.
We were only aware that there was more to our world when we looked at the long, winding dirt road that went from the foot of our doorstep to out and over the uneven desert landscape, following the gullies and ditches, dodging boulders and then disappearing out past the horizon. The only time we would see anything come or go down that road was when somebody came to visit us, or when mom would get into her beat-up, uncovered Jeep and head out to get us food and supplies. She never took us with her, because she said if we stayed home, we couldn’t go very far and so she never would have to worry about losing us. Mom said we were so lucky to live this way.
It was on a day that Mom was getting ready to go into town when Bradley came. Tommy and I were up near the foot of the mountain chasing lizards that had been basking in the sun all afternoon. Mom never had a problem letting the two of us run wild. My Aunt Shelly would always complain about me doing the same activities as Tommy. She would say that, “It wasn’t right to bring up a young lady like that.” But I never really saw myself as a young lady. I was content with just being Lain.
Tommy had just managed to grab hold of a big collared lizard when I saw the trail of dust that signaled the arrival of a visitor. I pointed it out to Tommy, and as he turned to look, the lizard bit down on his finger. Tommy yelped and wrapped his other hand around the lizard’s head, preventing further attacks.
I moved a bit forward down the slope and said over my shoulder, “Race you!” then took off at full speed towards our house. I could hear Tommy whine about my deceptive start, but one look over my shoulder confirmed that he was right behind me with the lizard still in his hand. He held it close to his chest and was careful not to startle it, even though he was hopping and dodging around bushes and rocks. Even though I was older, he was beginning to give me a run for my money, so I had started resorting to trickery to win races. Tomboy or not, I wasn’t about to let my little brother one-up me.
We raced back towards home, me out in front at full gait, with Tommy and lizard right behind. We arrived at the foot of our doorstep entirely out of breath (except for the lizard), and plopped down on the ground, panting and heaving. Mom swung open the door with an armful of boxes she was going to take with her into town. She looked down at us and rolled her eyes.
“What are you two up to now?” she asked, the same way she would every time Tommy and I came up with a new game to play. Before either of us could wheeze out our excitement, the rumbling sound of gravel and dirt under tires came from the distance, and Mom looked to see who was coming as she packed up the boxes in the jeep. She never got excited over visitors, and I’m sure she didn’t think much about it until the red Ford pulled up into the drive, dust covering the hood, hiding a shiny newness I had only seen in Christmas presents. Mom stood there in a strange state of shock. I couldn’t tell if she knew who it was, or was simply annoyed by the arrival of a complete stranger. Her face scrunched up, she peered into the truck’s windshield. Then the driver, who we couldn’t really get a good look at through the dusty windows, got out and draped his arms over the top of the truck cab.
Mom’s jaw dropped and she squealed, “Bradley!” She ran to greet him and he swept her up in a hug that lasted for a minute while Tommy and I just stood there.
Bradley was tall and skinny. He was muscled, and his body fit well into the jeans and short-sleeved flannel shirt he wore. His face and arms were a dark tan, deep and ruddy from seeing too much sun, and his complexion almost matched that of my mom’s except hers was slightly lighter. He wore small round glasses that tinted sharply in the sun and he had black hair pulled back into a ponytail; sharp shots of silver and gray ran from his temples. He looked young when he smiled, which he was doing a lot of as he gave Mom that big hug. His bright smile cracked his face, and his nose pointed sharply with his wide grin.
“Maggie Holt, how in the heck have you been!” he said, holding her in his long arms. “You know it took me two years of calling around a bunch of old phone numbers before I found out where you had gone! I couldn’t even believe it when your sister told me where you were at.”
Mom pulled away a bit from him and smiled. “Did it surprise you that much?” Bradley shook his head, still smiling.“I’m surprised Shelly even talked to you at all, what with the way things fell out.” She gave him another quick hug.
“She said she was willing to let it go. Besides, she told me she thought you could use the visit.” His eyes turned to us. “And she filled me in on these troublemakers too!”
Mom, remembering that we were there, fell out of his arms and waved Tommy and I over. “Tommy, Lain, this is Bradley. He’s an old friend of mine. Come here and say hello.”
Our lungs still sore, we came over to stand next to Mom. Bradley lowered himself to one knee and looked at us, still smiling. I saw through his glasses a bit, his eyes looked into mine and I couldn’t help but smile at his happy eyes and friendly face. Tommy fidgeted a bit, looking at the ground. He was always nervous and shy around strangers.
“So this is Lain? Looking all grown up, and just like her mother too! I remember when I could hold you in one arm. Of course you probably don’t remember me at all, do you?”
I shook my head. As far as I knew, Mom had always lived out here, even before she had Tommy and I. Yet here was this complete stranger who had known me when I was just a baby.
“And Tommy!” Bradley said, drawing the attention of my brother’s downcast eyes. “What’s that you got in your hands?”
Tommy held out his hands, revealing the collared lizard. Bradley took hold of the lizard and held it up close, examining its black collar and flat gray scales. “Well, that’s a nice catch.” The lizard squirmed in the new hands, and Bradley lowered it to the ground. “How about we let it go for now, OK?”
Tommy mumbled an “ok” and Bradley let the lizard onto the ground. It waited for only a moment, before finding its bearings and running off towards a sagebrush. Tommy and I watched it go, and Bradley stood up and said, “I’ll tell you two what, later on we’ll go catch some more lizards and make a cage to keep them in.”
The prospect of that idea brought Tommy and I around real fast. I liked Bradley already.

That night Mom stayed home and talked a lot to her friend. Tommy and I weren’t left out though. Bradley was really good at keeping the two of us included in the conversation. Occasionally he would wink at one of us, or say something and then turn to me or Tommy and ask us what we thought.
I could tell that Mom enjoyed his company. I had never seen her laugh and glow the way she did that night with Bradley. Her smile flashed with excitement and her eyes lit up at every joke. It was as if there were refreshing life blowing from Bradley and she was absorbing every ounce of it.
We had just finished eating dinner and listening to Bradley tell us about traveling to Africa to live with a tribal village, when I yawned a bit too loudly. Mom looked at me and shook her head. “Looks like you two better go get ready for bed.” She said, wiping off the table.
“But Mom, I want to stay up and talk to Bradley!” I protested.
“Yeah, besides...” Tommy yawned. “...I’m not tired!”
“Hey guys! How about I tell you a bedtime story? Will you get ready for bed then?” Bradley asked.
Tommy and I looked at each other, and dashed to our room to slip into our pajamas, our footsteps pounding through the trailer walls. Mom hated it when we ran inside, but she didn‘t seem to mind too much that night. I could hear Bradley and Mom out in the kitchen talking and laughing as I dressed, and I strained to listen to what was being said. Who was this amazing stranger and why hadn’t Mom ever spoken of him before? I couldn’t understand that if he was such a good friend why she would never have asked him to visit or tell us about him. We knew about some of Mom’s other friends, but Bradley had never been spoken of until that night.
When we were dressed and tucked into bed, Bradley and Mom sat next to the bed Tommy and I shared. We lay there with our heads poking out from the blankets, eyes glued to the storyteller as he dimmed the horse-shaped lamp beside our bed. He leaned back in his chair and cleared his throat for his audience. He looked at Mom and she nodded and then he told us our bedtime story.
“A long time ago, there lived a princess.”
I wrinkled my nose a bit, I hated stories with princes and princesses in them. Bradley saw my displeasure and clarified, “An Indian princess.” The change in the usual story introduction intrigued me. Bradley, seeing I was content with this, continued.
“She lived in the clouds with her people, who all loved her very much. Her father, a powerful and wise man, was chieftain of the cloud people. The princess’s name was Kiyatha, which in the language of the cloud people meant “strong willed.” Her father was very proud of her, and he knew she would make a good ruler for his people one day.”
“Kiyatha was kind and very loving of all the natural things around her. She would take care of birds that had lost their way when migrating, she would make sure the clouds would rain so that the trees and flowers would not dry up, and the rabbits and bighorn would have water to drink. Whenever one of the clouds would get gray and dark, she would tickle it with her fingers and make it laugh so hard, it would cry and rain for days. In this way she took care of all the life that lived below.”
“One day, when she was looking over the world below, she spied a handsome man. He was a cowboy who lived wild and free. When she watched him, she could see that he was kind and he too loved the animals and plants. He was gentle to his horse and would talk softly to the cattle he protected. Kiyatha fell in love with him right away, and every day she would look in on her cowboy to make sure he always had enough rain and shade from the clouds.”
“When the cowboy realized he was being watched by the cloud princess, he looked up into sky to say thank you for all that she had given him. But when he saw her, he fell immediately in love. Everyday he would sing to the sky for her, and he would thank her for her beauty and shade. Finally, he could no longer stand to be without her and he begged her to marry him. Kiyatha said yes.”
“When Kiyatha’s father found out about the cowboy, and the proposed marriage, he was very sad. If Kiyatha married the cowboy, she could not lead her people. So he made a very hard choice. He decided to tell his people that it was time to move. They would take the clouds with them and live far away, where the cowboy could not go, and then Kiyatha would forget about her love.”
“But Kiyatha found out about her father’s plan and the night before the cloud people were to move, she snuck down into the land below to meet her cowboy. They spent all night together talking and saying goodbye. The cowboy said that he would somehow find her and he promised they would be married. Kiyatha promised she would never forget the cowboy and she would love him always. They talked late into the night and fell asleep in each others arms.”
“The next morning, as Kiyatha awoke, she saw that she had slept too late. Her people were already leaving, taking the clouds with them far away. She tried to shout and reach out to them so that they would hear her and not leave her behind, but they were too far away. And as she stood there, reaching out, trying to catch the clouds, she began to change. Her body became stiff and hard and her face and arms froze in one place and before she knew it, she had turned into a giant mountain.”
“When the cowboy awoke, he saw the giant mountain but could not find Kiyatha. He became scared that she left him to go with her people, so he rode off, in search of the clouds, to find his love and he never stopped chasing the clouds. As time went by, the land grew dry and hot without water. Many animals left to find a better place to stay and soon the land became a desert. The only shade for miles around was the shadow of the giant mountain. And now, once in a great while, the cloud people will return to that spot, near the mountain, looking for Kiyatha, their lost princess. And when they do not find her, they cry all day and beat on their clouds. Then they go back to their home, and are sad because Kiyatha is lost to them.”
Bradley leaned forward in his chair, his story finished. Tommy and I were silent, our jaws half opened, amazed by the story. Never before had we been told such a sweeping bedtime story. The soft sadness of the story had brushed our energy, and we lay exhausted in bed, eyes slowly drooping closed.

Bradley stayed with us after that night. When my mother went to go into town the next morning, he offered to stay behind and watch over Tommy and I. We spent that day building a small cage to house any lizards we caught, like Bradley had promised. Even when we spent an unsuccessful afternoon hunting lizards, we weren’t at all bothered about returning home empty handed.
Bradley kept us fascinated with his stories and travels. He spoke of far away lands and peoples and cultures. He told us of the adventures he had been on, and the creatures he had seen. Occasionally he would tell us a story that had our mother in it, and I listened intently, absorbing the small tidbits of my mother’s past that he offered up.
He explained to us that the reason he hadn’t seen us in so long, was because of an argument that my he had had with our mother and Aunt Shelley. He didn’t go into details, but as near as I could figure out, it was mostly adult stuff, and not that interesting to begin with. Besides, everybody got into arguments with my Aunt Shelley.
When my mother returned home, the jeep was packed full of groceries and boxes of supplies. Normally, my mother tried to fill her jeep to maximum capacity to make the most out of every trip to town. She said that it made her less reliable on the evil’s of convenience. Bradley helped her unload the bags and boxes, and she smiled as he told her about our day.
That night, my mom cooked up tacos on the stove. Bradley helped cut up vegetables, and he joked with Tommy and I while he sliced tomatoes. Tommy laughed at the faces Bradley made, while my mother shook her head by the stove. I sat on the couch and giggled. There was a strange magic happening in our kitchen, and I realized that the normal routine had shifted with the addition of Bradley. Although he was a stranger to me, I felt as if he had always belonged with mom, Tommy and I. Suddenly there was new addition that it felt to me had been missing all along.
Bradley and my mom talked more about old times while we ate. Tommy crunched noisily on a taco shell next to me, and I had to kick him under the table several times to keep him quiet so that I could listen to everything the adults were saying. They mentioned names of people I had never heard of, but occasionally would speak of a story that I knew I had heard before. I wanted to ask my mom why she had never told me about Bradley before, why he was absent from the stories she told us that he knew so well? But instead I chewed slowly on my taco. For some reason, I didn’t want this dinner to end.
At the end of the night, just like the last, we went to bed while Bradley told us a story. Mom sat idly by watching us fall to sleep under the spell of Bradley’s words. He told us more of the cowboy, and his travels in search of the cloud people. He told us of the mountain, and the creatures that came to live in the mountains shadow. His stories only ended when Tommy and I drifted off to sleep.
Life went on like that for some time. Bradley lived with us, shared our day with us, took trips to town with Mom, and told us stories each night before bed. The stories went on night after night, until it seemed that he had always been there telling us stories, that he had always been there living with us in the white trailer by the red mountain. Sometimes I would lie awake after he and Mom left the room, and listen to the two of them whisper softly in the kitchen, until I would fall asleep and dream of Kiyatha and her cowboy being reunited at long last.
Then one night I woke up in the middle of the night to get a drink of water. I was walking through the kitchen in my pajamas when I heard voices outside in the driveway. I peaked out through the window and saw that Mom and Bradley were still up. They were standing by Bradley’s truck and I could just make out the conversation.
“Maggie, you know I’ll be coming back. I’m not going to let you go now that I found you. I don’t want to go through that all over again!”
“I don’t either. But there’s more to lose this time. I don’t want this to hurt any of us.” My mom stepped back a bit, her arms were folded across her chest. “I don’t think I want you to come back. It will hurt too much.”
“It can only hurt if you let it.” Bradley said. Mom was silent.
“Dammit Maggie,” It was the first time I had heard anyone swear. “Don’t you think I deserve a say in this? Can’t a friend visit you and bring some joy into this world you’ve wrapped yourself up in?”
“Yes, a friend would do that, Bradley!” Mom snapped back. “But what I need, what we need is more than a friend!” Mom pointed at the trailer as she spoke, and Bradley moved close, trying to hold her. She broke free and pushed him back. He held his arms open, so that she might fall into them, and so he could hold her as he had before. She gave him another, stronger push and he stepped back.
Bradley lowered his arms and looked at Mom. For a long time everything was silent. I could hear the refrigerator hum in the kitchen and the clock on the wall tick. I held my breath, my every muscle tense. I could not look away from the two of them, frozen in a stare that stopped my heart. Then he mouthed something soft that I couldn’t quite hear, opened up the door of his truck and got in.
The engine seemed terribly loud, startling me with its mechanical roar. The truck hummed for a bit and then the sound of gears changing signaled its departure as Bradley backed up in the driveway and slowly drove off into the dark desert night. The red tail lights glowed into the distance until they faded to obscurity along with the sound of the engine.
When I could no longer see or hear the truck, I looked through the window for my mom. I finally spotted her huddled up on the steps, arms wrapped around her knees and her body bobbing up and down, rocking back and forth, slowly, rhythmically. I could hear the painful sound of her sobs, long and low. Each one made my stomach feel cold. I endured the assault of my mother’s tears for only a few moments and when I could take no more, when I realized what her tears meant, I sunk down to the floor, my back sliding against the wall. Holding my legs close to my chest, and as quietly as I could, I cried for a very long time.

How to be a Battered Woman

You marry a man with a checkered past because he tells you he loves you, and you can’t believe anyone would ever want to spend that much time with you.
No, he doesn’t want to leave you, but he never lets you leave the house.
You talk to the t.v. You watch the t.v. You dream of t.v.
You look for History Channel or Discovery Channel or anything with even a little substance so that you don’t feel as much like your brain is rotting.
Your brain IS rotting.
You want books, but you are too selfish, so stop asking for things like books. All you do is ask for things.
You really feel like your brain is rotting.
You get pastries, pans, cell phones, and other things thrown at you.
Your baby that you just spent many hours settling is woken up by screaming and wall punching.
You say, “Sorry” because it was just his job stressing him out. Things will change. Tell yourself to be more patient.
You watch him get red in the face and cry and collapse. You feel bad for him, his checkered past, his Mom abandoning him as a child. You try to sweep it under the house, or in the bathroom, wherever you can sweep it.
You are having “girl talk” with someone; she will say that her husband never throws pans. It will be as if you had just learned of your two hands and that the sky was blue.
You talk to the t.v. You watch the t.v. You dream in t.v. You see a SafePlace commercial.
You wait for him to leave for work and that is when you make The Call.
You don’t want to make a big deal out of nothing, and it’s probably nothing, but you were wondering if maybe you were being mistreated somehow, you ask the person on the other end of the line.
You make an appointment to talk with someone about your situation, and you plan for the day you will have to lie about where you’re going and who you are going to meet.
You cry and say that you haven’t seen your sister in so long. You beg and plead. You say that you won’t use any more gas for a long time, but maybe just this once if you could use a little. You tell him you love him so that he will let you go.
You go to see the specialist and she tells you that she is not a therapist.
You say you don’t think there is anything wrong, and she sees right through you, but never tells you there is anything wrong.
You taste the lies as they stickily drip from your mouth when you say: “But it’s just his job stressing him out.”
You say with a straight face: “Well, he’s never ACTUALLY hit me with his fists.” And, “When he pushes me I don’t get bruises or anything...”
You drive home feeling like the world has bottomed out, because the world never had a bottom, you realize. It was just a stage with a rotten floor.
You get home and he checks the gas gauge to see if you went too far off the leash.
You make excuses and apologize for getting lost, and going too far off the leash.
You wait until he’s snoring and you plan all through evening t.v.
You call SafePlace and you wait weeks for an opening.
You watch Hugh Hefner’s girlfriends, dating shows, car shows, and shows about remakes of other shows. You try to watch anything of substance instead, but can’t find any.
You feel like your brain is rotting.
Your brain IS rotting.
The day comes for you to leave.
You cry and tell the intake counselor the “Bitch”, “Slut”, and “Whores” of your daily existence.
You cry more and you tell her about the pots and the pans, and “No, no bruises.”
Feel like an idiot when you say that because you are. You shouldn’t complain when there is no visible injury.
Hold your baby and watch him as he sleepily plays with the wooden abacus.
Manage to giggle back because it’s not his fault. It was never his fault.
Feel so happy to have your own room, your own sheet (singular), and your own plastic mattress where no one can terrorize you and your baby during the night.
Look outside the window of your room and see the 12 ft. barbed-wire fence.
Don’t complain when you have to share a sponge with 25 other people in your section of the shelter.
Don’t complain when they blast the stereo all night long and keep waking up your baby.
Don’t say anything to them when they call you “Stupid White Bitch!” as you walk past them determinedly to tell on them.
Try to hold your tongue when that ghetto bitch tells her baby to “Shut the Fuck Up!” several times when she said only: “Mommy, can I please have some water?”
Wait in line for cheese, milk, eggs, and Stove-Top Stuffing, or whatever people are willing to donate.
Always be the last in line.
Be prepared for everything to be taken by that time, because some people hoard stuff and then throw it away because it’s too much to eat.
Hate them for it.
Hate the fat bitches with skinny kids as you see them stuffing their faces with French fries, while letting their malnourished skinny kids with bruised knees go hungry and have to fend for themselves, while listlessly kicking an under-inflated basketball around.
Hate the skinny bitches with the fat kids who just stuff candy in their kids’ mouths instead of hugging them.
Hate everyone, but most especially the one who calls you “White Bitch” because her eldest daughter is one of the brightest children you’ve ever met.
Watch, but don’t move when that same child you could love like your own brings home her science project, and her Mom throws it across the room without a second thought.
Hate everyone who touches that dirty fucking sponge that keeps you and your son throwing up with food poisoning for weeks on end.
Feel mixed emotions when you look at how you’ve lost 50 lbs in one month, so that you are no longer fat. You are free, but don’t know if it was worth it.
Wait in line for food stamps for seven hours with a crying baby only to be told to come back the next day because they are now closed.
Tell your advocate about the crazy bitches and how they beat their children.
Feel helpless when you realize that nothing can be done for it aside from reporting it as you have already done.
Don’t disturb the crinkly plastic mattress you sleep on, so as not to wake the gentle sleep-breathing of your precious baby.
Hope he doesn’t roll onto the concrete floor again and cry, like you so want to cry.
Cry. Cry every night you sleep there.
Feel weak.
Feel threatened.
Feel tired.
Call him up, and he is sorry. He is so sorry. He misses you and the baby terribly and he was out of line. He is going to go to counseling.
Want to believe him, but figure that just having one crazy person is better than several.
Get used to more t.v. Just a little more t.v. Dream of t.v. Vomit t.v.
Get used to more “Bitch,” “Slut,” “Whore,” and variations therein.
Feel your brain rotting. Really this time it is.
Watch him become even more volatile and even more suspicious of everything you do.
Feel like such a fucking idiot because you are. They told you this would happen and this is how it works. The average woman leaves 6 times, which means you have at least 5 to go because you are a slow learner.
Watch him as he waves the knife at you.
Listen as he tells you he’s going to end his life as his face flushes beet red like it does when he is out of control.
Don’t feel sympathetic anymore as he collapses on the ground and pulls the phone cords out of the wall.
Listen to him tell you, you can’t leave the house unless it is in a body bag.
Watch your baby’s face, completely soundless and wide-eyed with fear, as you try to flee barefoot with him in your hands.
Look for a porch light or anything in the neighborhood where all houses are the same beige. No friends in any of them you will realize while barefoot and desperate.
Realize there is no time to think and you can’t run faster than a car.
Don’t watch your baby’s face as he drives on the lawn trying to run you over.
Believe him. Believe him. Believe him. Believe him.
Stop.
Tell all of your shit at the protective order hearing.
Copy and type all of your shit and tell it again when you apply for scholarships.
Copy and type all of this same shit and tell it again when you try to get a divorce.
Copy and type all of your shit and tell it again when you apply for apartments, schools or anything else requiring a signature.
Know what the girl in group therapy is talking about when she says: Why do we always have to air out our shit?
Take money management classes with other survivors and see their faces light up as they learn how to improve their credit and balance their own checking accounts.
Hear the stories of other women (former bitches). Hear about the rapes, the butts of guns, and forced prostitution.
See them differently.
Cheer them on when the ones who held their heads down start to walk straighter.
See them see you differently.
Want to hate men, really want to hate them.
Look at your son’s face, and know you never will.
Watch the sunrise in his smile.
Never, EVER look back.
Ignore the crazy bitches and their children this time around. Nothing will stand in the way of progress and healing.
Befriend the other survivors because they are.
Lean on them as they lean on you.
Write letters and songs even if it is a waste of time.
No longer care that it’s a waste of time.
Know that it isn’t a waste of time, but instead it is your voice. Let it ring even louder next time.
Do your homework by the bathroom light; by the pervasive streetlight; by any light because it’s your ticket out of here. It’s your ticket to any place you choose.
Carve out a new life for you and your son, out of ash, out of air, out of the love for him that kept you together those many months.
100. Find the threads. Find the lessons. And look back with a new set of eyes.

The Adventures of Burton and Bernice

The two buzzards were members of a flock of buzzards that were soaring through the sky searching for carrion. But, there was something special about these two. They had paired, but so did others. They flew together, but so did others. They could communicate, but not like others. They could actually speak. They could also read. However, they never learned to write.
Burton and Bernice Buzzard were deeply in love, and shared every moment of their lives together, whether it was soaring looking for carrion, or making a nest for the winter in Mexico. They had seen a lot from their vantage point high in the sky, and their memories served them well. So, when their eggs hatched they had lots of bedtime stories to tell their children.
One of their favorite stories happened one day when they were checking out an airport terminal because the newspaper they had found had headlines about a jet passenger plane that had crashed on landing. That information led them to believe that there would be plenty for them to feast on at the site of the crash. But, as they swooped down Burton saw a sign just outside the entrance to the terminal. He had flown by quickly and had seen three words “Carry-on Luggage”.
Look Bernice,” he said. “There’s a sign back there that says they have carrion.”
“Burton, I saw that sign and it didn’t say ‘Carrion’, it said ‘Carry-on’. The spelling is quite different. The carrion we are looking for doesn’t have a ‘Y’ in it.”
“How do you know all that stuff, Bernice?” Burton asked.
“You must have forgotten that I taught English before I met you. I’ll never forget that school after the President of the United States had made an edict about “No Child Left Behind”. I damn near starved to death that year so I didn’t sign a contract for another year and went back to the skies.”
“That’s when I met you,” Burton said. “Remember we were soaring over I-40 and you said that there was too much traffic so that landing for ‘Road Kill’ was too dangerous. Then Sophie, that youngster from Chihuahua, spotted that flattened gopher close to the westbound centerline.”
“I remember cringing as I saw her take that long dive,” Bernice said. “Sophie didn’t see that big tractor trailer rig that was barreling toward Los Angeles.”
“I saw it, too, and I saw that big rig’s windshield smack into Sophie and the glass went all over the road. The truck driver must have gotten blinded by the windshield glass because the truck went through the guard rail and into the canyon where it burst into flames.”
“I remember telling you to be careful of those flames or you might get your tail feathers singed,” Bernice said. “We waited until the flames had subsided and almost out before we landed on the rig’s hood and hopped into the cab to see how that Bar-B-Q would taste.”
“And, you made me go first,” Burton said, and made a face. “I’ll never forget how disappointed I was when I took that bite and the Bar-B-Q tasted like diesel fuel. We got out of there in a hurry and watched the rest of the flock go in for disappointment so we could laugh. After that we both realized that we were hungrier than before because we had anticipated a good meal.”
“We have had some funny experiences, haven’t we?” Bernice mused. “I’ll never forget that time we followed that Mercedes with the driver texting as he drove that car ninety miles an hour on I-25. We had been soaring I-25 because there wasn’t much traffic. I suppose that is why that guy was hauling down the road at such a clip. We couldn’t keep up with him he was going at such a high speed, but then we saw smoke up ahead. I remember you telling me that your daddy had told you to watch for smoke around the Interstates because that generally meant a wreck and a chance at a hot meal unless the ambulances beat us to the scene.”
“That was some crash,” Burton said. “I recall we flew as fast as we could toward Albuquerque. Then we saw that Mercedes just as the smoke cleared. The driver was out of the car and in the borrow ditch. You swooped in and took a sample bite. You jumped away and butted me a good one with your head and yelled at me. ‘Don’t even try this one,’ you screamed. ‘He’s a politician, and you could poison yourself in a minute.’”
“You didn’t see me spit that morsel out as soon as I had tasted it.”
They had been soaring with the thermals until they had reached an altitude far above the rest and enjoyed their privacy being able to recollect their experiences without being overheard. They were also happy to have escaped from all their children, grand children, great grand children, and great, great, grand children.
“I remember that drought in the Southwest a few years back. The cattle dropped dead with a pleasant regularity,” Bernice said. “We didn’t have to soar the Interstates for three years and it was wonderful having great tasting steaks instead of that dubious road kill.”
“But, remember out at that windmill where we had found that yearling steer and we were both having such a good meal that we didn’t see that bunch of coyotes coming?”
“Yeah, they came running in and we barely got to take off before they arrived. And, that was quite a sight to see that cowboy pulling up in his pickup truck and shooting three of those coyotes as they were ripping away that steer belly where we had started an eating hole.”
“Yes, those were the good old days all right. Things we will always remember and cherish all the days of our lives,” Burton said.
“It’s really nice up here away from all those children,” Bernice said. “I really get sick of all that electronic paraphernalia they have accumulated so that they never really learn how to read. Whenever I see them soaring and listening to their iPods I wonder if we raised them the right way.”
“For heaven’s sake, Bernice, don’t feel guilty about not raising the children properly, it is society that screws them up with all this high tech crap. I almost kicked Buddy Boy out of the nest when he came home with a Kindle Reader without its battery charger, and asked me to go to town and get him one when he couldn’t read his pornographic novels with the dead machine. I read pieces of one of his novels and I never knew that humans did the things they did just to make babies. I am damn sure glad I’m a buzzard and not a human.”
“What really bothers me more than the iPods, Kindles and cell phone texting that the kids have taken up with, are the body piercing and tattoos they are getting,” Bernice said. “All those earrings in all those places are bound to cut down their soaring speeds and those tattoos are obscene, especially the ones picturing carrion walking around on their heads. I am sure glad we don’t live forever and have to see what these kids are going to end up doing. They will miss all the good carrion while they are up soaring and listening to all that garbage music that is nothing more than noise.”
“I got upset the other day when Barb came back to the nest and demanded that I buy her a computer so she could get her degree on line instead of going to classes,” Burton said.
“They are all a chore to deal with,” Bernice said. “As hungry as I am, I would just as soon stay up high where we are so they can’t even see us. I wouldn’t be surprised if some of them flew up and wanted us to buy them a car.”
“While we are up here I want to discuss the matter of soaring Juarez,” Burton said. “I have heard that the cartel drug war is producing sometimes five or six bodies every day.”
“I heard that, too,” Bernice said. “I have also heard that when they bury them it is always in shallow graves. It might do to look into that situation. It’s not too far from here.”
“The drug trade has ruined the entire country of Mexico. I am not sure if I want to spend winters down there any more.”
“All the politicians keep jabbering about it and that “No Child Left Behind” President had a wall twenty feet high built along the border. It cost hundreds of millions of dollars. And, that lady governor of Arizona told everyone, ‘Show me a twenty foot wall and I’ll show you a twenty-one foot ladder.’ Lotta truth in that. Let’s fly on down there right now and leave the children here. They won’t miss us because they are all too busy with their electronic crap.”
Burton and Bernice Buzzard flew south to Juarez, just across the border from El Paso. They arrived a little before dark and found a place to roost on an old dead cottonwood on the bank of the Rio Grande.
Early the following morning Burton and Bernice took to the air and reached a safe soaring altitude, away from the cartel range of AK-47 rifles. They had heard that most of the bodies from the preceding night had been buried in the shallow graves in the Chihuahuan Desert early so that there would be no interference from the Juarez Police Department. At least that was the information they had received via the Buzzard Network’s antenna outside Clint, Texas.
So up they flew and began soaring as usual, but this time on the lookout for men with masks burying the victims of the drug cartel war that had been raging along the International Boundary between the United States and Mexico. There was one writer that had proposed that all drugs be made legal in the United States, thus eliminating the market for the cartels. The drug companies in the United States would be able to sell at a tremendous profit and thereby add to the billions they were using to bribe Congress and others to pass legislation favorable to their commerce. The writer also proposed taxing the drugs and using that money for rehab centers. He maintained that regardless of the legality or illegality of the drug trade there would be about the same number of addicts and, with drugs legally obtained and taxed, the treatment centers would be far more effective than under present under financed situations.
Burton and Bernice had discussed the drug situation in the United States and had both concluded that the total effect of the multi-million addictions of its citizens had caused a lower productivity by the entire workforce because the non-addicts had begun to rebel against the “on the clouds flying” addicts lack of productivity for the same salaries that the non-addicts got. So, the entire system had slowed to a snail’s pace compared to the early days of industrialization and unique creativity. Many of the creative segment maintained that they did their best creativity when bombed out of their minds with drugs than when they were sober. Both Burton and Bernice believed that the problem was world wide, and not confined just to the Western Hemisphere.
“Look down there,” Burton said. “In that small canyon beyond that soccer field there’s a black SUV stopped and there are four men digging in the ground next to the car.”
“Good eyes, Burton,” Bernice said. “Let’s circle around where we are and see what will happen.”
The couple soared far above the city, keeping their eyes on the SUV and the men digging in the ground next to it. It was not long before they watched the men take a long package from the back of the SUV and place it in the hole they had dug. They hastily covered the package with dirt and returned to the SUV. Burton and Bernice watched as the SUV pulled away and headed back into the city.
“Let’s go on down and have a look-see,” Burton said.
“I’m with you, Darling,” Bernice said, and peeled off into a dive for the ground, following her husband.
After both landed they hopped around on top of the shallow grave and scratched at the surface to find out where they could reach the package easiest. It was Burton that spoke first. “Over here, Bernice,” he said. “I think I found an arm.”
Bernice hopped over and started scratching next to the hole Burton had made. “I think you are right about an arm, but the package is tough as hell and I think I might have to bite a hole in it instead of getting through with my feet.”
Bernice went to work with her beak, pecking away at the plastic bag that contained the body of the cartel’s victim. Burton stood by as a lookout. All of a sudden he heard a vehicle approaching. He nudged Bernice. She took her head out of the hole and the sound came to her also.
“Let’s get out of here,” Burton said. “That vehicle coming here is probably the same one as before.”
The two buzzards flapped their winds hard and lifted off the ground next to the grave. The SUV arrived and the men got out, looking up in the sky at the buzzards. One of the men showed the others the hole Bernice had made. They grabbed their AK-47s from the SUV and began firing at the buzzards that were gaining altitude to get out of range.
“Hurry, Bernice, I am having to dodge the bullets from their guns,” Burton said.
“Me too, Dear. I guess that was not too great an idea to rob graves.”
“You are right,” Burton said. “Hey, while we are away from the kids, let’s go on vacation to Tombstone. Remember? I told you I have always wanted to visit that famous place.”
“I suppose that’s more fun than getting shot at by a bunch of drug runners,” Bernice said. “I am a tad hungry, so let’s follow I-10 and maybe we can find some road kill that’s fit to eat.”
“Before we start for Tombstone look down there again,” Burton said. “There are five cars with ‘Policia’ painted on their sides arriving at the grave. The men have put down their shovels and guns and are standing there waiting for the Policia. Look at them, Bernice. The Policia are hugging the drug runners and they are all laughing. I should think that the police would want to arrest the drug runners.”
“Look north,” Bernice said. All the children are flying in. How did they know we came here to Juarez?”
The northern sky seemed black with buzzards as the entire flock arrived. They told Burton and Bernice that they had tracked them on Google Earth and were worried about the black SUV and the men digging the grave.
“Have you eaten?” Burton asked.
“Oh yes,” they all spoke at once. “We found a dead horse in a corral up in the mountains. What are those men doing?”
“We were digging up a grave and they came back with their AK-47s so we flew away quickly. Then the Policia arrived and they seem like they are best friends. I think I saw one of the grave diggers hand one of the policemen a bag that looked like it came from a bank.”
“All right,” Burton hollered to the flock. “Since you have all eaten well, I think it is time for a bombing run against those crooked policemen and the drug runners. Follow me!”
The flock flew quickly into a bombing run formation and dove toward the SUV, unloading their bowels when they were close enough to insure good aim. Bernice flew last and once they reached safe heights again she began soaring and laughing. One buzzard flew close to her and asked, “What’s so funny, Mom?”
“I flew last so I could look at their faces as all our bombs landed on them. At first they couldn’t figure out what was happening and looked skyward. At that moment most of our bombs hit them square in their faces and splattered all over them. That was the best bombing run we ever made as a family.”
Just as she finished her story a Mexican Army helicopter swooped in and soldiers jumped out with their rifles holding all the bombed crooks at bay. They soon had them all in handcuffs and the officer in charge looked up in the sky to see the buzzards circling overhead watching. The officer motioned to the buzzards to come down and talk.
“All right, Burton,” Bernice said. “Should we go down there or is this some sort of trap?”
“I’ll fly on down and get close enough to hear what the officer has to say.”
With that, Burton peeled away and flew in a long circle above the officer. He saw the officer clap and smile at him so he landed twenty feet away from the man and cocked his head to hear what he had to say.
“You and your flock, with your excellent bombing run, have made it possible to capture the most notorious cartel in Juarez along with the crooked policia. You operated with valor that is most unusual for buzzards. I called in to my commander and he has authorized me to present each of your flock The Mexican Air Force Medal of Freedom. If you will wait for a moment I will get the medals from my helicopter. I always keep a good supply on hand.”
Burton stood where he was, keeping an eye on the others that were guarding their prisoners. When the officer returned with the box of medals, Burton informed him that he could not carry all that weight and accomplish lift-off. So, the officer suggested to Burton that he fly up to the flock and have them all come down for the presentation. Burton flapped his wings and made a graceful takeoff to impress the Captain and his troops. He spread the word among the flock members and they all dove down to receive their medals.
The extensive drug smuggling industry causes an increase in communication efficiency. The mayor of Juarez arrived in his long black limousine along with the mayor of El Paso. Both had their city councils in tow. After they had lined up the Captain made his presentation, praising the buzzard flock for their bravery and expert marksmanship. He made Burton an honorary Mexican General and Bernice Honorary Chairman of the board of the Tecate brewery and the Sauza Tequila Company. Along with the honorary position with Sauza she got a case of Sauza Hornitos that she offered to the soldiers and the flock. The case was consumed in a short time. The results were shattering.
The flock members fell over on their sides, the soldiers got so drunk they turned all the drug runners and crooked cops loose and the two mayors of Juarez and El Paso decided they were gay and went off together in the Juarez mayor’s limo. The following morning the captain awakened his soldiers and had them back in the helicopter for the flight back to Ciudad Chihuahua. He stepped over to the slowly awakening Burton and Bernice.
“I haven’t the slightest clue about what happened last night except that I think I gave away all the Mexican Air Force Medals of Freedom to a group of black people.”
“Don’t worry about it, Captain,” Bernice said. “We had a great time and we will be off for Tombstone as soon as I can get all of my children sobered up.”
The captain stepped aboard his helicopter, started the blades whirring, and took off for Ciudad Chihuahua. An hour later the Buzzard flock barely accomplishing lift off, took to the skies once again with their medals pinned to their chests.

As they flew West Bernice called to the flock to gather around for an announcement. “One of you told me that you hadn’t finished that dead horse in the corral, so I must admonish you to return and fulfill the “Buzzards Honor” to clean your plates and leave the bones clean. After all that is why we are here to begin with.”
“OK, Mama,” they all called back in a chorus that sounded like an orchestra of shreaks.
“Your father and I are heading for a vacation in Tombstone. We will pick up whatever road kill we find along I-10. You can all look around here, but don’t go back to Juarez. There are always cartels there and they have more weapons than the Mexican Army. We should be back in a week or so, maybe sooner.”
Burton and Bernice flew together following I-10 past Deming and Lordsburg; then turned south at Benson. They did not spot a single road kill all the way. Once past the ghost town of Fairbank along the San Pedro River, one of the few rivers that run north, they spotted Tombstone in the distance. A short time later they began circling the town and looking it over for a spot to roost that night. All of a sudden they heard several shots ring out. Looking in the direction of the sound they saw two men fall to the ground in the middle of a corral. They swooped down and landed on the bodies, Burton on one, Bernice on the other. At once they began poking both of the bodies with their beaks. The two men tried to scramble away from the buzzards and yelled, hollering at their friends to get the birds off of them. The audience that had been watching the reenactment of the “Shootout at the OK Corral” laughed at the scene thinking it was all part of the show.
Suddenly two deputy sheriffs pushed their way through the crowd and grabbed Burton and Bernice, lifting them off the two actors. One deputy asked the other how he was supposed to put handcuffs on Burton. The other deputy told him to just hold him until they got them back to the jail and could put them both In a cell.
After getting the two buzzards incarcerated, the deputies stood out side the cell. “What is that medal pinned to your chest?” one deputy asked.
“It is the Mexican Air Force Medal of Freedom,” Burton said.
“How did you come to get it?” the deputy asked.
“We were instrumental in capturing some drug runners and crooked cops in Juarez, Chihuahua.”
“How am I supposed to believe that story?” the deputy asked.
“Call the Capitan at the Mexican Air Force Base in Chihuahua. He is the one who gave us the medals.”
“What exactly did you do to earn the medals?” the deputy asked.
“The two of us and our flock made a successful bombing run on the crooks.”
“Come now, what in the world are you talking about?”
“We emptied our bowels on the crooks as they looked up at us when we flew over them. The bombing run blinded the crooks and the Air Force captured them all.”
“Who is this Captain I am supposed to call to verify your story?”
“I believe his name is Garcia because it was written on his uniform,” Burton said.
The deputy retired to his office and picked up the telephone. Ten minutes later he came back to the cell.
“I am happy to say that you were telling me the truth about that so-called bombing run,” the deputy said. “Now I must ask you why you and this other buzzard assaulted those two actors?”
“We don’t assault anyone. We are buzzards, and only go for carrion. When we saw those two get shot and fall we assumed that they had been killed. Fresh carrion is always more tasty than rotten carcasses.”
“This is the damndest case I have ever been in charge of,” the deputy said and wiped his brow. “I am going to release you, but I must tell you that Captain Garcia has requested your presence at the unveiling of the bronze statues of you and this buzzard you call Bernice. It is at the entrance to Juarez at the main bridge.”
The deputy opened the cell door and Burton and Bernice hopped out. He also opened the main door to the sheriff’s office and the two buzzards made their exit to Allen Street. The street was nearly empty so they made lift off and gained as much altitude as they could while circling over “the town too tough to die”.
Arriving over El Paso they flew close to the main bridge and saw two veiled statues that had been installed. “You know, Burton, I am a little dubious about all this stuff. It sure didn’t take those Mexicans long to make those statues.”
“You may be right with your suspicions, Bernice,” Burton said. “Perhaps we should go and round up the flock and move over to Arizona before we head south for the winter.”
They gained altitude over the border and flew north to the corral where their flock was cleaning off the bones of the dead horse.
“All right everyone, listen up,” Bernice said. “We have decided to get out of here and move to Arizona, so let’s get those bones picked as soon as possible. Your father and I are going back over to I-10 where we saw a road kill on our way back here.”

EPILOGUE:
When they arrived in Tucson Burton saw the headlines in the New York Times. MEXICAN AIR FORCE CAPTAIN, RAUL GARCIA ARRESTED IN MIDLAND, TEXAS AFTER BEING DISCOVERED SMUGGLING COCAINE WITH HIS MEXICAN AIR FORCE HELICOPTER. THE COCAINE WAS FOUND INSIDE TWO SCULPTURES OF BUZZARDS.

No Matter Moses or Mohamed

Dear Benny,
I liked walking the Manhattan streets with you. I put aside urine sidewalk stench and pedestrian barks at our pace; especially when we stopped in the middle of the path—whether side or street—to kiss. We were simply too lax for Manhattan; and I was really fine with that. Their way was lonely. He stomped on the next, knees to the groin, elbows across the back and then walked home seeing only a blur. I know she cried in her sleep because with a warm body beside her, she didn’t have enough silence to make sense of his poetry. Instead they languished there, perhaps she had a flash of epiphany, but it burned by before sense connected with reason, depositing a stone in the frame of her chest. And he believed he flourished in the city void while lauding it again and again, conquest upon empty conquest.
I imagined us living in a farmhouse with some great stretch of land. Acres of earth. I’d spend days dawdling about the dandelions, the imperial trees, and even swoop through the grass Whitman-style; and none of it wasted time. Green land that howled in the darkest of the night; the wind whisking the grass into a frenzy. The silence in our home, numbingly sweet with house clock clicks and wooden plank creaks. The moon our solemn light keeping us still with whispered breath as we sank into one another and pondered.
We imagined this life. And I believed you were so sincere when you painted it.
The way we fumbled into one another, your eyes astonishing green, and your demeanor a full-bodied gasp at catching sight of me when you weren’t prepared. I moved my bag and let you sit beside me. My body warm with awareness, you moved uneasily in your seat; sweeping your eyes in my direction at times. I smiled inwardly. I had seen you in class before. You ignored the girls that twirled their hair, shined some leg, gave you eye. And when one brazenly approached you, you said few words with a polite nod; and she scurried to the back puzzled as to how her oiled gams didn’t make a hit. You answered the professor’s encrypting questions so fervently, penetrating its innards and unfurling them neatly like a chinese jig-saw; jostling your classmates’ cutting egos. You waited for the seminars to begin, reading Zinn or Chomsky with eye-balling intensity. I liked you very much merely on these insights. But when you seemed to quake with a certain knowledge of me, I leveled your eye at the end of class and shook your hand with the offer of my name. You asked the whereabouts of my name. I said Arab, Egyptian. Amira means princess. And then jested on how generous a name it was with all my clumsy deeds. But truthfully, my name is mine and my heritage is auxiliary; no need for baggage, I said. Here, here, you said. Every class after that you waded through people and seats until you occupied the one next to mine and remained endearingly awkward.
What you didn’t know is that when I did realize you, when I did wake in mornings with your yesterday words reverberating—making meaning and love to them—I began to hesitate. While before I saw you, not yet undone by you; the next moment, the knowledge welled in me and I began to scrutinize myself. I’d see you day to day and want to shove my palms in my pockets. They were clammy, and you were perfect. I tested each word before saying it; searching each one. They had to be rounded, poignant. You noticed my clipped moves and understood what it meant for you. You thrusted your hand into my pocket and held it there. You grinned when I took my time to speak. But that one day, over crème brulee, surrounded by bistro kitsch, my face betrayed me with you a witness. After that, you asked me how I’d like it.
Like what, I said.
The next step: Meet the bigoted Zionist father or keep it light and choose a wedding ring?

My father taught me how to sidestep. He said—we are Egyptian, yes. There’s Nasser, pharaohs, Naguib Mahfouz and Amr Mousa. There’s Islam and Copts, there’s corruption and noise. It’s all warped, he said, history skewed and skewered with clever inserts of winners and losers, the unabashed heroes versus the deranged anti-ones. The indigestible Arab leaders versus the latest sect of offense. America’s the villain. She’s always the villain. Israel is who we hate. And the Brits are who we will blame forever. People embrace the lore like diseased vices. It’s nationalism; it’s archaic; it’s tribalism at best. They tote torched flags with enraged ragged hearts while bombs drop on them with justifications. And a handsome media-strewn face pretends to deliberate his indeed deliberate plans to his ‘first world’ nation. An honest contorted mess, he said.
Sidle past it, Amira, and be on your way.
My father thought to set me totally free from it. No matter black or white. No matter Moses or Mohamed. Beautifully blind; but also utterly exposed and now ruined. I was his experiment of intellectual ignorant bliss. I never looked at my hands and legs. I never noticed a color there. I never saw the breadth of my midnight hair as very indeed Arab. I spent each morning, in front of the mirror, tracing my pools of eyes with kohl, my lips with balm, and never once did I see it. That is, never once did I see myself as your father did; even as you did. My stride was once wide with conviction; and now I falter about wondering how you both did it—how you put me out of my space without so much as a chance to thwart it. My father died hoping I’d fare freely, navigating past puppet strings and elegiac oaths, maneuvering towards sheer wisdom and light. I forgive him for his vision; but now I am half finished.
When your father met us at the door, he shook my hand with malign and tact; a sneer pervading the lines in his face. I withdrew swiftly and searched for a rescue in you. You did nothing but carry me in with a gentle urging push at the small of my back. Your father looked me square in the eye and pointedly expressed: Impossible. I quickly looked away and searched for a response in you, but your strategic line of offense was being concocted as you no longer took notice of me. His foyer was cold with dim lights and barren stucco walls. I embraced myself for cover, a looming disquiet in my heart, a pounding alert in my head. He walked ahead of us into the salon with light terrifying steps. A new room unveiled; paraphernalia posed as décor on the walls. David’s star, framed and centered to the right, Golda Mier framed and quoted to the left: The Palestinians do not exist, it said. Poignant, direct, in bold, block letters, and laminated.
Fox news blaring, newscasters squabbling, and decidedly disruptive, you shut off the television and hailed you’ve come with great news. Your father sighed hoarsely. You asked for a cork screw and left for the kitchen. I watched your swagger as you entered the room, and wondered how you could be so calm. Fidgeting and hot with fear, he spoke my name.
He said it with such contempt.
As you buoyantly rummaged through a drawer—whistling so sweet—your father called me an aversion to his people, Muslim filth, and a stark impossibility. The cruel suddenness of his words threw me straight off my rails. All my enlightenment gone.
You returned with a cork screw, celebratory, untarnished. Sitting, my eyes darting about, my mind hearing your father’s words like a plagued mantra, I looked up again and saw his vein in his forehead, throbbing, making sinuous turns up to his widow’s peak. His unblinking piercing eyes, green like yours, but drained, lifeless. His conservative beard frayed with each bend of the neck. His hands, brittle and spotty with the sun’s unkind shine. His legs deviously crossed. He waited to hear it from you; and you Benny, with your brightness, your beaming hope, told your father that I’m it.
I heard you through the static, through the mess in my brain, and felt proud of you, deeply in love with you. Your father, silent, kneaded one hand with the other, rolling his thin skin back and forth until it was lopsided with a mass of flesh beneath his pinky. You waited with dignity, tightening your grip on my hand.
And then you filled the dead air with unfamiliar, startling words.
Amira and I will marry as Muslims, you said. I will convert to Islam.
Your grip on my hand grew slack. Your energy diverted, you honed in on your father. And when I looked at you, I saw how narrow and predatory your focus became. You were waiting with ferocity for your father to crumble. You pounced again.
What’s wrong Dad? Amira doesn’t fit your vision for me?
And there I was a non-Jew, a Muslim, not ever knowing it. I heard my Dad again. No matter Moses or Mohamed. His moral lesson bound to tragic memories. The day he read the untold story about the Palestinian village of Tantura. Four-flanked. Israeli soldiers. Women raped, men buried. Young boys digging graves for their fathers, throwing dirt in their mouths. A crazed silence burying their humanities. My father wailing for them, on the porch, assuming me far from view.
No matter Moses or Mohamed.
The day my father witnessed coverage on Gaza. Palestinians gathering up their sons, their daughters, their babies, and running without destination. Israeli tanks steam forward. Cluster bombs above. Ricocheted bullets into young born heads. No corner to hide, no open flank. And that poor father. The one that made my father weep in secret. That poor father, up against a wall, barricading his son. His hands up, STOP!
Death hung his head into his son’s embrace. A moment after, his son dead too. My father punched walls, and patched them the next day with a tender smile for me. An accident, he said.
No matter Moses or Mohamed.
My father left me on the doorstep of my dormitory a month before his unexpected death. His silent heart took him. His overwrought, decided heart gave way. His eyes were so brown and kind. His bear hands big; his scoping embrace safe. He left me that day with his last thoughts. A placemat from the diner we just ate in with some grease-stained plans for me. Diverting routes. Whether medicine or art. No matter one or the other. My choice, but remember: Be who you want to be, he said, that’s what I taught you habibti.

Your father told you that you’ll never get my stink off of you. I rose up and walked out. You followed me, pleading me to stay, to endure some more. Tolerate his toxicity for you, for us, because afterwards there will be marriage; in spite of him and his dogged ways. Irony is so cruel. You hail heart and unity; black with white; Jews and Muslims. You said I was your Amira, your girl. But now I understand what you saw when you looked at me. You didn’t see my face; you saw Arab composites: a team of black eyes and brows, wiry kinks and curls of hair, swollen lips. You saw an upper hand against your father. You saw someone, not me.

Sincerely,
Amira

A Trip with Strangers

I was feeling euphoric; appreciating my freedom and liberty like I never had before. My mind was lost somewhere in a psychedelic cosmos, and I was ready to live and ready to die in my cosmic consciousness. I had never felt happier to be alive.
Wearing just my jogging pants, I stood on the side of a road named Nut Place. I was very content with just standing around and watching the car lights with my altered vision, but I was looking for more adventure. And that is why my thumb was pointing towards the night sky as I watched the glaring car lights zoom by me.
As I enjoyed listening to the lights of the cars, I was also entertained by something else: the thought of how I could take a few steps to possibly reach the inevitable. Thinking about jumping into the traffic was scary but thrilling. The terrifying thought made me feel powerful and in control. It also made me think about forever. But, like always, I quickly banished the thought of forever from my mind.
After awhile of watching the light show while thinking about what it would be like to choose my own ending, I walked to a bus-stop shelter that was close by. I had to light my cig somewhere where the wind wouldn’t fuck with my lighter’s flame.
After my cig was lit, I went back to my hitchhiking position and put my thumb out again. While my thumb asked for a ride, I waved my cig around in the air. As I watched the red trails that my cig’s cherry was leaving behind, I wondered how long it would it take to get a ride. I also wondered if I would live to tell my hitchhiking story. But I was ready for anything; thanks to a chemical that I delivered to my brain via a sugar cube.
About a thousand cars passed me without offering me a ride. Some of the people honked at me, some of them threw things at me, most of them just drove by, but one car stopped. It was an old, rusty, puke-green station wagon.
As I approached the green jalopy, its front passenger-side window was quickly rolled down. A woman’s excited voice said, “Get in!”
I glanced at her. Her face was blurred by my altered vision, but the blur didn’t hide her beauty: she was definitely a vision.
I got in the backseat of the car. First, I glanced at the big monster that was sitting next to me. Then I looked in the rearview mirror; which held the reflection of the driver’s blurred face. The driver asked me, “Where you going?”
“Nowhere,” I said.
The woman laughed. “We’ll take you there!” She looked back at me. With an intense voice, she asked, “Are you a hitchhiking killer? Are you going to kill us?”
I laughed. “No, I wasn’t planning on killing you.”
The driver looked back at me. I watched the skin on his face melt as he calmly said, “Well, we are going to kill you.”
Before I could even think about getting out of the car, the driver hit the gas and merged back into traffic. I thought, Should I jump out of the moving car, or go with these strangers and possibly meet a torturous death?
I didn’t jump out of the car.
After the driver informed me of his plans to kill me, he started a casual conversation with me. “Dude, you’re skin is...really fucking white! We thought you were that notorious hitchhiking ghost that people have seen around here.”
I laughed. “Oh, you’re talking about that ghost that haunts that funny farm over there.” I pointed at it. “I’ve heard when people give him a ride he always leaves a burning cig on the car seat before he disappears.”
“Yeah, we’ve heard that story,” said the driver. “No smoking back there.”
The driver and the woman laughed. The monster remained silent.
I fired up a cig. “I’m not that ghost.” I laughed out the first drag of my cig. “I guess you where hoping I was, huh.”
The driver glanced back at me. “Yeah! That’s why we picked you up. But we’ll still take you nowhere. Even though you’re probably crazy. Hitchhiking without a fucking shirt on!”
The woman laughed. “And where the fuck are your shoes and socks?”
“I never wear shoes or socks. I’m a nudist!”
In unison, the driver and the woman started laughing. While they laughed, the monster stayed dead silent; which made me wonder about him. But all I could do was wonder about him, because his frightening, gloomy aura warned me not to speak to him.
The driver put his arm around the woman’s shoulder. “This is my wife, Chassity. My name is Jeremy. And the guy sitting next to you...that’s Sad.”
I laughed. “His name is Sad!” I laughed again. “Fuck, that’s a depressing name. Who the fuck would name their son, Sad!”
“Someone did,” said Jeremy. “What’s your name?”
“My name is Rufus!”
“That’s a cool name.” Chassity looked back at me. “But we’ll just call you...Whitey!”
I laughed. “Alright, that’s cool.”
After the introductions were over, not another word was spoken by anybody for what seemed like hours. The radio wasn’t on, the windows were rolled up, and the only sound inside the car was our breathing and movements.
After enjoying the trippy, awkward silence that surrounded me for a mysterious amount of time, we pulled into a driveway. Jeremy said, “Come on, Whitey! Let’s go in the house. We’ll have some fun before we kill you.”
Chassity and Jeremy laughed.
I laughed. “I’m ready!”
Dead silence returned as Jeremy and Chassity looked back at me. Chassity said, “Ready for what?”
I smiled at them. “To go inside!”
Chassity giggled. “Oh, fuck yea! Let’s party!”
“Fuck yea!” said Jeremy.
“Yea fuck!” I yelled.
Jeremy and Chassity laughed.
We all got out of the car. I followed the strangers towards their house. As I walked behind them, I realized that we were in the country, and that they didn’t have any neighbors.
After following them into their house, the first thing I saw was a huge, rusty meat cleaver hanging on a wall. Despite my expanded mind, I couldn’t imagine any reason why they would have a meat cleaver hanging on their wall as a decoration.
After staring at the meat cleaver as I walked by it, I followed them into their front room. “Have a seat, Whitey. I’ll get you a beer,” said Jeremy. “And don’t worry about getting killed. We were just fucking with you, dude.”
I laughed. “I know you were.”
I really didn’t know what the fuck was going on in their minds.
I took a seat on their black leather couch. Jeremy and Sad walked out of the room. Chassity went to the entertainment center and turned on some death-metal music. Then she came to the couch and sat by me. We both fired up a cig. “So, Whitey! You looked fucked up. You on drugs?”
“Yea!” I laughed. “It’s amazing what sugar cubes can do to the mind.”
She smiled. “Cool, we’re into sugar.”
I looked around their front room. It looked like a BDSM dungeon. I said, “Yeah, looks like you’re into...fuck! What do you do in this room?”
Chassity laughed. “You’ll find out.” She pinched my cheek. “I’ll be right back.”
She left the room. I was all alone in the first-floor dungeon. While my hosts were gone, I just puffed on my cig and looked around at all the whips, chains, and other BDSM apparel and equipment that was scattered throughout the room.
While Chassity was still out of sight, but still in mind, Jeremy and Sad came back into the room. They walked over to where I was sitting on the couch and they stood right in front of me. I knew they were trying to make me nervous by crowding me. But I just smiled at them; letting them know that their intimidation tactic wasn’t fazing me.
Jeremy grinned at me as he handed me a bottle of beer. I briefly thought about the possibility of the beer being tainted. Then I tapped his bottle with my bottle. I took a sip of my beer as Jeremy took a swig from his. Jeremy said, “Whitey, mi casa es su casa. And what’s mine is yours and what’s...never mind.”
After taking another small sip of my beer, I set it down on top of a stack of BDSM magazines that were on their coffee table. Then I gave Jeremy a funny look. “It’s an interesting atmosphere in here.”
Jeremy laughed. “Yeah...”
“Do you guys have people over often?”
“All the time.” He put a puzzled look on his face. “You scared? You want to leave?”
I put a puzzled look on my face. “No. Should I be? Should I want to leave?”
“No, you’re cool. We like you, Whitey.”
“Yeah...I like you guys, too.”
I smiled at Sad but he didn’t smile back. He just continued to look at me with a blank stare.
Jeremy looked at Sad, then at me. “Does Sad scare you, Whitey?”
“No, but his name does.”
Jeremy laughed. I glanced at Sad, then I looked at Jeremy. I said, “Fuck...you guys going to sit down or what?”
“No”, said Jeremy.
I gritted my teeth as I grinned at Jeremy. I asked him, “Do you like to give or receive pain?”
“Both.”
“Physical or psychological?”
“Both.”
I shook my head. “So many years of change.” I laughed. “And now we enjoy suffering.”
“Yeah, some of us do, Whitey. Masochism is nothing new. Neither is sadism!”
Jeremy slapped Sad’s face. Sad didn’t show any emotion, and he just continued to stare at me. I didn’t show any emotion, either. I expressed my shock with words. “What the fuck! That was brutal...fuck!”
Still standing right in front of me, Jeremy smiled at me. “Yeah, it was. You want one?”
“No!”
Jeremy laughed. “Sad and I have to go downstairs for a few minutes.”
I looked at Sad, then at Jeremy. “Alright...”
Jeremy asked, “You alright?”
I shrugged my shoulders. “Yeah, I’m alright.”
“Don’t worry, Whitey. Chassity will keep you company while we are gone.” He slapped my knee. “She can touch you, but you can’t touch her.”
Sad and Jeremy disappeared before I could assure Jeremy that I wouldn’t touch his beautiful wife.
It seemed like Chassity came back into the room the exact moment Sad and Jeremy were out of sight. I was shocked by her sudden reappearance into the room, but more by what she was wearing: a school-girl outfit. She looked irresistible and very sexy! I wanted to touch her.
She sat by me on the couch. She smiled at me. I smiled back at her. Before my smile was off my face, I got another surprise from her. She lifted up her short skirt and adjusted her panties so I could see her pretty, pierced flower. I smiled as I stared at her glistening, pink petals, and my lad smiled, too.
Chassity pointed and laughed at my blood-filled pecker. “Whitey! What the fuck! Are you some kind of sex-mutant?” She gently patted my lad’s head. “I have never seen one become erect so fast! Do you have a hormonal disorder or something?”
I laughed. “You’re witty! And funny! And you just touched my wang!” I started laughing uncontrollably as I tried to get my wang to go limp. “Fuck! It’s like an unmovable stone!”
As I continued to try to get my lad to behave, I realized how much fun I was having with Chassity. I was really starting to enjoy my time with the strangers, or at least with Chassity.
I gave up on trying to get my wang to go limp. I just let it point to the ceiling. I said, “Fuck! I wish I hadn’t worn my jogging pants tonight.”
Chassity let out a contagious laugh; which caused me to have another laughing fit.
After my laughing fit was over, as sudden as death can come, I became very anxious. I looked away from Chassity. I didn’t want to talk, and I hoped that she would stay mute so I wouldn’t have to speak to her. She didn’t, though. “Whitey! Your prick is still erect.”
I wanted to laugh but I couldn’t. I was about to panic.
Like many times before, after taking a minuscule amount of my favorite drug, I was experiencing horrible side effects.
Chassity put her hand on my shoulder. “Are you alright?”
I brushed her hand off my shoulder. “Just give me a minute, please.”
“Alright...”
I closed my eyes and put two fingers on each one of my temples. I could see the chemicals moving around in my brain; controlling my mind. But I could do nothing to stop them from doing what they wanted to do; from making me feel how they wanted me to feel.
I was uncertain about how much time I spent dealing with the anxiety, but as sudden as the anxiety came, it went.
I opened my eyes and looked at Chassity with a blank stare. She asked, “You alright?”
I smiled. “Yea, I’m better now.”
Chassity smiled as she ran her hand over my thigh. I said, “Hey! You trying to get my lad excited again.”
She laughed. I said, “Wow, you look really sexy in that outfit. Does that clit piercing hurt?”
“Yeah! But I love pain. It’s my ultimate, erotic pleasure.”
“Cool.” I fired up a cig. “I’m not into pain. My ultimate pleasure is...fuck! I don’t really know.”
Chassity stared into my eyes; penetrating my lenses with her powerful glare. I stared back in her eyes and watched her mind think. I watched her mind put the questions together. “You want to see me get whipped? You want to see me enjoy some pain?”
I grinned as I grinded my teeth. “Fuck! Whipped! I don’t know, Chassity.”
“It’s not that bad. They won’t whip me as hard as our ancestors whipped their black slaves. They’ll just whip me hard enough to open my skin, to draw blood, to make me experience ecstasy.”
I scratched my goatee. “I know it will be pleasure for you, but—”
I stopped talking because Chassity started slowly running her hand down the side of my face. Using a sultry voice, she said, “I’ll be naked.”
I smiled. “Alright, I’ll watch.”
Right after I told her I’d watch, Sad and Jeremy came back into the room. They were dressed in black catsuits, and they both had black masks on. They had whips in their hands, and they looked like they were ready to cause some pleasure.
Chassity got off the couch and walked to Jeremy. “Jeremy, Whitey wants to watch me get whipped!”
Jeremy looked at me. I nodded my head. Jeremy asked, “You think you’re ready to watch her bleed, Whitey?”
“Fuck yea I’m ready!”
I puffed on my cig as Jeremy took off Chassity’s outfit and underwear. When she was completely naked, Sad locked her wrists and ankles to the chains on the wall. I grimaced as I looked at the ugly scars that were scattered all over her beautiful body. I thought, What the fuck!
The show started. With the death-metal music blaring, I watched Jeremy and Sad whip Chassity repeatedly. Her blood started dripping from her wounds as her orgasmic-screams mixed with the death-metal music. I was mesmerized. I couldn’t take my eyes off what I was witnessing. It was incredible to watch someone enjoy something that most people try to avoid.
After Chassity enjoyed at least a hundred lashes, Sad and Jeremy turned up the intensity of the show. Jeremy turned off the lights, and Sad turned on a strobe light and aimed it at Chassity.
Before the whips started hitting her again, she smiled at me. Then she yelled at Sad and Jeremy. “Give me more you fuckers!”
The flashes of light sped through the darkness and repeatedly hit Chassity, and so did the whips. As they whipped her tits, stomach, and upper thighs, I puffed on a cig as I stared at her face.
Some time later, Jeremy shocked me out of my trance by tapping on my shoulder. “Ah! What the fuck!” I looked at him. “Oh, hey!”
“You enjoying the show?”
“Yeah! It’s fucking wild! It’s bloody! It’s crazy!” I laughed. “I love it!”
“You want to whip her?”
“Not really.”
“That’s cool. You don’t have to.”
Jeremy walked back to Chassity and freed her from bondage. As Chassity walked towards me, the flashes of the strobe light continued to hit her naked body. When she got to me, she stood right in front of me: giving me a close-up view of her beautiful, scarred and bloodied body. After I glanced at her flower, I looked at the blood that was dancing on her stomach. She said, “Whitey?”
“Yes?”
“Look at my face!”
I kept staring at the blood on her stomach.
She slapped me. “AHHH! What the fuck!”
She sat by me on the couch. “Touch me, Whitey.”
As I stared into her eyes, I fondled her bloody tits. Staring back into my eyes, she said, “Yeah, Whitey! Come into my fucking world!”
Chassity rubbed some of her blood onto my face. “Do you want to experience this ecstasy, Whitey?”
“Yeah!”
Chassity got off the couch. “Follow me.”
I followed her to the chains.
As Sad and Jeremy locked my wrists and ankles to the chains, I watched Chassity put on a red-latex nurse uniform.
After I was chained to the wall, Jeremy pointed the strobe light at me.
The flashes of light were freaking me out. I almost started screaming before I received any lashes.
Chassity gave me some advice. “Just accept the pain and you should be alright, Whitey.”
“Alright, but I only want to receive a few lashes. And I don’t want to be hit as hard as they hit you. I have a low tolerance for pain. I don’t want to bleed.”
Chassity laughed as her rage turned her into a lunatic. “YOU WILL BLEED!” She smacked me. “When I was ten-years old I had a low tolerance for pain! But by the time I was twelve, my father had beaten me so often, I developed a high tolerance for pain. I started to crave pain! I saw my own blood! YOU WILL SEE YOUR OWN BLOOD!”
Chassity pulled out a knife and cut off my pants; leaving me in just my white boxer shorts. “HEY!” I shouted. “What the fuck am I going to wear when you drop me off?”
“Drop you off?” Jeremy laughed. “You won’t need pants to go to your eternal reality of nonbeing.”
His words infused me with terror. The terror instantly spread through my mind. I knew the fun was over. I knew I was possibly at the begin of the end. And fight or flight wasn’t a option.
I sneered at Jeremy. “JEREMY! Don’t fuck with me! Don’t fuck with me! Don’t fuck with MEEEEE!”
Jeremy put his masked face close to my face. “WE AREN’T FUCKING WITH YOU!” He backed away from me. “Fucking hit him, Chass!”
The end of her whip hit my chest. “AHHHHH! THAT FUCKING HURT!”
The pain was excruciating.
I yelled at Chassity, “LET ME OUT OF THESE CHAINS!”
Chassity slapped me. “Shut the fuck up! ACCEPT THE FUCKING PAIN!”
She started hitting me repeatedly with her whip. She laughed after every lash cut open my skin. My screams of insanity and pain filled all the space in the room with my suffering.
When they finally stopped whipping me, I looked down at my body. The blood was dripping from the wounds on my chest and stomach and onto my boxers. What was ecstasy to Chassity, was pure agony to me.
I looked for sympathy where I knew I wouldn’t find it. “Don’t do this, Chassity.”
She spit on my face. “We were really just fucking with you about killing you. But now...”
Sad smiled at me. I said, “Ah, fuck!”
Chassity laughed. “Sad is going to kill you.” She lit a cig. “But not yet.”
Chassity took off Sad’s shirt; exposing his huge, muscular back. Then, using my chest as her blood palette and her fingers as paintbrushes, she started painting some fucked-up symbol on Sad’s back.
After Chassity was done with her painting, she slapped me with her bloody hand. “I love the way your bright, fresh blood looks on your pale skin, Whitey.” She looked at Jeremy. “Let’s keep him a couple days before we kill him.”
Jeremy shook his head. “We can’t! You know Sad can’t wait that long.”
I closed my eyes and started screaming. I was broken. I was more in touch with reality then I had ever been before, and I was ready for the strangers to give me my ending.
I stopped screaming and opened my eyes. I started cussing and spiting at them. Chassity yelled, “Stop him, Jeremy!”
Jeremy stopped me by punching me in the stomach. While I struggled to breath, Chassity put a gag in my mouth. Then, with their eyes showing their anger, they started whipping me again, and again, and again. My mind and body got weaker and weaker with every lash I received. And the torture continued for what seemed like an eternity; until I entered the darkness of unconsciousness.
After an unknown amount of my life had passed me by, I experienced the light of consciousness again. Euphoria returned with the realization that I was still alive. My vision was clear and my senses seemed to be back to normal. My body was hurting, but I was happy to be feeling pain again.
With my head resting on a hard surface, I stayed motionless as I stared at a twilight sky. I was outdoors, and as that realization set in, I just smiled at the beautiful sky that I thought I would never see again.
As I stared at the sky, I realized there was something on my face. It felt like I was wearing a mask. I asked myself, “What the fuck is on my face?”
I peeled some of the stuff off my face: it was dry blood. My whole face was covered with a layer of blood. And the blood mask reminded me of the blood I shed while with the strangers.
I got up from the ground. I looked down at the bleeding wounds that were on my chest and stomach. I asked the sky, “What the fuck is wrong with them people?”
I looked around at my surroundings. I was in the exact same spot where the strangers picked me up. I started laughing as I thought about the irony.
Wearing just my white, blood stained boxer shorts; I continued to laugh as I started walking back to the farm. Once again, I survived a trip with strangers.

She Always Truly Loved Him

He downed the third shot and walked across the silent living room full of dark heavy furniture picked out by her thirty years ago. They had gone to the store some weeks before the wedding. She had picked it all out.
This, she said, throwing herself onto the big living room couch in the furniture store.
It’s a little bit big, he said. And dark.
So what?
It was covered with great purple flowers. She loved purple, and she loved flowers. So they got it. And they got the bedroom set with the great heavy footboard and headboard and the great twisted posts at each corner.
Ugly, he thought. He bit his lip.
Do you like it, she said, throwing herself upon the bed the way she had the couch.
Oh yes. Of course.
Ugly.
They went through the store that way. This, she said; and this; and that.
Oh, I love it—can we get it?
Of course.
The house was filled that way; and then they married.
He went back in the kitchen and poured himself another shot of whiskey and downed it. Again his thoughts strayed to the thing down the cellar but he shoved it aside just as fast. At the wedding she had been beautiful; they said their I do’s and kissed and he got sloshed at the reception but she had sat there so regally and quietly talked to him.
You’re drinking too much.
I know. I know.
But he had to drink. It was the only way he could take being around all these strange people. Mingle, she said.
Come on mingle.
He headed for the cocktail bar.
Screwdriver, he said. Straight up—
Congratulations sir, said the bartender.
Congratulations? For what—oh, I get it. For getting married.
The bartender gave him a quizzical amused look as he passed him the drink.
Go easy, said the bartender.
Go easy.
You know what? he said to the bartender.
What?
I was so nervous last night, I wet the bed—
Really.
It’s a big deal to give up your whole life.
Is that what you’re doing?
I suppose in a way.
And he did.
And so did she.
They did it together.
He walked across the kitchen and looked through the lace curtains on the window over the sink. The lace softened the hard world outside that he felt closing in on him more and more each day. The sun was on its way down; the darkness was fast rising. His hands formed to fists and again he recalled the thing in the cellar but another shot of whisky put it from his mind; and they had gone to Jamaica on their honeymoon and she had taught him about sex; how she knew so much, and he so little, made practically no sense given what he thought was her background but the whole time down there was magical.
How had she known so much? Had she—
She must have been reading books. That’s it.
Those sex books. Those how to have sex books.
The drink came to his lips and went down.
Look, she said, where they sat on the balcony of the hotel room. The big black birds came around. She threw them crumbs. All her life, she fed the birds crumbs. The smaller weaker ones that depended on her could always count on her.
He could always count on her.
Because she truly loved him.
Later, they sat on the back hotel patio overlooking the ocean. The beach stretched before them. The ocean stretched blue to the horizon. People were being served lunch on the beach at tables with white table cloths. Waiters in white jackets and black trousers brought the food out on covered silver platters. They snickered at the sight of it; why would we want such service, he said; such service was for other people. They watched from above.
Everything good was for other people, his father had taught him.
Nothing good can be for me.
She cannot be for me.
But somehow, she is.
He sat low in the reclining patio chair with his hand scraping the concrete floor.
The hotel cat cruelly cornered a rat nearby and a child stood barefoot watching.
His hand came up from the concrete floor. He gripped his drink.
He downed it.
Go easy, she said.
I’m okay—
No you’re not. Go easy—
She looked him full in the face and smiled.
Go easy. For me.
The cellar beckoned as he remembered this and it made him go for the fifth of vodka on the shelf up high, and he drank and forgot about the cellar again. The rooms grew fuzzy around the edges as he wandered alone through the house. His raw hands burned. Though it had been three days since he mixed the concrete, foolishly without gloves, his hands still burned, cracked and raw. At the home improvement store he had brought ten bags of dry mix concrete to the checkout line on a dolly. He paid with a credit card. He had never used a credit card before he knew her. He had always paid cash like his father. He had never had a checking account before he knew her. He had always paid cash like his father.
Swipe the card here, said the checkout boy at the home improvement warehouse.
Swipe it here and sign it here.
The receipt spat from the register and the boy handed it to him.
Have a good day, he said.
They always said have a good day; and he said nothing back.
You are so rude, she told him. You should talk.
I have nothing to say.
I’m not satisfied with that. You should have things to say to me.
I’m sorry.
So he forced himself to talk. Babble, babble.
Now, back in the kitchen, he had more vodka to soothe his mind and hands.
They had gone to drive-in movies when there still were such things. They had gone to concerts in New York City, and to the ballet, and to broadway shows.
They sat in their lumpy mezzanine seats.
The performers cavorted, and sang, and played; performances; all performances
All false.
He went to the drive-in movies and the concerts and the ballet and the broadway shows.
All false.
Everything he did seemed all false.
But she did love him. She had no idea. She honestly loved him.
He writhed inside more violently as the years passed.
And then the child had come. The child was beautiful. Still is today, all grown up now.
He spoke on the phone to her this very morning. She asked where her mother was—her mother had gone to take care of her sister three states over, he told her. Her sister was—dying. Yes. Her sister was dying. She cared about people. She had taught him what caring meant. The accident had started it.
You don’t even care the child was hurt, she had said.
You don’t even care the child could have been killed.
You don’t even care.
You don’t even care—
How do you show that you care? What was he supposed to do? His head spun. But he held on through the years. She had been right after all. She was always right.
He learned to care.
He was made a better person in spite of himself.
Years passed with him a better person all alone in his skin and she being always right all around him; and with him writhing writhing inside.
But she did love him. She had no idea. She honestly loved him.
She was a good woman.
He was the one.
He was the problem.
The child; the problem child, as he’d been to his father; as his father had said.
He drank more vodka as visions of the thing in the cellar came and went in his mind. He had had it; he had had it with how he felt about her, and this thought made him chug back more vodka and he sat at the kitchen knowing the story about her sister would only go so far.
Give me her number, would say the daughter.
I don’t have it.
What do you mean you don’t have it?
What I said! I don’t have it—
No! No! No! But that would be tomorrow, and tonight was right now; and right now is what mattered; how he’d feel tomorrow was of no importance; how he felt now was all-important. How he could hold up from moment to moment since the thing he’d done was done; tomorrow was years away. But he leaned back in his chair and thought; oh they had had good times; the child had brought moments of joy after all; but the years of silent writhing had turned to rages and the rages gripped him as they had his father. He had yelled, and yelled; and when he yelled, there was always a reason.
God damn you! God damn you!
Why don’t you listen to me!
Why don’t you care!
Any reason at all was good enough.
God damn! echoed down through the years.
But still she loved him. Still! She, and the child.
And now, the grown child says I want to get in touch with my Mother!
Maybe she’ll call you, he said, raising a hand. Or maybe she’ll call me. I’ll get the number then—
Why did she go? There were no signs—
She’s gone to visit—her sister’s sick. That’s it—her sister’s very sick.
Her sister’s dying.
Dying? She never said anything about Aunt Nora dying—
I guess she just didn’t mention it—look. I don’t know what’s going on. She said she had to leave. So will you please now GET OFF MY BACK?
She stormed out.
Now he sat at the kitchen table, and he shed a tear. Being alone now; he never liked being alone in the house, but that would now be forever. He pulled out the pills that had been hers from his pocket and downed five, washing them down with more vodka; he sought oblivion, and gradually he got it. The cellar was fully blocked out now. The room tilted and spun slightly and he would now stop thinking of what the end had been like; his hands pushing, pushing, pushing her down—the pills and liquor had taken over now, and he was at last left alone to silently cry dry-eyed with no further thoughts of the thing in the cellar, under that floor forever now. The tears flowed inside only; deep down, she was a good woman, she was; she had loved him; she had truly loved him; regret filled him, he shuddered with tears, but; what was done was done. She had simply disappeared, would be the story; she had truly loved the wrong man, a sick man, and because of that mistake she simply disappeared in the end.
He rose, faced the kitchen window hung full of night; his thoughts gone with the daylight, he went up to bed. Tomorrow would be another day.

Jim Maddocks, GLASGOW, via the Internet I’ll be totally honest, of the material in Issue (either 83 or 86 of Children, Churches and Daddies) the only ones I really took to were Kuypers’. TRYING was so simple but most truths are, aren’t they?

what is veganism?

A vegan (VEE-gun) is someone who does not consume any animal products. While vegetarians avoid flesh foods, vegans don’t consume dairy or egg products, as well as animal products in clothing and other sources.

why veganism?

This cruelty-free lifestyle provides many benefits, to animals, the environment and to ourselves. The meat and dairy industry abuses billions of animals. Animal agriculture takes an enormous toll on the land. Consumtion of animal products has been linked to heart disease, colon and breast cancer, osteoporosis, diabetes and a host of other conditions.

so what is vegan action?

We can succeed in shifting agriculture away from factory farming, saving millions, or even billions of chickens, cows, pigs, sheep turkeys and other animals from cruelty.
We can free up land to restore to wilderness, pollute less water and air, reduce topsoil reosion, and prevent desertification.
We can improve the health and happiness of millions by preventing numerous occurrences od breast and prostate cancer, osteoporosis, and heart attacks, among other major health problems.

A vegan, cruelty-free lifestyle may be the most important step a person can take towards creatin a more just and compassionate society. Contact us for membership information, t-shirt sales or donations.

vegan action
po box 4353, berkeley, ca 94707-0353
510/704-4444

C Ra McGuirt, Editor, The Penny Dreadful Review (on Children, Churches and Daddies) cc&d is obviously a labor of love ... I just have to smile when I go through it. (Janet Kuypers) uses her space and her poets to best effect, and the illos attest to her skill as a graphic artist. I really like (“Writing Your Name”). It’s one of those kind of things where your eye isn’t exactly pulled along, but falls effortlessly down the poem. I liked “knowledge” for its mix of disgust and acceptance. Janet Kuypers does good little movies, by which I mean her stuff provokes moving imagery for me. Color, no dialogue; the voice of the poem is the narrator over the film.

Children, Churches and Daddies no longer distributes free contributor’s copies of issues. In order to receive issues of Children, Churches and Daddies, contact Janet Kuypers at the cc&d e-mail addres. Free electronic subscriptions are available via email. All you need to do is email ccandd@scars.tv... and ask to be added to the free cc+d electronic subscription mailing list. And you can still see issues every month at the Children, Churches and Daddies website, located at http://scars.tv

Mark Blickley, writer The precursor to the magazine title (Children, Churches and Daddies) is very moving. “Scars” is also an excellent prose poem. I never really thought about scars as being a form of nostalgia. But in the poem it also represents courage and warmth. I look forward to finishing her book.

MIT Vegetarian Support Group (VSG)

functions:
* To show the MIT Food Service that there is a large community of vegetarians at MIT (and other health-conscious people) whom they are alienating with current menus, and to give positive suggestions for change.
* To exchange recipes and names of Boston area veg restaurants
* To provide a resource to people seeking communal vegetarian cooking
* To provide an option for vegetarian freshmen

We also have a discussion group for all issues related to vegetarianism, which currently has about 150 members, many of whom are outside the Boston area. The group is focusing more toward outreach and evolving from what it has been in years past. We welcome new members, as well as the opportunity to inform people about the benefits of vegetarianism, to our health, the environment, animal welfare, and a variety of other issues.

Gary, Editor, The Road Out of Town (on the Children, Churches and Daddies Web Site) I just checked out the site. It looks great.

Dusty Dog Reviews: These poems document a very complicated internal response to the feminine side of social existence. And as the book proceeds the poems become increasingly psychologically complex and, ultimately, fascinating and genuinely rewarding.

John Sweet, writer (on chapbook designs) Visuals were awesome. They’ve got a nice enigmatic quality to them. Front cover reminds me of the Roman sculptures of angels from way back when. Loved the staggered tire lettering, too. Way cool. (on “Hope Chest in the Attic”) Some excellent writing in “Hope Chest in the Attic.” I thought “Children, Churches and Daddies” and “The Room of the Rape” were particularly powerful pieces.

Dusty Dog Reviews: She opens with a poem of her own devising, which has that wintry atmosphere demonstrated in the movie version of Boris Pasternak’s Doctor Zhivago. The atmosphere of wintry white and cold, gloriously murderous cold, stark raging cold, numbing and brutalizing cold, appears almost as a character who announces to his audience, “Wisdom occurs only after a laboriously magnificent disappointment.” Alas, that our Dusty Dog for mat cannot do justice to Ms. Kuypers’ very personal layering of her poem across the page.

Cheryl Townsend, Editor, Impetus (on Children, Churches and Daddies) The new cc&d looks absolutely amazing. It’s a wonderful lay-out, looks really professional - all you need is the glossy pages. Truly impressive AND the calendar, too. Can’t wait to actually start reading all the stuff inside.. Wanted to just say, it looks good so far!!!

Fithian Press, Santa Barbara, CA
Indeed, there’s a healthy balance here between wit and dark vision, romance and reality, just as there’s a good balance between words and graphics. The work shows brave self-exploration, and serves as a reminder of mortality and the fragile beauty of friendship.

Mark Blickley, writer
The precursor to the magazine title (Children, Churches and Daddies) is very moving. “Scars” is also an excellent prose poem. I never really thought about scars as being a form of nostalgia. But in the poem it also represents courage and warmth. I look forward to finishing her book.

You Have to be Published to be Appreciated.

Do you want to be heard? Contact Children, Churches and Daddies about book or chapbook publishing. These reviews can be yours. Scars Publications, attention J. Kuypers. We’re only an e-mail away. Write to us.

Brian B. Braddock, Writer (on 1996 Children, Churches and Daddies) I passed on a copy to my brother who is the director of the St. Camillus AIDS programs. We found (Children, Churches and Daddies’) obvious dedication along this line admirable.

The Center for Renewable Energy and Sustainable Technology
The Solar Energy Research & Education Foundation (SEREF), a non-profit organization based in Washington, D.C., established on Earth Day 1993 the Center for Renewable Energy and Sustainable Technology (CREST) as its central project. CREST’s three principal projects are to provide:
* on-site training and education workshops on the sustainable development interconnections of energy, economics and environment;
* on-line distance learning/training resources on CREST’s SOLSTICE computer, available from 144 countries through email and the Internet;
* on-disc training and educational resources through the use of interactive multimedia applications on CD-ROM computer discs - showcasing current achievements and future opportunities in sustainable energy development.
The CREST staff also does “on the road” presentations, demonstrations, and workshops showcasing its activities and available resources.
For More Information Please Contact: Deborah Anderson
dja@crest.org or (202) 289-0061

Brian B. Braddock, WrBrian B. Braddock, Writer (on 1996 Children, Churches and Daddies) Brian B. Braddock, WrI passed on a copy to my brother who is the director of the St. Camillus AIDS programs. We found (Children, Churches and Daddies’) obvious dedication along this line admirable.

Dorrance Publishing Co., Pittsburgh, PA
“Hope Chest in the Attic” captures the complexity of human nature and reveals startling yet profound discernments about the travesties that surge through the course of life. This collection of poetry, prose and artwork reflects sensitivity toward feminist issues concerning abuse, sexism and equality. It also probes the emotional torrent that people may experience as a reaction to the delicate topics of death, love and family.
“Chain Smoking” depicts the emotional distress that afflicted a friend while he struggled to clarify his sexual ambiguity. Not only does this thought-provoking profile address the plight that homosexuals face in a homophobic society, it also characterizes the essence of friendship. “The room of the rape” is a passionate representation of the suffering rape victims experience. Vivid descriptions, rich symbolism, and candid expressions paint a shocking portrait of victory over the gripping fear that consumes the soul after a painful exploitation.

want a review like this? contact scars about getting your own book published.

Paul Weinman, Writer (on 1996 Children, Churches and Daddies) Wonderful new direction (Children, Churches and Daddies has) taken - great articles, etc. (especially those on AIDS). Great stories - all sorts of hot info!

The magazine Children Churches and Daddies is Copyright © 1993 through 2010 Scars Publications and Design. The rights of the individual pieces remain with the authors. No material may be reprinted without express permission from the author.

Okay, nilla wafer. Listen up and listen good. How to save your life. Submit, or I’ll have to kill you.
Okay, it’s this simple: send me published or unpublished poetry, prose or art work (do not send originals), along with a bio, to us - then sit around and wait... Pretty soon you’ll hear from the happy people at cc&d that says (a) Your work sucks, or (b) This is fancy crap, and we’re gonna print it. It’s that simple!

Okay, butt-munch. Tough guy. This is how to win the editors over.
Hope Chest in the Attic is a 200 page, perfect-bound book of 13 years of poetry, prose and art by Janet Kuypers. It’s a really classy thing, if you know what I mean. We also have a few extra sopies of the 1999 book “Rinse and Repeat”, the 2001 book “Survive and Thrive”, the 2001 books “Torture and Triumph” and “(no so) Warm and Fuzzy”,which all have issues of cc&d crammed into one book. And you can have either one of these things at just five bucks a pop if you just contact us and tell us you saw this ad space. It’s an offer you can’t refuse...

Carlton Press, New York, NY: HOPE CHEST IN THE ATTIC is a collection of well-fashioned, often elegant poems and short prose that deals in many instances, with the most mysterious and awesome of human experiences: love... Janet Kuypers draws from a vast range of experiences and transforms thoughts into lyrical and succinct verse... Recommended as poetic fare that will titillate the palate in its imagery and imaginative creations.

Mark Blickley, writer: The precursor to the magazine title (Children, Churches and Daddies) is very moving. “Scars” is also an excellent prose poem. I never really thought about scars as being a form of nostalgia. But in the poem it also represents courage and warmth. I look forward to finishing the book.

You Have to be Published to be Appreciated.
Do you want to be heard? Contact Children, Churches and Daddies about book and chapbook publishing. These reviews can be yours. Scars Publications, attention J. Kuypers - you can write for yourself or you can write for an audience. It’s your call...

Dorrance Publishing Co., Pittsburgh, PA: “Hope Chest in the Attic” captures the complexity of human nature and reveals startling yet profound discernments about the travesties that surge through the course of life. This collection of poetry, prose and artwork reflects sensitivity toward feminist issues concerning abuse, sexism and equality. It also probes the emotional torrent that people may experience as a reaction to the delicate topics of death, love and family. “Chain Smoking” depicts the emotional distress that afflicted a friend while he struggled to clarify his sexual ambiguity. Not only does this thought-provoking profile address the plight that homosexuals face in a homophobic society, it also characterizes the essence of friendship. “The room of the rape” is a passionate representation of the suffering rape victims experience. Vivid descriptions, rich symbolism, and candid expressions paint a shocking portrait of victory over the gripping fear that consumes the soul after a painful exploitation.

Dusty Dog Reviews, CA (on knife): These poems document a very complicated internal response to the feminine side of social existence. And as the book proceeds the poems become increasingly psychologically complex and, ultimately, fascinating and genuinely rewarding. Children, Churches and Daddies. It speaks for itself.

Dusty Dog Reviews (on Without You): She open with a poem of her own devising, which has that wintry atmosphere demonstrated in the movie version of Boris Pasternak’s Doctor Zhivago. The atmosphere of wintry white and cold, gloriously murderous cold, stark raging cold, numbing and brutalizing cold, appears almost as a character who announces to his audience, “Wisdom occurs only after a laboriously magnificent disappointment.” Alas, that our Dusty Dog for mat cannot do justice to Ms. Kuypers’ very personal layering of her poem across the page.
Children, Churches and Daddies. It speaks for itself.

Debra Purdy Kong, writer, British Columbia, Canada (on Children, Churches and Daddies): I like the magazine a lot. I like the spacious lay-out and the different coloured pages and the variety of writer’s styles. Too many literary magazines read as if everyone graduated from the same course. We need to collect more voices like these and send them everywhere.

Fithian Press, Santa Barbara, CA: Indeed, there’s a healthy balance here between wit and dark vision, romance and reality, just as there’s a good balance between words and graphics. The work shows brave self-exploration, and serves as a reminder of mortality and the fragile beauty of friendship.

Children, Churches and Daddies the unreligious, non-family oriented literary and art magazine Scars Publications and Design ccandd96@scars.tv http://scars.tv Publishers/Designers Of Children, Churches and Daddies magazine cc+d Ezines The Burning mini poem books God Eyes mini poem books The Poetry Wall Calendar The Poetry Box The Poetry Sampler Mom’s Favorite Vase Newsletters Reverberate Music Magazine Down In The Dirt magazine Freedom and Strength Press forum plus assorted chapbooks and books music, poery compact discs live performances of songs and readings Sponsors Of past editions: Poetry Chapbook Contest, Poetry Book Contest Prose Chapbook Contest, Prose Book Contest Poetry Calendar Contest current editions: Editor’s Choice Award (writing and web sites) Collection Volumes Children, Churches and Daddies (founded 1993) has been written and researched by political groups and writers from the United States, Canada, England, India, Italy, Malta, Norway and Turkey. Regular features provide coverage of environmental, political and social issues (via news and philosophy) as well as fiction and poetry, and act as an information and education source. Children, Churches and Daddies is the leading magazine for this combination of information, education and entertainment. Children, Churches and Daddies (ISSN 1068-5154) is published quarterly by Scars Publications and Design, 829 Brian Court, Gurnee, IL 60031-3155 USA; attn: Janet Kuypers. Contact us via snail-mail or e-mail (ccandd96@scars.tv) for subscription rates or prices for annual collection books. To contributors: No racist, sexist or blatantly homophobic material. No originals; if mailed, include SASE & bio. Work sent on disks or through e-mail preferred. Previously published work accepted. Authors always retain rights to their own work. All magazine rights reserved. Reproduction of Children, Churches and Daddies without publisher permission is forbidden. Children, Churches and Daddies copyright Copyright © 1993 through 2010 Scars Publications and Design, Children, Churches and Daddies, Janet Kuypers. All rights remain with the authors of the individual pieces. No material may be reprinted without express permission.