Democracy

Politicians raid
my phone line
with scripted rhetoric
to tell me how to vote
for a senatorial seat
shaped only for candidates
branded with donkey
or elephant emblems
in a democracy albatrossed
by two viable political parties
representing three hundred million people

Acting Reactive Activist

If we are always in control
Can’t hit a loved one, can’t spank our kids
Shouldn’t lawsuits
Just mean that attorneys
Wear Hugo Boss

Oh wait
They already do

Because it’s only a half-glass to begin with

You said “lesbian”
Folks said
Hit the road
You don’t miss them
Except
On rare occasions, when
You want to share your life
With those who always knew it
But, since they don’t, now
You can’t
And it then calls into question
What you Know is Not Wrong
“Wrong” would have been staying
Draining you out of
The silent scab of a
Lie
Which you could have always
Freely
Shared
And, they would have smiled.

The Drawback of Pain

I keep wishing she’d beat me up
As foreplay
I’d like to see if it’s any fun
Then again, I wanted to be a boxer
Until I got hit with
One punch

Fog of Midnight

I thought wet, gloomy days, a dysfunctional home -
These were all this cold town had to offer
Until our paths crossed, and I questioned :
Why am I falling for the darkness in your paleness?
To see is to unbelieve. I had to pinch myself
Before the wicked powers you exude
If you feel like an outcast, let me say it is because
You are strangely elite, at least for me

Who are these demons shaking my spirit of courage?
They will not prevent me from my choice
I am in a deeper pursuit of my attraction to you
Take me in your embrace. Run away from the norm
Warm me, flying high above the fog of midnight
As the moon is the witness to our love sacrifice
In this very moment of mystery

And should some thief come to steal me,
I am certain that you will get me back on time
You will give up your last breath for me, or
Even live for me forever. I am bound to do the same
Nothing is purely a curse when love works
In profound ways, beyond logic
Temptation, here we are. Take this flesh.
Devour me, and make me a part of you

Framed

We are not playing Clue here,
Figuring out if Colonel Mustard,
Or Professor Plum is the guilty one

They found the acid in your Vuitton
That you claim was a gift to you
By some client from the valley

Mrs. Babineaux’s cold rotting cadaver,
Discovered last Thursday, around noon,
Estimated death : Three and a half days,

Laid on one of those vacant warehouses
Their family owned. Autopsy revealed
The same acid under your possession

It was not a case of suicide, no cover-up
The method of murder was poison
And the motive? Crime of passion?

unordinary butterfly

some are without wings
just ordinary caterpillars
    squashed on the sidewalk

I want to draw a face.

I want to draw a face.
I want to start with the far eye
And add lines above and below
As many lines as fingers.
I want to outline the nose
And angle the pencil parallel to the paper
seeing the nose always caves.
I want to isolate the lips
And make them curl
As parallel lines are a cheat
I want to have the far eye stare down and in
While the near eye stares up and out.
I want to circle circle circle the ears
being ears swirl.
I want to enclose everything in one unbroken line
Since lines demarcate.
And I want to make the neck easy
And as strong as celery.

The Day After

I wait for the day when we are inferior
The day it is known that we are not alone
When our ego is shattered by outside visitors
And our Gods have no words to explain these people
I wait for the day when we are no longer the darlings of creation
When interstellar beings arrive in a way that cannot be concealed
I wait for the day when life outside Earth is proven
And non-human intelligence nullifies our belief in our own superiority
I wait for the day when this planet—this womb is no longer big enough
And a new reality—a universal consciousness dawns on us all

One Nation Stands

Trouble with politicians
when their women demand new shoes
they are apt to ask what color
choose a nation, a people
name them enemy, steal their skin
walk first on, then in them
To hell with penny loafers

Destined to Pose

She wanted to be a poster child
March of Dimes or something less
a courageous miracle survivor
She knew she had it in her
the disease, power to overcome
like Anne Frank, Child Diarist
Ah life... ended up on a milk carton

Tom {WordWulf} Sterner Bio

    Tom {WordWulf} Sterner, lives in Redding, California and Arvada, Colorado. He has been published in magazines and on the internet, including Howling Dog Press/Omega, Skyline Literary Review, The Storyteller, and Flashquake. He is winner of the Marija Cerjak Award for Avant-Garde/Experimental Writing and was nominated for the Pushcart Prize in 2006 and 2008. He edited the English translation of Hameed Al-Qaed’s ‘Noise of Whisper’, edited and wrote the forward for the Arabic to English translation of the poets of Bahrain, ‘Pearl, Dreams of Shell’ published in 2007. Published work includes two novels, Madman Chronicles: The Warrior and Momma’s Rain.

no thank you

we have too many
enemies in this world
to let our demons
drive us mad

egg for a week

how are we teaching our kids
when taking care of an egg
for a week in a high-school health class
is taught to pregnant 15 year olds

bitter suburbs

JY sez the 847 Suburban Wheat
is like the Suburbs:
too bitter
for whatever sweetness it has

& i thought,
did you expect anything else?

Just Let It Glide Over Me

that’s why I don’t write poetry
i don’t want to let things sink in
i’m shallow that way

i don’t need to face things that way
just let it glide over me

Marine Rifle Poem

this is my poem
there are many like it
but this one is mine
without me, this poem is useless
without this poem, I am useless
thank you

out of the space program

NASA’s spacesuits
have evolved over the years
I mean, back in the ‘60s
    even going to the moon
their suits were actually
paper thin
and by the ‘80s
there was more elasticity in joints
but spacesuits were heavier, thicker
    you know, toughen the edges
    to protect he people
now they make them
with thinner, but stronger skins
with built-in, potential injection points
you know, in case an astronaut
needs adrenalin for energy
or morphine for pain

now, since we’re an outsourcing nation
NASA looked to other companies
to help create these space suits
who can utilitize their technology

who says we don’t get anything
out of the space program

well, the military offered to help out NASA
and now this ingenious
space suit technology
is being used in battle

I know NASA is a government agency
but it’s just fascinating
to see how outer space exploration
is now linked to the military

what the Hell,
I guess I should know better
I mean, the military wanted
to explode nuclear bombs
on the dark side of the moon

I’m sure it’s good to give
emergency injections for pain
to our soldiers in battle

so who says we don’t get anything
out of the space program

When I shave my chin, I

When I shave my chin, I
cut off my nose/ I
steady my gay blade covered with

blood & that sweet booger, Jesoo/ what’s
to do, sweet Jesoo?/ I
follow his advice &

cut off my ears to balance the art
of our Lord, but to quit complaining, I
cut out my tongue, &

it looks so bad, I gouge out my
eyes & give them to Jesoo as a
birthday prize/ the

three wisemen steal them to
feed their camels who
pass them as dung to

cover my tongue with
Christian outrage that
smothers my speech &

stills my tastebuds with
Eliot’s peach, but
I don’t care when my teeth fall out/

without sugar Jesoo, I’d be dead/
“MYSTERY, BABYLON the GREAT,
the MOTHER of HARLOTS and ABOMINATIONS

of the EARTH.”/ sugar
Jesoo gets in a fight &
knocks Gene Fulmer out, who

sucks out my entrails through a
hole in my bellybutton &
eats them with fries from McDonald’s/ my

supersized button gets caught in
Jesoo’s throat, & he drinks it down with a
strawberry shake/ now my bellybutton

rots in his bowels, too
big to be shat out his asshole &
take its place with my tongue in the dung/

“I Jesoo have sent mine angel to testify unto
these things in the churches.” &
when he does, the walls come

crumblin’
down ...

!

Black blood rains from a gray sky

Black blood rains from a gray sky
hooding the stars & stripes like oil dripping
from a pelican off the Louisiana coast/ it’s

too heavy to fly & drips like feces down its
pole, piling high on the street like a mtn of
disgust/ the people like dungbeetles crawl

into the feculence & devour it until they
explode covering blocks with
filth & revulsion/ the black sky

finally bleeds to death & blankets the
world with its disease/ above it the
sun vomits & dies covering

the graveyard in drab stench/ the
people are mired & buried in the filth like
dying fish in the Gulf of Mexico, covered

by a shroud of garbage the size of Texas &
equally bereft of virtue & dignity as the
Lone Star State goes out &

Carl Rove strangles in his own crude
Welcome to the new world as
Jesoo continues to writhe & rave on the

rotting planks, & the
nails keep
aughing as his

black
blood
flows ...

!

Charon

You may well hate him
But you cannot help feeling envious-
That business of carrying the diseased
Across the River Styx is ever so prosperous
The only monopoly in the entire universe
That has a market share
Larger than the market itself

Daydreaming, on this side
Of the river, how you might wish
To be an entrepreneur like Charon
A success American dreamer

Changming Yuan Bio

    Changming Yuan, two-time Pushcart nominee and author of Chansons of a Chinaman (2009) and Politics and Poetics (2009), who grew up in rural China and published several books before moving to Canada, currently teaches writing in Vancouver and has had poetry appearing in Barrow Street, Best Canadian Poetry, CC&D, Exquisite Corpse, London Magazine and 270 other literary publications worldwide.

My Fallen Sisters
(poem in the style of an elegy)

My sorrow goes out tonight
to all my fallen sisters.
Women, girls, and babies
whose lives have been cut short
by the ignorance, hatred, and fear
of a patriarchal world.

Young brides beaten to a pulp
by grooms which swore to cherish.
Fear, not love, reigns in their homes,
living hells in which they perish.

Thrown out with the garbage
widowed women, beautiful crones.
Gleaning for scraps of food through fields
sentenced to starve for being too old.

Strong, bright women raped and killed
while on campus seeking higher education.
Their lives, their light, put out too soon
on a quest to rise above social oppression.

And, oh, my outraged heart breaks apart
for the babies defiled while still in cradles
by demons who dare call themselves men.
Bodies so small, to ask for help were not able.

They say that it is “a man’s world”
but blame women for their downfall.
But from a mother they all were born
and to The Mother they all return.

So there never will be peace on earth
and goodwill to all men
until all my fallen sisters
get their overdue amends.

Predator Craving My Heart

You pursued me, unrelentingly,
Day and night-

Enticed me

To unexplored territory.
Until I caught the jungle fever.

Delirious,

The disease spread swiftly,

Until a piece of my heart

Was tattooed onto yours.

Indifference?

She slept on the cold stone bench in front of the courthouse,
Covered by a newspaper quilt
Once she had laughter and hope
He was a decorated soldier in the war
In a cardboard home,
He listened to the rain falling and remembered with pain
A lost life with wife and children

a Place to Be

she needs to find
a face she can live with

tangled feelings (tinged with guilt)
bruise her tender wings

fear taints the feast
before she is allowed to eat

dismembered dreams
crawl out of a solitary box
hissing of secrets

she must find the doorway to the world
outside the confines of her family

or she will be forever left
on her gilded ladder

dying from injuries
she thought she deserved

Incohatio #039

I went with my hunting dog
to hunt the quail,

I found nothing that morning
and the dog looked at me
as if to say:
‘A man must fail.’

All men must fail
if they are wrong
from the start.

No creature should die
for the nothing that dwells
in the heart.

Hunger is hunger.

But let it be
for righteousness sake.

Life is not a rebellion
and never a notion
for the angel food cake.

My Left, Your Right

From you I know there’s nothing Left
But from the Right is all I ever wanted
To turn the other way would be a sin
Yet what have I to lose?

I reside in the Left
Where there is nothing
The opposite way can surely be better
Though I don’t know for sure
No one ever came back
After going into the Right

Maybe they didn’t want to come back
That everything there was too good
To walk away from

Or maybe they weren’t allowed to leave
They could be held hostage
Tied in ropes from a trap

So now what to do?
Do I give in to this place?
Or stand my ground?
I can’t tell what I’m thinking
Or what seems to be common sense
Why doesn’t anyone come back?

Here I seem torn between
Looking towards the Right
I’m standing not knowing how to decide
Is not coming back better than returning?

Old Poem, Fresh Take

Bifocal-less in the bookstore,
I skim a line by Tu-Fu—
“ragged mint settles in the spreading dusk”
and I can smell it, freshly torn,
singeing my sinuses with menthol burn

until I squint and find he wrote “mist,”
not “mint.”
“Ragged mist settles in the spreading dusk”

and so it does more and more,
as my arms, even at their longest reach,
fail to fend off the creeping gray;

but ragged mint raining down,
pungent and green—
now that you don’t see
everyday.

The Blacksmith

Soot and sweat bathed brow
Muscle corded arms flexing with every blow
Molecules of hot metal assail your nose
Move in with every breath
Til your mouth tastes of iron.
Why do you do it?
Eyes red-rimmed with grime and fatigue
Not so many horses to shoe today
Licensed farriers care for them
You twist and pound bits of metal
Into shapes of fish and bells,
Into sconces, trammels, and trellises
Hours of heating, banging, inspecting,
Forming and reforming
A little oil and polish for display
The craft fair visitors pause, admire,
Continue on their way
Or stop to purchase and pay
Calloused blackened fingers count out the change
Thanks given with a broad grin
The rhythm begins again.

what we need in life

fantastic car crash

Changing Garments

everyone else does it

are they invincible

Left with a Hole

How Do I Explain It portions

Motions on the Planet

7 and 7, plus 18 portions, or
10 and 10, plus 2

my love for you
will stay the same

(a song)

Bonus:
Observer’s Love Poem

I travel around the world
learning different histories, different cultures

I fly in airplanes
I jump from airplanes
I pilot airplanes
trying to get closer to the stars

molecule by molecule,
we originate from stars
and I know we are all linked,
our bodies formed from stardust

but outer space
is a violent place
violent explosions create the stars
and our earth has earthquakes,
avalanches, volcanoes
tsunamis, typhoons

and in all this madness
somehow I’ve found you

with you I have walked on the tops of glaciers
with you I have watched solar storms
    from near the Arctic Circle
with you I have walked through the gates
    of Hitler's first concentration camp
with you I have sailed from island to island
    retracing the Origin of Species

I bought a balalaika for my guitarist in Russia
I've even held your hand at the Great Wall of China

as I said before,
I’m only an observer
and with these observations,
I thee wed
because I will never let you go

I’ve seen galaxies collide
I’ve seen comets smash into planets
I’ve seen supernovae and the death of stars
and in all of that, I still found you

as I said, I’m only an observer
but I’ve found what I’ve been looking for

I’ll tighten my grip on your hand
because I don’t ever want to let you go

She Feeds

    “Turn right up here, Honey. This road’s my driveway.” said Ariane as she reached over and put a hand on Steve’s knee.
    The driveway didn’t look like much more than a cart path. The tall grass in the middle brushed down the underside of the Taurus a bit more than he would have liked.
    ‘This is probably wreaking havoc on my car. Why the hell am I out here?’ Steve thought to himself. Ariane moved her hand to begin massaging his thigh. ‘That was it.’ He smiled.
    Steve thought back at how easy it had been to get to where he was going. He’d started the evening just sitting in Joe’s bar just the same as he did every Saturday night. This time it’d been different as he’d only been in about an hour when she arrived.
    Ariane had just moved into the area and was looking for some fun, as she’d told Steve while they’d sat and shared a round. She was single, lonely, and wouldn’t mind if he came home to keep her company on this particular night.
    It seemed to Steve the house was miles back along the twisting path between the black walls of forest that the headlights didn’t penetrate. ‘I’m just idling along. That might be why this is taking so long.’ He thought some more.
    They rounded a bend and a house slid into view. It couldn’t have been more than a single bedroom dwelling covered in weather-beaten clapboard siding. There wasn’t much of anything around the house other than overgrown patches of weeds.
    “This is my home.” said Ariane as she tugged at Steve’s shoulder.
    Not needing to be invited twice, he turned and pulled her into a tight embrace, mouth entwined onto mouth in an interminable series of kisses as passion ripped through the pair.
    Steve cupped one of her breasts and squeezed gently. He immediately felt a squeezing of his own as a hand probed the crotch of his pants.
    ‘Woof... She knows what she wants, and brother, is she gonna get it.’ Just as he was thinking this, Ariane pulled away.
    “We should go inside where we can be more comfortable.”
    Steve turned off the engine. “Sounds good to me.”
    “Hold on, there, stud. I want to go in first and tidy up a bit. Wait here... okay?”
    “Sure. But don’t keep me here too long.”
    Steve watched as Ariane climbed out and walked to the house in front of the car lights, observing every wiggle. When she’d entered the door of the house and turned on the lights, he shut off the car’s lights and engine.
    He sat there thinking about the night to come and focusing on his own personal excitement, savoring the moment. Thoughts raced around in his head and he chased them trying to keep track of just one idea of how he could make the best of the sex that was sure to follow. It wasn’t long before he lost track of how long he’d been sitting or of the fact that he had closed his eyes.
    Steve opened his eyes and looked around. He couldn’t have dosed off for more than a second, but somehow it seemed darker. He strained to hear anything in the silence to justify being startled awake, but there was nothing. He was just about to settle back and close his eyes again when a hand thumped against the side window not inches from his face.
    Steve threw himself toward the passenger seat as a twisting sensation shot through his gut. He almost shouted aloud, but noticed the hand belonged to Ariane and the rest of her was standing behind it.
    “No more sleeping for you. It’s time to go inside.”
    It was quiet outside the car, and much like the inside there was not even the tiniest breath of a breeze. Clouds blotted out the stars so that there was no light either other than the dim light that reached out from a window and the open front door of the house.
    Ariane entered the house first and Steve followed closing the door behind.
    
    When he closed the door, he felt odd somehow as if every hair on his body stood at attention.
    He was going to ignore it as an odd chill when he noticed the doorknob was much higher on the door than where it had been on the outside. In fact, the door itself seemed to be much larger. He turned to ask Ariane about the strange door when noticed the entire room seemed to be very large.
    “What the...” Steve started to say but stopped short at the tiny sound of his own voice. He tried again to speak after clearing his throat, but the same child’s voice issued forth.
    He looked first at his hands and then as much of the rest of him as he could see without a mirror. “This is impossible. What did you do me?”
    A raspy sounding voice replied, “You have become as you are because this is how you are.” An old woman stood in frayed brown robes at the far end of the room. Steve realized with a start that this was Ariane. The beautiful woman he’d been necking with just a bit before was now bent and hobbled. Her face was lined with deep creases but her eyes were no less dark and piercing.
    “How long will I be like this? I don’t want to a kid.”
    “You will stay as you are for time being. Come. It is time to sit down for dinner.”
    “Dinner? It’s midnight out. Who eats dinner at midnight?”
    “Nonsense, child. How can be midnight when the sun hasn’t even set. Look for yourself.”
    The room was made primarily of wood; it had a hardwood floor, bare walls and ceiling, and log support beams open to the room. All of it seemed very old and worn. The few simple pieces of furniture looked like they escaped from the back room of an antique shop or maybe a garage sale somewhere. The entire house smelled of kerosene, candle wax, and moth balls. There was nothing electric to be seen not even a bare light bulb. An unlit kerosene lamp sat on small table near the window.
    The window was shrouded in yellowed lace curtains and Steve stepped closer so he could see outside. A soft orange light pushed in through and around the edges of the curtains. Past them, he could see that it was sunlit outside.
    It was the view outside that startled him yet again. The house stood on a small incline as he could see a field of wild grass stretching out to a road far in the distance. Beyond that were the dark shapes of a factory complex that stood practically on the horizon itself. There wasn’t a single tree to the horizon.
    “Where are we? What is this place?” Steve backed away from the window almost tripping over a footstool.
    “No time for that now, child. It is time for you to sit down to dinner.”
    Before Steve could protest further, Ariane took hold of his wrist in a tight grip and pulled him into the next room. There a round table also sporting a faded wooden finish was laid out with place settings for two. She pulled out the nearest chair and Steve sat.
    ‘This has to be some kind of dream. Someone had to have spiked my beer.’ He picked up a fork and drove it into his left hand. Instantly, he was rewarded with a shock of pain that so surprised him it caused him to cry out.
    Ariane was moving toward the kitchen when she stopped and looked back. “Are you that hungry as well that you’d turn cannibal on me. If you wait just a moment, child, I’ll be back with our meal.” Smiling, she walked through a swinging door into kitchen.
    Steve stared at the empty plate in front of him trying to find some sanity in this mess. Being rendered a child frightened him somehow. He wasn’t stranger to being dominated by a woman. ‘My ex was never this bad.’
    A clap of thunder sounded. Then a second that seemed to grow in intensity rather then end. The dishes on the table started to rattle.
    Steve slid out from his chair and ran to the front room to look out the window. In the distance, there was a dark brown column rising on the horizon. The rumbling ceased, but the column rose and began to spread out across the sky.
    He heard the shuffling of feet as Ariane entered the room. “Oh no... It’s finally happened.”
    Steve again backed away from the window, but this time managed to catch a footstool behind one ankle and tip sprawling on the floor.
    Outside it grew dark. There was the sound of rain pelting the roof, first in slow fits then growing stronger and louder. Along with the pounding of rain a soft hissing sound began to grow in volume.
    As Steve sat up, he noticed drops had begun to fall from the ceiling and strike the floor causing it to generate little wisps of smoke. A drop fell upon his ankle causing it to itch and then burn as if someone were putting a cigarette out on his skin.
    “We have to get out of here! Change me back, quick!”
    “There’s no time. Besides... Where would we go?” Small streamers of smoke rose from the old woman’s shawl.
    It was a barely a moment before there was drops falling from the ceiling to look like it was raining indoors. The hissing on the roof had increased to a roar as if a great fire was raging above. The air had a metallic tang and Steve’s nostrils burned with each breath he took.
    He slid underneath a wrought-iron and glass coffee table and watched as Ariane began to increasingly smoulder. She screamed and waved her arms as she hobbled around in a small circle. Pieces of her shawl and robes began to fall away from her and land in smoking piles on the floor.
    Even under the table it didn’t not remain dry as Steve struggled to breathe. His entire backside began to feel like there were insects crawling on his skin.
    Ariane’s shrieks dropped to gurgling moans as her body sagged to the floor. Blood streamed off of her and mixed with the bubbling wetness that was already eating at the cracks in the floorboards. She soon ceased moving.
    Steve tried to hold his breath to escape the air that tore at his throat. His back and legs were beginning to burn, the pain already becoming more than he could bare. He forgot about his breath as he thrashed about and took in a new lung-full of pain. He screamed.
    
    It was dark and there were no sounds. Steve no longer felt any pain as he sat on what felt like a cot with a blanket bunched at his feet.
    He put his hands to his face and touched what was still the face of child. Tears welled at the corner of his eyes. ‘When will this ever end? Why can’t I wake up?’
    Steve sat for time and did nothing as it was too dark to move about. The silence did little to erase the shock of watching Ariane die. As the image of laying under the table came to his thoughts again and again, he felt a burning twisting in his abdomen. He tried to think about something else, anything that would distract him, but nothing helped for long. It was impossible to forget being afraid as long as he was still a child.
    After the fourth or fifth loss of the battle within him, Steve let a scream escape him. As soon as the sound of it died away, he heard the first sound since he’d awoke into the darkness. Someone was moving closer as the floorboards of house creaked nearby.
    The room gained light as a door opened. Steve shielded his eyes with a hand as he grew accustomed to the lantern.
    A voice spoke, “It’s okay, child. You’re better now.” It was woman’s voice, much softer than the old woman.
    ‘The one who’d died.’ Steve began to cry.
    The woman set the lantern on a small table in the room and moved close to the bed. She took Steve in her arms. “There, there, child. It’s not so bad as that. We’re both alright. See?” The woman was Ariane, but a different version yet. This one was much younger than the old woman, but older than one he had picked up in the bar. A bar that seemed like a different world, far away.
    Steve felt strangely comforted being in this woman’s embrace. After a few moments, the torrent of emotion left him and he worked toward putting himself back together.
    Some minutes later, when his sobs had subsided, Ariane let go of him. “It’s late. You should sleep.” She put her hands to his shoulders and gently laid him back into bed. Then she pulled the blanket up and tucked him in. “Sleep well.” Ariane leaned in and kissed his forehead. Then she picked up the lantern and left the room closing the door behind her.
    Steve wanted to fight the whole situation. He wanted to shout the woman down, but the fact was he really did feel tired. He closed his eyes, breathed deep, and it seemed only moments before he drifted in slumber.
    
    Bright sunlight met his eyes as he opened them. The nausea met Steve next as he tried to look around. Last of all, the pain in his head as if someone had hammered a nail in his forehead while he slept reached him along with the realization he was sitting at the wheel of an automobile.
    His eyes focused enough that he could see the car was parked at the end of a road in the forest. He moved his tongue around the parched surfaces of his mouth for a moment as realization caught up to what he was seeing. His hands were those of an adult again.
    ‘It was just a dream after all. A really wacked out, kick you in the rear dream, but just a damn dream.’ He opened the car door and climbed out into day.
    Looking at his watch, he saw it was around noontime. Steve straightened his clothes. ‘Guess I should go and apologize for falling asleep in the car. Hope she’s not too pissed at me. I might even get a home cooked lunch if I play it smooth enough.’
    Steve walked past the front of the car and walked toward the house looking toward his goal. He then felt as if the world were sinking out from under him, his forehead tingled and sparks ran across his vision.
    There in front of him was not the small house with the clap board siding he’d seen the night before. Weeds, tall grasses, and a few saplings of trees poked out of the center of an old stone foundation where some time ago a house had stood.
    
    “Haven’t seen you around here before. How about I buy you a drink?” said John trying to keeping his voice deep while talking above the general noise level of the bar. He had to lean in close to make sure the she could hear him. This gave him a double bonus, he got wind of her perfume and snuck a minute peek the curve of her breast that pushed out the top of the tight blouse she was wearing.
    John couldn’t believe how lucky he was to meet up with a woman this finely shaped in a dump like George’s Tavern in a small dirt town this far out of the normal pace of life.
    Yet here she was. Dark wavy hair of a medium length hanging over pale skin. Dark eyes that had searched the room when she first entered as if looking for someone. Red velvet blouse with fancy lace borders and a black mini covering very little of legs encased in fishnet stockings. It seemed to John that he had hit pay dirt as this women had to be out to kill tonight. It all came down to the pickup line.
    The woman turned and looked at John. For the briefest moment, there was darkness in the look she gave him, but just as quick, her features softened. A smile grew from glistening ruby lips.
    “I love to join you for a drink. By the way, my name’s Ariane.” She turned herself on her stool so that she faced more towards John. That was the break he was looking for.
    He took her through the various levels of small-talk that he used at times like this. Set up to show a little bit of his personal side, without telling to much. No need for a life story as he had no intension of her hanging around beyond this night.
    It was about an hour later that he felt comfortable enough to put in the first nudge for the goal. “I have a question. Why would a woman as beautiful as you want to hang around in a place like this?”
    Ariane sipped at her rum and coke; the straw held ever so daintily between her lips. She let go of it and spoke. “There’s no more need for cheap lines. If you want to go home with me, just say so.”

Guylian’s Magic

        He watches out of the bus window, narrow eyes contact lens green with artificial envy, auburn hair caught up in a loose pony tail that curls and pokes through the holes in the collar of his old white T-shirt.

    A small girl slouches next to him, she must be about six. She sits with her knees up, her bare brown feet press against the seat in front, small toes fidgeting and flexing against the rough material. She’s busy patiently threading blue beads onto a piece of tan leather one by one, scooping them from her lap where they lay, sparkling and rolling in the bowl of her skirt.
    At one point the little girl tugs on the man’s sleeve and whispers something to him. He responds by kissing her quickly on the forehead and rubbing her dark hair so that it falls into her eyes and she giggles.
    I assume them to be gypsies, travelling from place to place in romantic painted wagons, pulled by dappled grey horses with fluttering white manes and bright black hooves with soft grey feathers.
    Or circus folk in a Blyton fantasy, laughing in the big top after the show, the half moon rolling behind clouds above, the hoarse laughter of drunkards and the shriek of rage from the gambler. The air would smell like sweet popcorn, candy floss and hot dogs, children would race each other in the dust, long hair whipping in the breeze, faces hot and pink from excitement.
    Or maybe they are foreign, from some far off land, on the run from someone or something, forced to change their names, and identities and living a different life in a new country, seeing our roads and lanes as strange and exciting.
    Whatever they may be, they alight at the next stop, balancing with trapeze precision as the bus jolts and wobbles to a standstill, feet sounding dry against the floor of the bus.
    I watch them as we pull away again. Hands linked, the little girl skipping, the man flicking repeatedly at the end of a lighter, holding it to the end of a cigarette that dropped from his lips. They made their way along the edge of a field, and finally out of sight, leaving only the ripple of long grass and a long streamer of pale white smoke behind them.

Natascha Tallowin Bio

    Natascha Tallowin is a writer and poet from Suffolk, England. Whilst most of her time is spent writing poetry and sitting in patches of sunlight on the floor listening to David Bowie, she is also working on a magic-realism novel entitled ‘Guylian’s Magic’.

The First Stone

    I guess it must have been last month when Father Leo railed against pre-marital sex during one of our Friday masses. Each Friday morning before classes, we gathered as a school for mass. Father Leo would usually cut certain ceremonies short. The procession was not to a long, drawn-out hymn. He didn’t even wear his typical vestments, just the all-black suit thing with the white collar thing. The only two parts he didn’t hustle through were communion and his sermons. I think he hustled through everything else so he could talk longer. He was on a tight schedule because we all had to start first period and there was a time or two throughout my four years at St. Mary and Michael that he was in the middle of the sermon when the bells rang to start first period. Every time the students just sat there, we were torn. We certainly didn’t want to go to first period, but we also didn’t want to listen to more of the priest’s ravings. More from fear than obedience, we remained seated until Father Leo dismissed us.
    This one particular Friday though was different. The Thursday before rumors had spread that a girl in my grade, Courtney Stone, was pregnant. We had all heard from the nuns that pre-marital sex was a sin, that lust and desire were things to be avoided, that pleasures of the flesh lead us only to the devil and eternal hellfire. We all nodded in agreement, and we all aced the bible history tests. We knew our catechism and most could even recite several memorized bible verses and tell you the book, chapter and verse. We never expected to actually confront these evils, never thought they could possibly come inside the walls of St. Mary and Michael. We all knew – and I’ll even admit to participating a few times – that students at our school drank and did drugs. And like all other adolescents we flirted and said inappropriate things and joked in gross ways and went home to fantasize about our classmates doing sexual things to us. But when you’re under the watchtower of a rigid nun, you learn to keep those thoughts hidden. The catholic parishioner in church is not the same catholic out with the guys on a Friday night. Don’t misunderstand me, these were all good-hearted, pure people. Our school destroyed others when it came to volunteer hours, GPA, scholarships, money raised for charities and overall appearance in the community. That’s why my parents spent so much money to send me there. We were young like everyone else, and youth negated the responsibilities adults assumed we were taking care of. Things like pregnancy didn’t knock on our doors. No one was hurt from any misbehavior, no action had a consequence too great for quick forgiveness, from God or friends or otherwise. Telling me that Courtney Stone was pregnant was about as believable as saying Jesus Christ would choose our school for his first Second Coming tour stop. We all saw those after-school specials and the videos the nuns showed us in class. But none of those things were real. They were as real to us at the Terminator or PacMan, objects on a screen wholly fictional and a part of an entirely separate universe. Sure, in some part of the universe or other side of the world, those things might exist. But not at St. Mary and Michael.
    Father Leo started his anti-sex sermon quoting, “a man’s ways are before the eyes of the Lord, and he ponders all his paths. The iniquities of the wicked ensnare him, and he is held fast in the cords of his sin. He dies for lack of discipline, and because of his great folly he is led astray.”
    Typically, if there was a sound like a marble rolling every time someone rolled their eyes, it would have sounded like rainfall in the church when Father Leo started with these lines. Almost each week he started his sermon with some scripture quote that said we were all damned and going to hell. Don’t get me wrong, he made a lot of good points. We were young and stupid and all that like all kids and we needed a good scolding once in a while. Lots of times I remember listening to Father Leo and thinking, “yeah, I definitely did that this week. I have to stop doing that.” Or vice-versa. Lots of good came from his sermons. But students also need a little variety. If you think you know what someone is going to say, you tend to space out a little bit and listen only to the major details because you know how to fill in the rest. That’s what happened a lot with Father Leo. We all listened attentively for the first few minutes, but then his themes all ran together and we started letting our minds wander or maybe try to sneak a note to a friend down the row or maybe try to fit in the last few math homework questions.
    But that day everyone was paying attention. No one rolled their eyes. It was like a train wreck, everyone knew what was coming, knew it was going to be gruesome and harsh, and they wanted to be a part of it. I include myself in this. We all knew that the news of Courtney’s pregnancy had to have reached Father Leo, that Father Leo would be outraged and he would spend the next sermon railing that sin. As he spoke, as he condemned the wicked and praised the meek and spoke of the Lord sheparding us, how we must not stray from the flock, people’s heads turned from Father Leo to Courtney Stone. Everyone knew, even though Father was not speaking directly to her, that he was talking about her. I looked too, thinking what I thought everyone else was thinking. I think my experience in mass that day differed only because I broke away from my thoughts about Courtney and listened again to Father Leo. I think most others didn’t do that, and that’s really what caused all the drama. Not just the fact that a girl at our school was pregnant or that she was in trouble in so many ways, or that she had drawn a line in the sand and people – especially her friends – had to choose a side: support your friend or support your faith. I don’t think anyone really wanted to examine their choices, so they just went with the side that they knew would always win.
    Father Leo changed his tone of voice. That’s what I think brought my attention back to him. Typically he has a stern voice, like a grandparent scolding their adult child. And he started out that way, like he always does. He came down with his hellfire and brimstone voice and attacked the sins of the world. But after a few minutes, he stopped and took a breath and then, in a light tone unknown to us.
     He continued, “You have heard that it was said, ‘You shall not commit adultery.’ But I say to you that everyone who looks at a woman with lustful intent has already committed adultery with her in his heart. If your right eye causes you to sin, tear it out and throw it away. For it is better that you lose one of your members than that your whole body be thrown into hell.”
    He stopped here, and perhaps a couple of other students noticed the pause – again something he rarely did while speaking. “Everyone here is a sinner before God. I am a sinner. The sisters here are sinners. We are human beings and will always be sinners. We will never be perfect and God does not expect that of us. However, he still expects us to try. In such divine attempts it is glorious to fail. And with each failure we become closer to God and see only how far it truly is to reach him. If we ask God for forgiveness it gives it. Thus, we should be amongst ourselves. Any sinner asking for forgiveness should be forgiven. We were all sinners and forgivers. It says in first Corinthians, ‘And such were some of you. But you were washed, you were sanctified, you were justified in the name of the Lord Jesus Christ and by the Spirit of our God.’”
    Everyone kept their thoughts to Courtney. I had my thoughts on Courtney, but I don’t think I had them like most others. I heard Father Leo saying that I needed to grant forgiveness to a sinner, and that sinner might likely even be myself. It seemed like everyone else was waiting for Courtney to stand up and ask everyone else for their forgiveness. Everyone seemed ready to give her forgiveness, everyone seemed ready to say, “Oh, that’s okay, Jesus loves us all.” But they all waited for her to kneel before them so they could bestow their blessings. Courtney had to come to them, Courtney had to humble herself. If Courtney did none of these things than they felt no religious obligation to act.
    Uncannily, Father Leo finished his sermon after just those few minutes.
    The halls were loud and crowded with the loitering students. No teacher attempted to control the crowd of hundreds of students in the hallways. Usually everyone rushed to first period, but that day we all had about fifteen minutes to do nothing except stand around and talk. And of course, we talked about Courtney.
    I’ve seen in movies before when someone will do something really embarrassing and then when that person comes back or is seen again the next day, everyone around will stop what they’re doing, stop what they’re saying and all stare. I’ve been in situations kind of like that, but not everyone stared and people usually kept talking but looking at me out of the corner of their eyes. So I just though that the movies exaggerated that mass public silence, like they do with lots of other things (first kisses are not like what you see in the movies. I can tell you that for certain). But that’s how it was when Courtney started to walk towards her first period class. At first I thought the hallways were just growing quieter with all the people maybe going to classes or somewhere else. But when I looked around, the hallway was still crowded. It was like she commanded silence as she walked down the hallway. The far end where she came from had been noisy, but then she walked in and they stopped talking. As she moved down the hallway, the people behind her kept their eyes on her and started talking again while the people next to and in front of her stopped talking and looked at her funny. It went like that until, in a silent section, someone yelled out, “Slut!” I couldn’t tell right away who it was, but I do know it was a girl’s voice. Guys may have been thinking it, but openly calling a girl as slut is something we all know we’d get beaten up for by every girl in the school. But I guess a girl calling another girl a slut is fine by all the other girls.
    Courtney stopped and turned around. “I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you.” She looked out to the crowd. I guess the person was behind her because Courtney scanned the crowd like she didn’t know who said anything. Her shoulders and chin were up, like she was prideful. She didn’t look angry, which is weird because I’d have likely just turned to the nearest person and punched them in the face. But she didn’t look mad at all. She looked like someone really tried to get her attention and ask a polite question and she wanted to help them out.
    But no one said anything. They all just looked at her and she looked at them. Finally, she said, “I guess no one said anything. Since they’re unwilling to repeat it to my face.” Everyone knew what she was doing. A pretty good move too. As I think about it now, it’s a good way to call people out. If they can’t say something to your face, they have no right to be heard or should they ever expect their advice or thoughts to be taken seriously. Courtney may have been a sinner in my eyes, but she certainly had a Christ-like air about her that day. As she turned to walk away, the girl who said it eventually got the nerve to say it again, at least to the back of Courtney’s head.
    “Slut,” the girl said. This time staring as Courtney turned around again. (I don’t really know who that girl was. Well, I know her name and all, but I’ll leave that out so I don’t embarrass her, but I never hung out with her or really knew anything about her. But I will say this: she has long had a reputation before being a bitch).
    “Cast it,” Courtney said. “Cast the first stone. Do it. I’m the adulterer, right?” She looked that one girl right in the eye, daring her to say something more. But it wasn’t like a guy might do it, going all wide-eyed and tight-lipped and getting up in the other guy’s face, and waiting for the other guy to open his mouth, like saying something else would be the bell to start the fight. It wasn’t even anger really. “I’m standing before you. You’ve got your mob you’ve got your stones. Throw them.” Everyone understood the allusion. It is a catholic school after all. But I don’t think anyone remembered that lesson. They all stared for awhile, waiting for the girl to punch Courtney or Courtney to punch the girl. But when it was apparent that Courtney was winning the staring contest and that the girl wasn’t going to do anything else, they all turned and walked away like the biblical Pharisees. But with hate on their faces. They did not drop their stones and walk away, shameful and knowing themselves a sinner. Instead, they merely saw a trick played. They could not continue their judgments and remain on the high road. Each person seemed to mutter “the devil may quote scripture for his purpose” but never really thought about their scriptural purposes.
    When I was a freshman and I first started school, on the very first day, I did not have the same fears as all the other freshman. Some of them had gone to middle school together or were neighbors or something. But I lived half and hour away and my parents sent me here because there were no good public school around where we lived. So I wasn’t afraid of the upperclassmen beating me up, and I wasn’t worried about the classwork or homework or anything like that. What I was really worried about was who I was going to sit with at lunch. It wasn’t like my middle school where you sat next to whoever you were in line next to. You got to sit anywhere you wanted. And that meant I had to choose someone to sit with. And if I wasn’t welcome that could be disastrous. While my parents drove me to school I thought of things to say to sound cool when asking if I could sit with people. I thought of strategies for how I might make it through lunch (such as purposefully being the last in line so I could pick a seat alone in a crowded and not-caring group of peers). But all that was avoided when a kid named Greg, now one of my good friends, came up to me and said, “Hey, I’m new here and don’t know anyone. Can I sit with you and your friends at lunch.” I never thought of that lunch strategy. It really was a genius one.
    What I’m really trying to say is that sitting alone in a big room is a scary thing. Especially when you know all the people and they can look at you. Double especially when usually the only open tables to sit by yourself are right next to Father Leo, Father Mark and all the other nuns. We eat in our gymnasium slash theater (cleverly called the multi-purpose room). The priests and nuns eat at a table that is parallel to the stage and they keep their backs to the stage watching us. All the student tables are perpendicular to them, so we face the side walls. So naturally all the students don’t want to be under the constant gaze of authority so they sit as far back as they can. All the open, lonely seats are right next to the clergy (and there are some poor kids who sit by themselves every day. But they do that on purpose. I once saw Sandra Crescent ask a boy to sit with her and her friends. He just looked all nervous and shook his head and went back to eating). That is where Courtney chose to sit.
    I guess everyone was still fuming or her friends just didn’t want to make a scene or anything, but when Courtney chose to sit in the seat closest to Father Leo no one went with her. It didn’t get all silent or anything like in the hallways and no one shouted anything. My friends and I didn’t even talk much about her or being pregnant or anything. But we also didn’t do anything to help her out. Besides Courtney sitting in a different place, pretty much everything about that lunch was normal. That was, I mean, until Father Leo started choking.
    I forget what we had that made him choke, but I do remember thinking later that it was a commonly choked-on food. Sister Grace shouted, but we didn’t hear her at first. It just sounded like she was laughing at a joke and saying really loud, “You’re joking,” but we only heard the “..oking” part really loud. We heard it again and everyone noticed her scream and got quiet. Then we all heard it loud and clear. “He’s choking. He’s choking. Someone. He’s choking.”
    We all looked at Father Leo, he was holding his hands around his neck. If we didn’t know from first aid class that that was the universal sign for choking, then we might have thought he was choking himself. His face was red, his eyes wide, bulgy and tearing. Everyone sat there, just watching him. To me it seemed like a really long time, maybe like thirty seconds or so. I’m sure to Father Leo it was a lifetime and a half. But for those thirty seconds, no one did anything. Well, that’s not true, Sister Grace shouted for someone to do something and then made a dash for the nurse in the front office. But everyone else just stared. That’s all they did. Stared.
    That’s when Courtney stood up. She looked at us though. Not at Father Leo. That’s what was so weird. She looked at the crowd of eaters, and we all saw her too, she was the only one standing. She looked at us like she had asked us what was two plus two and everyone was too stupid to answer, like she was baffled that we all didn’t know what two plus two was. Sometimes my mom and dad give me that look when I do something stupid.
    She walked up to Father Leo, motioned with his hand that he needed to stand up. He looked at her scared, like she was the one choking him. But after she gave that stand up signal again, he stood up. She wrapped her arms around his belly and yanked (I recognized the Heimlich maneuver from the first aid training videos). The food popped out. It really popped too, not just like a few inches in front of his mouth and landed back on his plate. It shot out and went about seven to ten feet in front of him. Father Leo gasped in air, his face changed color and he sat down again, breathing hard.
    “Thank you, my child.” Courtney looked down at the floor and started to walk away. “No, wait,” Father Leo grabbed her hand. “Truly, Miss Stone. You’re a good Samaritan, one of God’s own.” They looked at each other for a while. Father Leo said something else to her, but it was whispered and I couldn’t hear it. Courtney sat back down and finished her meal.

First Impressions

    “I had that dream again.”
    Every time Katie and I have a fight, I dream that I kill her. It’s never the same way. I’ve shot her. I’ve strangled her. I’ve even run her over with my car. Katie hates the dreams because they scare her. I use her fear to seize control. My Dad taught me that a man proves his love for his wife by controlling her. I love my Katie. She’s my world, so I control her.
    “Katie?” When I looked over to her side of the bed, it was already made. Guess she’s in the bathroom.
    Last night’s dream meant we’d fought. In this dream, I stabbed her to death. I wish I could remember last night. We were both drinking. I told her dinner tasted like crap and that she should take a cooking class. I’m sure she got pissed. When she gets pissed, I have to seize control.
    Getting physical with her is something I don’t want to do. It’s just...she gets so hysterical and I do what I need to do. Usually, a harmless slap settles her down, a trick I learned from Dad.

    She wasn’t in the bathroom. She must be in the kitchen, making me breakfast. That’s more like it. The last time breakfast wasn’t ready she watched me leave for work through a swollen eye. I didn’t want to hit her, but she left me no choice. Besides, the make-up concealed the bruises. No one ever knew.

    “What the?” Something was in the bed beside me.
    A knife? Dried blood painted the blade.

    I slammed the knife against the wall and screamed at Katie, “What did you do, damn it?” Her silence angered me even more. “You know how I get.” Rage merged with fear. The body. What if the police come? Where would I hide it?
    I paced for what seemed like hours. When I’d calmed down enough to think, I realized what this meant. I’d lost control. I’d lost Katie. My heart ached and I felt like I had a fist lodged in my throat. Dad never mentioned this could happen. I didn’t know what to do. Finally, I threw myself beside her.
    Cuts and bruises scarred her face but she still looked more beautiful than ever. Last night no longer mattered. Katie was gone.
    I can’t live without you. Eyeing the knife, I knew what I had to do, seize control.
    “Together, even in death.” I picked up the knife and felt its weight in my hand. The icy blade on my wrist sent a shiver down my spine. I sucked in a deep breath and made a diagonal cut. The sting surpassed any pain I’d ever felt. Quickly, I changed hands and finished the job.
    Blood oozed from my wrists and soaked my lap. My stomach turned and I felt the heat slowly leaving my body. I closed my eyes and fell flat, facing Katie. My breathing slowed. White blotches exploded in my mind and I expected to see Katie float through the light and welcome me into her arms.
    I opened my eyes to take one last look at her. She would be the last thing I saw in this world. I tried to speak but was too weak. I love you, Katie. I’ve seized control.
    My heavy eyes closed again. I felt a burning in my chest and arms and the white lights returned. I focused on each shallow breath, thinking it would it be my last.
    Movement nearby forced my eyes to open. Katie’s fiery eyes stared back.
    “My God. It worked,” I heard her say, getting up. Then, I felt her hot breath burn my ear, “You son of a bitch. You’ll never hit me again. I’ve seized control.”

Trouble Town

    Plant closed, her sister up and gone, nothing but trouble since she got off the Greyhound ... five days traveling and everything upside down ... room by the station cockroach nation – still more than she can afford since she was expecting free room and board. At least till she got on her feet. Not that she could ever depend on her sister or anyone for that matter. She should have known better, stayed where she was even though her life was in tatters.
    Sheila drinks and wonders what else can go wrong, aside from the roof in the dive she’s sitting in caving in. She was holding her own out west as a strip mall beautician, until the country made “Born To Lose” its new national anthem and the no hairdo blues became the recession fashion. No work, no prospects and on top of that the jerk she got herself hooked up with going even more berserk than she could deal with. Drinking non stop, beating her up.
    “I’m living in a world of wonder,” the jukebox is playing her favorite song, “happiness around each corner.”
    About the only happy thing around her corner would be the coroner. She felt herself getting tipsy, frowned and took another sip of her peppermint martini. The master of mixology behind the bar didn’t have any strawberry or chocolate kind of flavor so they had to concoct it with schnapps. It was a miracle he found a cocktail glass in that old, warped, spider webbed cabinet.
    Last time anyone used one in this neck of the woods was probably the Englishman they stole the bar from at the point of a squirrel gun, back when moonshine cost a dime, and the Declaration of Independence was just signed, who was celebrating “his” independence from “them” happy to get back to merry old England. The not exactly lip smacking, neither stirred nor shaken creation was enough to knock her on her ass. But it made her think. The only wonder in her “you’re gonna get it” world that kept on giving was the sorry fact she was still living. Would it be too much to ask of that world that at twenty-one she could have a little fun? Isn’t that why she went blonde? She went blonde so she could ride a Greyhound and sit in a dump in a one horse town alongside every weirdo and loser from anyone’s worst nightmare?
    “Buy you a drink?”
    Sheila glances in the mirror at a shady looking guy who sits down next to her – pockmarked face, brown bomber jacket, greasy black hair. He lights a cigarette and taps the ash on the bar.
    Tobacco country where asphyxiation is not open to litigation and no one ever heard of cancer or the Surgeon General. Everybody’s mouth is dangling one, if they’re not puffing on a corn cob pipe or chomping a cheap cigar stink bomb. Enough smoke in the room to set off a fire alarm.
    Just as well considering the place is a real eyesore and it helps to hide the fact that it’s crawling with mice and rats. Across dark man’s Neanderthal forehead is a home stitched zipper scar, which helps him look even more like some character from the shock theater.
    “No thanks. I’m waiting for someone.”
    She forces a smile, meets his dark eyes in the mirror.
    “Your boyfriend ain’t gonna come, Hon, cause you ain’t got none.”
    His expression is blank, frank, grim; no smirk, sneer, grin.
    “Then I’ll learn to live without one.” She shrugs. “So long.” She toasts him. “It’s been fun.”
    “The fun ain’t begun, Hon”
    He studies her and sips his beer.
    The bartender slides an ashtray over, backs her martini with another, which she didn’t order, this one in a tumbler. She drops her eyes from the mirror, which she noticed had taken on the look of a startled deer. “This guy bothering you?” Wasn’t going to come from anyone in the room soon. OK Trouble Town, bring it on. Your day was long but I see your night is still young.
    “I’m all out of fun Sugar Plum.” Sheila manages to turn to him. Now for sure her martini is shaken, if not in the glass at least in her intestines. If you let a situation own you you’re through.
    Lesson one in grammar school. “Been traveling sweetie. Traveling makes me sleepy.” She forces another smile and she hopes a cute, helpless little yawn. “Someone ain’t my boyfriendbut my brother. He’s coming after me soon. He had to work late. Just got out of the service.
    He’s an ex-marine. We’re getting together with our family. It’s a family reunion!” She manages, she hopes, to infuse a little flirtation in her baby blues. “But maybe some other time if you don’t mind. I’ll be around.”
    “You ain’t got no brother either, sugar.” He takes a drag off his cigarette and blows a smoke ring at the mirror, studying her, not bothering to swivel his bar stool around and face her. “I know everyone and everything in this town. I’m the dog catcher, trash collector, public investigator, probably next mayor. I knew your sister Sue. When the plant closed she split.
    Party girl, wild as they come. Probably partying tonight in parts unknown. She told me you were coming – dishwater blonde. She really didn’t want no part of you. ‘I need her clinging to me like a dog needs a flea.’ She said. You came in on the Greyhound. You put your bag in a locker and made an unanswered phone call. After that, you walked though the town to the pickle plant that just shut down. You read the Closed/ Keep Out sign and walked back. You got your bag and rented a room at the Horror Palace, and then you ate at the Ptomaine Terrace. Now you’re here with me drinking gasoline.”
    “You stalked me?” Sheila’s voice came out squeaky. The shot and beer wizard didn’t have an olive or one of those little onions or even a cherry to make her martini look fancy so he put a pickled crow’s egg in it without a toothpick which he finger dug from a jar on the bar. “The townie stalked me.” She stared at it. She could see the headlines in the Goober Gully Gazette or whatever they had, assuming anyone around here read. “WHITE TRASH TRANSIENT FOUND RAPED AND DEAD! The mutilated body (fingers and teeth removed to eliminate any identification) of an unknown white woman was found this morning in a garbage can by the Greyhound bus station ...”
    “I like your scar.” She took a big swallow from the martini in the tumbler which was even stronger. “That scar will take you far. I mean around here if you want to be mayor. Kind of makes you look debonair with that greasy, black, duck ass hair, and unique, since everybody around here pretty much looks the same due to all that inbreeding.” Once she got started poking she couldn’t stop, which was why Mr. Wonderful used to beat her up. Now there was a Jock.
    Sit and stare in his under ware at the football games and drink beer getting all turned on by the physical contact between the men in helmets and the bouncing boobs of the cheerleaders who they tried to make look like girls next door but you could tell weren’t nothing but sluts and whores till he jumped her at half time whether she had her a real headache or the usual fake.
    “You get run over by a tractor? Maybe you had a lobotomy? You could run as a Republican. Better yet that new Tea Party might be up your alley. Sarah Palin was a Dogpatch type mayor and look what happened to her!”
    Her head was spinning and her eyes crossing as she shifted her foggy scrutiny from the blank profile beside her to the deadpan face watching her in the mirror until they combined in her mind to form a police mug shot like you see on “Most Wanted” which Mr. Wonderful liked to watch, maybe just to see if he was on it before he jumped her if he was still sober enough to get it up.
    “Who’s this bitch?”
    An Amazon from swampland suddenly appeared behind Cro-Magnon man in the mirror and was staring at her, hands on hippo hips, wild hair a tangle like black lagoon brambles.
    “I told you I don’t want no woman of mine comin’ in here.”
    Mr. Personality stares at the reflection standing over his shoulder and lights another Marlboro.
    “I asked you who this slut is? Gargantuarina stamps her foot and the rafters shake. “I’ll stomp her whore ass all over this bar! I’ll rip out that bleached blonde hair!”
    Yes, love is a many splendid thing. Sheila watches and sips her drink.
    “I really enjoyed meeting you both.” She hops off her bar stool “But I got to go.”
    “You ain’t goin’ nowhere.”
    “You better get your tramp butt out of here!”
    “‘Naked I wait Thy love’s uplifted stroke!’”
    Sheila spins around and lifts her glass in the air.
    “‘My harness piece by piece Thou hast hewn from me,
    And smitten me to the knee;’”
    Chairs slide out of her way as staggers across the floor.
    “‘I am defenseless utterly!’”
    She shrieks.
    “‘I slept methinks and woke,’”
    She peers around and lowers her voice.
    “‘And, slowly gazing, find me stopped in sleep,
    In the rash lustihead of my young powers,
    I shook the pillaring hours.’”
    “My God she’s crazy!”
    The Amazon gapes at her.
    Cro-Magnon stares wide eyed, mouth open.
    “Goodbye Trouble Town!”
    Sheila opens the door and bows.
    “I exit as I entered, on the Greyhound!”
    Lucky she had to memorize and recite Thompson’s “The Hound Of Heaven” for Mrs. McCully’s eighth grade English class. Probably just saved her ass.

Twilight Tripper

    It was a beautiful spring night when Dawn’s dad, Dr. Burnzini, finally let us eat one of his special pizzas; the same kind of pizza that he gave to his patients that he treated with “psychedelic-talk-therapy.”
    Still high from the potent weed we had smoked, I salivated while I watched Dr. B prepare the pizza. All the ingredients were in separate bowls: tomato and pineapple slices, black and green olives, cheddar and mozzarella cheese, and the most important ingredient, the magic mushrooms. Dawn and I tried to sample the ingredients, but Dr. B slapped our hands away when we reached for them.
    After Dr. B spread the tomato sauce on the hand-tossed dough, he slowly put all the ingredients on top of the sauce. Then he put the magnificent pie in his brick oven.
    When the pizza was cooked, Dr. B used his baking paddle to pull it out of the oven. Then he slid the pizza onto the dinner table. Dawn and I approached the table. Dr. B swung the paddle at us. “Back up!”
    Dawn and I laughed. “Chill out, dad.”
    Dr. B laughed. “I’m sorry. I’m pretty ritualistic when it comes to eating one of these pizzas.”
    “Yeah, well, I’m starving,” said Dawn.
    “I know,” said Dr. B. “But before we eat, I want to tell you about the first time I ate a supreme magic mushroom pizza.”
    “Fine,” said Dawn.
    Dawn and I retreated to the couch, and Dr. B sat in his recliner. Dawn started biting her nails, and I started running my fingers through her silky blonde hair as we prepared for one of Dr. B’s lectures. Dr. B said, “I started eating these pizzas years ago. I remember—”
    “Dad! I’m fricking hungry! I got the munchies!”
    “My dear child, you have become very impatient since the car wreck. And I want to know why.”
    “Yeah, Dawn. Be patient,” I said.
    Dawn gave me a titty-twister. “Shut up, Dusk. I’m starving!”
    I pinched one of her nipples. “Ouch!”
    Dawn stood up and pulled me off the couch. I pointed at the glass doors that were behind her. “Look! A bear!”
    Dawn turned around. I laughed as I wrapped my arms around her stomach and lifted her off the floor. I said, “You’re gullible...and heavy!”
    Dawn knew I was joking, but she just couldn’t take a joke about her body.
    Dawn pinched my hands, which caused me to let her go. “You jerk!” She kicked me in the shin. “Don’t call me fat!”
    “I didn’t! I called you heavy.”
    I wrestled Dawn to the ground and put her in a submission maneuver called “The Atlantic Crab,” a maneuver that I learned from one of my idols: a hilarious comedian who was famous for wrestling women.
    As I sat on Dawn’s back, I laughed as I pulled her legs towards her head. “Give up, Dawn!” I said. “Do you give up? Huh? Huh?”
    Dr. B interrupted my fun. “Alright, Dusk! That’s enough.”
    I got off her back, and Dawn got up from the floor. Then we both laughed as we hugged. Dr. B said, “I’m starting to think that you two are not mature enough for this experience with shrooms.”
    “We are, dad! Sorry!” said Dawn.
    “Yeah, Dr. B,” I said. “I don’t think having fun is a sign of immaturity.”
    “Good point,” said Dr. B. “Have a seat on the couch.”
    Dawn and I sat on the couch. Dr. B said, “Alright, I won’t bore you with my past experiences with shrooms. But I am going to prepare you for this experience with shrooms.”
    “Prepare us?” I asked.
    “Yeah,” said Dr. B. “I will be your psychedelic guide on this mind-expanding pleasure trip.”
    Dawn laughed. “Why? You don’t think we can handle the experience on our own?”
    “I think you can,” said Dr. B. “And I only require that you be with me for the beginning of your mind voyage.”
    “Alright,” said Dawn. “Is there anything else we should know about this voyage?”
    “Yes, there is,” said Dr. B. “You must know that there is the possibility that terror could suddenly enter your mind while you’re tripping.”
    “Terror?” I said. “I’ve heard that shrooms make you laugh and smile.”
    “They can make you laugh and smile,” said Dr. B. “But everybody reacts differently to foreign chemicals that are introduced to the brain. So, we don’t know how you will react to the effects of this drug.”
    Dawn fired up a cig. “Alright, is that it?”
    “No, it’s not.” Dr. B smiled. “I really don’t want you or Dusk to experience any fear or paranoia during this trip. So, you two must be very relaxed before and during this voyage into undiscovered sections of your brains. And that’s why we are going to go to a comfortable environment after we ingest this pizza.”
    “Alright, dad. We’ll be fine. Now let’s ingest the pizza.”
    “Alright.” Dr. B smiled at Dawn. “Just be ready to accept the changes to your psyche. This strange fungi will alter your senses, and your state of mind will be drastically changed. You might even discover some hidden intelligence in your brain.”
    Dawn laughed. “Why is intelligence hiding in my brain?”
    Dr. B picked up a slice of pizza and smiled at it. “Fun with fungi!”
    Dawn and I looked at each other and laughed. Dawn said, “You’re a dork, dad.”
    “Fun guy!” I said. “That’s on your license plates, Dr. B.”
    Dr. B smiled at his lovely daughter. “Are you going to eat a slice, miss impatient?”
    Dawn and I flew off the couch and we ran to the dinner table.
    As we started eating our first slices of pizza, Dr. B said, “Two more slices each. That’s it!”
    Dawn spit out a piece of pizza. “We only get three slices!”
    “This pizza is delicious, Dr. B,” I said. “Why can’t we have more then three slices?”
    Dr. B put his slice of pizza on his plate and he took a drink of his soda. “I have been dealing with psilocybin for years. So, I know that this dosage will almost guarantee that you will experience no terror or paranoia.” Dr. B laughed. “Though, you might go out of your minds temporarily. You might experience some insanity.”
    Dawn grabbed another slice of pizza. “Bring on the insanity!”
    After Dawn and I finished our last slices of pizza, and Dr. B finished his seventh slice, we followed Dr. B to his garage. Dawn asked, “This is the comfortable environment that you were talking about.”
    “No,” said Dr. B. “We are going to my solarium office.”
    Dawn and I smiled at each other. We loved hanging out in Dr. B’s solarium. I asked, “Are we going to drive there?”
    “No,” said Dr. B. “We are going to ride our bikes.”
    “Sweet!” I said. “Let’s go!”
    I was psyched for the adventure to begin, and I was definitely anticipating another strange and fun experience with Dawn and Dr. B.
    Dawn and I got out our mountain bikes, and Dr. B got out his custom-made bike: a four-wheeled bike that was decked out with all kinds of accessories and gadgets. It also had a flagpole that had a flag that read: LEGALIZE MEDICAL MARIJUANA.
    We got on our bikes and rode to the bike trails. And once we were on the nature trails, our psychedelic guide took the lead, and he used his bike light to illuminate the darkness that surrounded us.
    On the way to the solarium, Dawn asked her dad, “When are the shrooms going to kick in?”
    I swerved in front of Dawn. “Patience, Dawn.”
    “Shut up, Dusk.”
    “Relax, Dawn,” said Dr. B. “You’ll both be grinning by the time we get to the solarium.”
    Sure enough, by the time we got to the solarium, I couldn’t take my smile off my face. And after we went into the solarium, I started laughing hysterically as I looked at myself in Dr. B’s circus mirror. I was feeling euphoric. Everything around me was alive. I was in a surreal state of mind, and I had a feeling that I was going to be smiling and laughing for a long time.
    After I stopped looking at myself in the mirror, I told Dr. B about my new state of mind. “Dr. B, I feel electrified! I feel...strange!”
    I looked at Dawn. I was shocked by the look on her face; she looked as strange as I felt. Dawn said, “There’s a new energy inside of me!” She laughed. “My leg bones are tingling!”
    Dr. B smiled at us. “Just relax...you’ll be alright.”
    “I got to walk around,” I said.
    “You do that, Dusk,” said Dr. B. “Light the candles and incense, Dawn. And then turn off the lights.”
    Dawn lit a cig. “I’ll turn on the black-lights and lava lamps, too.”
    “Yeah, turn them on,” said Dr. B. “I want your altered senses to have electronic stimuli, too.”
    I picked up Dr. B’s cat. “Heronymus, why does your fur glow?”
    “His fur glows,” said Dr. B, “because one of my patients, who is a genetic engineer, added DNA from a glow-in-the-dark jellyfish to the egg that became Heronymus.”
    “Oh,” I said. “I wonder what other animals he could make glow.”
    Classical music started blaring from the speakers that were in every corner of the solarium. The music shocked me, and a few moments later, Dawn’s trippy behavior did too.
    While I was still holding Heronymus, Dawn started running towards me. I thought she was going to tackle me. My first instinct was to run away from her, but I didn’t. I just put Heronymus on the floor so he could run from her.
    Dawn didn’t tackle me; she hugged and kissed me. “This is cool, huh?” asked Dawn.
    “Yeah! I’m pretty fricking happy right now.”
    Dawn put her tongue in my mouth for a few moments. Then she whispered in my ear, “You know what I want to do with you, right?”
    I laughed really loud. “Yeah, I do!”
    “What’s so funny, Dusk?” asked Dr. B.
    I laughed. “Dawn told me that she almost pees her pants when she feels her bones tingling.”
    Dr. B shook his head as he laughed. “Sit and settle down you goofballs. This session has just started.”
    Dawn and I sat on one of the many couches that were in the solarium. As soon as I sat down, I wanted to get right back up. I didn’t feel comfortable staying still. My mind was stimulated, and random and interesting thoughts were racing to my mind. I said, “Let’s go!”
    I tried to get up from the couch, but Dawn pulled me back down and put her legs over my lap. Dawn asked, “Where do you want to go?”
    “I don’t know. Somewhere!”
    Dawn grabbed my hand. “Just chill out.”
    “Yeah, Dusk,” said Dr. B. “You have to stay calm.”
    I grinned at Dr. B. “Chaos!”
    I started laughing manically as I took Dawn’s legs off my lap. And I continued to laugh until I was standing in front of Dr. B’s desk. I tried to focus on his face, but it was blurry. I knew I couldn’t wait for his face to go back to normal, so I just started talking to the blur. “You didn’t tell me that the candle flames were going to tell me jokes!” I laughed. “Frick! How intense is this going to get?”
    “As intense as you want it to get.” Dr. B gestured towards the “patient couch” that was near his desk. “But you have to chill out, or you might freak out. Now, please lay on the chaise, Dusk.”
    I laid on the chaise. I closed my eyes; hoping the darkness would calm me down. But the darkness didn’t calm me down; my mind was still bugging whether my eyes were open or not. So, I just kept my eyes open, and I kept smiling as I lived in brief intervals of comedic insanity.
    As I prepared for Dr. B’s questions, I watched Dawn wave her lit cig back and forth in front of her face. I knew she was seeing what I was seeing. I laughed. “You’re funny, Dawn.”
    Dr. B looked at Dawn. “Quit playing with your cig. You’re distracting Dusk.”
    Dawn gazed at her cig’s cherry, before slowly putting her cig out in an ashtray. Then she came and laid next to me. I started caressing her smooth skin as I kissed her. “Stop that!” Dr. B turned on a strobe light and aimed it right at us. “You can do that later.” He turned the strobe light off. “I’m going to ask you two a couple of questions.”
    “We are not your patients, dad.”
    Dr. B laughed. “Today you are.”
    “Fine, dad. Make it quick.”
    Dr. B smiled. “It seems like you two are enjoying yourselves so far.” He wrote something in his notebook. “That’s awesome.”
    While Dawn played with my hair, she said, “The questions, dad.”
    “Alright,” said Dr. B. “Dusk, I want you to tell me how you feel about Dawn.”
    While I looked into Dawn’s beautiful blue eyes, I answered the question. “I love her!” I laughed. “She is so cool!” I laughed. “I want to spend the rest of my life with her!”
    Dawn kissed me. I smiled. “How many more questions do you got for us, Dr. B? I want to go for a walk with Dawn.”
    Dr. B puffed on his tobacco pipe and blew some smoke at us. “Don’t question my intellect, Dusk. I can see through that cloud of smoke. Sexual ecstasy can be the best part of a psychedelic experience. I have had many sexual escapades while—”
    “Dad! We don’t want to hear about your sexual escapades.”
    I laughed. “I understand,” said Dr. B. “Let me ask you a question, Dawn.”
    “Fine, go ahead.”
    “I want you to tell me why you have become so impatient.”
    Dawn closed her eyes and remained silent. Dr. B said, “Please tell me why, Dawn.”
    Dawn opened her eyes and started staring at the ceiling. “I’m impatient because...well, ever since that near-death experience that I had with the car wreck, I really understand how short life is. So I feel I just can’t waste any time.”
    I laughed. “I realized life was short when I was ten. After my goldfish died a day after I bought it.”
    “Shut up, Dusk,” said Dawn.
    Dr. B puffed on his pipe. “Well, the haunting reaper has been known to make people impatient. But we’ll talk about that another time.”
    “Does that mean we can go? Because Dawn’s right. We can’t waste our precious time.”
    “Yes, she is right. But just because life is short, doesn’t mean you have to be impatient.” Dr. B chuckled as he looked at Dawn. “And it doesn’t mean that you have to get away from your dad as quickly as possible.”
    Dawn got up and hugged her dad. “You know I love being with you, dad.”
    “I know you do.” Dr. B smiled at Dawn. “I just have one more question for Dusk.”
    I laughed as Dawn cuddled next to me. “Alright...but don’t ask me why I like wrestling girls.”
    “I know why you like wrestling girls.” Dr. B laughed. “I just want you to describe exactly how you feel right now?”
    I looked at the nature outside of the solarium as I told Dr. B how I felt. “I feel...I feel unworldly!” I laughed. “I feel FREE!” I looked at Dr. B, who was writing in his notebook. “And I no longer want to worry about trying to make money or gain material possessions. I just want to have fun, and do nothing but enjoy life.” I smiled at Dawn. “I want to make Dawn happy.”
    Dawn kissed me. “I love you, Dusk.”
    Her words made me shiver.
    Dr. B nodded his head as he smiled at us. “Enjoy the rest of your trip. Try to make it back here before twilight.”
    “We will, ” Dawn and I said in unison.
    After stepping out of the solarium, I wanted to use some of the pulsing creative energy that I had in me. “Let’s run around and scream at life,” I suggested.
    “No,” said Dawn. “Let’s walk and stay dead-silent as we listen to life.”
    I shrugged my shoulders. “Alright.”
    Dawn and I didn’t say one word to each other as we walked to the middle the field; we even stopped laughing. We just enjoyed the sounds of nature as we walked like zombies.
    When we got to the middle of the field, we got on the ground and we laid on our backs. We remained silent as we gazed at the sky. The stars and satellites were putting on an amazing show for us. I stared at one particular star for what seemed like hours. The star was communicating with me with its twinkles. I thought, It would be so fricking cool to fly around you.
    I was really enjoying imagining the impossible, but I wanted to do what was possible: I wanted to make love to Dawn.
    I started caressing Dawn’s body. “I don’t need a psychedelic guide for this.”
    Dawn Laughed. Then the lovemaking started. The sex and psilocybin fusion gave me the best sensations I had ever felt.
    By the time we got back to the solarium, twilight was approaching. The intensity of the trip was weakening, but I was still feeling ecstatic.
    We shocked Dr. B out of his trance by opening a door that caused a bell to ring. Dr. B smiled at us. “There’s my twilight trippers!”
    Dawn and I laughed. Dawn said, “Hey, dad.”
    I laughed. “Hey, Dr. B.”
    Dr. B grabbed his guitar. “Let’s go outside and watch the sun bring us a new day.”
    We went to the middle of the field and we laid down near the spot where Dawn and I had made psychedelic love. As Dr. B played his guitar, we watched our world slowly and dramatically change. It was an incredible experience, just like the whole trip was.

Jelly Bellies

        Layoffs suck. They gather the axed ones in a conference room, or call them to HR one by one to break the news. The women usually return with tears pooling in their eyes. The men are often resolute, their faces hardened. Waiting for them at their desks are cardboard boxes for packing up their personal belongings. Desk drawers are opened and closed, sometimes loudly. Plants, various knickknacks, and family photos are cleared off desktops, or pulled out from overhead cabinets and bins and packed into the boxes. Supervisors stand nearby, inspecting the whole awful process as it unfolds. Those employees fortunate enough to stay sit and watch quietly those chosen to leave. Many people hug and say goodbye. Others burst into tears and leave without saying a word.
    I was at lunch, so I missed it all this time. Those chosen to leave were just gone when I got back. Where once living and vibrant co-workers had sat working and dedicating themselves to the company for eight hours a day, forty or more hours a week, there now remained only empty cubicles. I didn’t know what to think or say about it all. Mostly, I felt numb inside. I just sat down and went back to work.
    After downsizing or rightsizing or whatever the powers-that-be decide to call it, I’m never quite the same for a while. Sure, I get my work done. The pile of mortgages and deeds ready for recording gradually accumulates throughout the day at the edge of my desk. Productive is me, and productive I shall be. It appears that I’m doing all right. But outward appearances say very little about how I’m feeling. I run deep in still waters. It takes time for me to get over things.

    Four days later, I was still feeling sad, so I decided to go for a walk. I got up and drifted around the office. I stopped at some of the empty cubicles and reminisced, remembering how I greeted the people who had sat in them with friendly “good mornings” or simple “hellos.” I used to ask them about their kids, their spouses, the movies they’d seen recently, what they had done that weekend.
    Cynthia, a girl who had once sat next to me, was one of my favorites. She was a real people-person. She was always doing special things, like handing out Jelly Belly candies to whoever stopped at her desk. She also liked to go out for a smoke with her friends at about the same time every morning. I believe she enjoyed the visiting much more than the cigarettes though, because she always talked of quitting smoking one day. She was getting married in May and she was very much in love.
    I enjoyed playing with Cynthia’s mind! She had put a toy rubber alligator on the top of the cubicle wall that separated us. She had gotten it from a restaurant named Razzoo’s here in Dallas. She would pose this alligator a certain way, and at some point during the day when she’d leave her desk, I’d reach up there and change it. If she had the gator going to the left on all fours, I’d turn it to the right. Sometimes I’d lay it on its back and then later, she’d turn it back over on all fours. I believe she enjoyed the games with that toy as much as I did.
    One day, she put this tiny plastic doll on the cube wall next to the gator. The doll was a girl dressed in a red halter-top, tight blue jeans, and sneakers. It had shoulder-length brown hair and a smiling face.
    I still remember Cynthia holding that tiny doll between her index finger and thumb and leaning over our cube wall. “This is little Cynthia, Steven,” she told me. “Just for you. Look, she’s got heavy eye-shadow on and I’ve put a tattoo on her.”
    I took the doll from her and looked it over. Cynthia had used a green marker to shade the doll’s eyes and blot a tattoo on its upper arm. “Your tattoo is on your wrist and it’s a butterfly,” I observed. “This doll isn’t accurate.”
    She gave me a pouting look. “It’s close enough.”
    I shrugged and put the little doll back next to the rubber gator. I forgot about it for a few days until I noticed that Cynthia was now posing the doll too. So one day, I bent the doll’s flexible arms and put it in a pushup position. I put the rubber gator behind it and said over the top of the cubical wall, “Hey Cynthia! You said you’ve been jogging so you can fit better into your wedding dress. How about some pushups with that gator behind you for some extra motivation?”
    She just laughed.
    I went to lunch and when I came back, I found that she had put the doll’s legs into the gator’s mouth. Later that same day, I put the doll headfirst into the gator’s mouth. Back and forth we went week after week, until that dreadful day came when they made her and the others go home. The gator, the little Cynthia doll, and everything that had made the real Cynthia so special left with her.
    I never got to say goodbye.
    I returned to my chair after my tour of the empty cubicles, my heart and head swimming with emotions and memories. I was just about to turn back to my computer when my co-worker Christina approached my desk. She carried a cardboard box under one arm. “I have some inheritance for you,” she said.
    “Really? Inheritance from whom?” I asked.
    “Cynthia has left all of you some inheritance,” she announced to me and those seated around us.
    Christina reached into the box and pulled out some items. “She wanted you to have these,” she said, handing me the rubber gator from Razzoo’s and the little Cynthia doll. “You are to keep them to remember her by.”
    She turned and walked away, but then stopped suddenly and came back to my desk. She reached into the box again.
    “Oh yes, I almost forgot. You are supposed to have this too,” she said, handing me a glass jar with a sealed ornate lid.
    Inside the jar were black binder clips of assorted shapes and sizes. I gave the jar a shake. Christina must’ve read the puzzled look on my face. “That’s because you were always looking for binder clips for your documents,” she said. “Cynthia remembers that.”
    “Tell her thank you for remembering me,” I said. “And tell her I miss her.”
    I can’t describe the warmth in my heart for having received these items. Cynthia had remembered me, and now I had the rubber gator and the little Cynthia doll for which to remember her. These little gifts meant so much to me. They helped soothe the pain I felt over the layoffs.
    Weeks passed. Work was done. Mortgages and deeds were recorded or rejected. Little Cynthia and the Razzoo’s gator stood on my computer monitor’s shelf, always in sight and within reach of me whenever I wanted to remember. I had put the jar full of binder clips aside and had completely forgotten about it.
    Then came that day when I ran out of binder clips, as usual. I stood up from my chair and was just about to ask Christina if she had any when I remembered the jar full of clips that Cynthia had left me. I sat back down, grabbed the jar, and opened it. Instantly my nose was filled with the assorted fruity and minty smells that had been sealed up in that jar. I quickly closed the lid again and stood up in my cubicle.
    I shook the jar at Christina. “Hey!” I said to her. “This jar, this wonderful jar that Cynthia gave me? Is this where she kept the Jelly Bellies? Is this that same jar?”
    Christina smiled. “Same jar,” she said. “Why do you ask?”
    “Because I can still smell the Jelly Bellies. Their smells are still lingering in this jar.” Christina looked at me quizzically. I sat down again, my senses stirred once more by an assortment of memories.
    I remembered Cynthia handing out Jelly Bellies to everyone all the time; even the owner of our company stopped by her desk to have some. There were watermelon Jelly Bellies, cherry Jelly Bellies, lemon and apple Jelly Bellies, bubblegum Jelly Bellies: little round candies in different kinds of flavors, all with wondrous smells. I leaned back in my chair and smiled, remembering how Christina tried to protect the jar whenever Cynthia had a day off. People raided that jar for Jelly Bellies. I still don’t know how Christina and Cynthia managed to keep it filled.
    I thought about how people are like Jelly Bellies. They bring their own colors and flavors to life: distinct manners of living, their unique ways of laughing; certain gestures so keenly their own that you just can’t ever forget them. People bring their own gifts to every situation and those gifts can never be replaced because people are not interchangeable parts – they are beings fearfully and wonderfully made, each with a unique personality and an ultimate purpose.
    I remembered my funny friend named Cynthia and all of those wonderful individuals I’d had the privilege of working with over the last year. Different rainbow colors, unique and glorious flavors: people and Jelly Bellies, Jelly Bellies and people.
    I decided to keep those memories. I haven’t opened that jar since.

The Hunted

    Old Joe got off at the last stop-Stillwell Avenue, Coney Island. His frenzied eyes darted and flitted across the bleak platform. He didn’t see him. But he felt his presence. Someone had been following him all day. Maybe the guy was on the job or just another freakin’ mope. He could be a crazy person hungry for trouble, or a hit man tracking Old Joe. Maybe. But who wanted him dead? Why?
    Old Joe was turning sixty. But his body was strong, muscular, and finely tuned for self-defense or killing. He descended the barren stairs and wandered through the dark cave that contained antediluvian stores and lost souls. Outside, he crossed Surf Avenue and headed straight for the Boardwalk.
    From time to time, he looked back. He didn’t see him. This guy was good, he thought. But Old Joe was better.
    He passed the Cyclone, Wonder Wheel, and Parachute Jump as he rushed toward the pier. Suddenly, his brain was flooded with horrific memories that he had buried years ago. No matter. He had a rendezvous to keep.
    Christmas Eve. The Boardwalk was deserted. And now, the snow began to fall. Abruptly, he turned his head and tried to see the stranger. He saw only the barren Boardwalk and the swirling snow.

    He stood on the pier, smoked a Marlboro with his left hand, and waited. Inside his black leather jacket, his right hand clutched a knife.
    “You came back,” the stranger said.
    Old Joe turned around and mumbled: “You!”
    “Yeah. You thought you killed your old man 50 years ago. My little son stabbed me in the back like a coward. Yeah. You tried. Almost succeeded. But I’ll live forever. Deep within your brain.”
    “Maybe I oughta kill you again.”
    “You can’t.”
    The stalker laughed at him. Old Joe lunged at the beast, cut him bad, and killed him forever.

    He lay on the wooden pier beneath the white whirling snow that was turning red. He breathed his last breaths, waiting to die. With death, the unbearable nightmares that had haunted him for half a century would end, he prayed.
    Old Joe, professional criminal and frequent hit man, whispered obscenities to his father’s ghost. And he clutched the knife he had thrust deep into his chest, waiting only seconds, but perhaps forever, for the end. Even now, his body shook in terror, for he feared his father would follow him to Hell. And for eternity, he would hunt and torture Old Joe, the hunted.

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.

The Right Clothes

    Aynslee Wright felt there was nothing more important in a woman’s life (outside of family, of course) than her appearance. That was her mantra, and she repeated it daily—a duty as important as brushing her teeth and applying the whitener to them. It is so true; you can only make a first impression once.
    So when her husband asked for a divorce after ten years of marriage, not only was she deeply hurt, she was totally surprised. She had always thought that, like her daily outfits, her marriage was, you might say, in perfect taste. They never disagreed, except of course when the monthly bills for her clothes came in. But Roger didn’t even grumble about that too much. Even when two years after their marriage, Roger had suggested perhaps they would like having a child, he had not insisted when she politely but firmly demurred. There was no way on earth she was going to walk around with a huge lump in the front of her Balenciaga.
    Yet when the end came, when Aynslee had asked him through her tears, “Why? Why?” he had said, “I can’t believe you don’t know. You don’t, do you? You really don’t know, haven’t a clue. I can’t believe it.” Then he had moved out for good, saying as he left, “I will always like you, maybe still love you a little, but I will never again take second place to a hatpin.” What in the world had Roger meant? She had never used a hatpin in her life. She didn’t know anyone who used them anymore. She racked her brain, but even now, seven years after the split, she still had no idea why it had happened. She certainly had always taken extreme care with her appearance. He never woke up in the morning without seeing her perfectly attired, from hair set, to her shoes. Why, she wondered, why, why.
    Today, she and Caroline were going out to dinner and theater afterward. Caroline was her oldest friend—they had known each other as infants in a fancy suburb in Westchester just next to New York City where they both lived now. Perhaps it was only longevity, but they had stayed friends all their lives, even though Caroline’s taste in clothes made chills run down Aynslee’s back. She actually bought her clothes at consignment shops, resale stores, and—Aynslee shuddered—Caroline had even been known to buy accessories—and, truth to tell, even clothes—from vendors on the streets of New York. Nevertheless, nothing was going to influence Aynslee away from her principles, and familiarity with Caroline’s excitement over her “wonderful” bargains did not faze her in the least. She always dressed with utmost care. Even to go out to the market, her “casual” clothes were from the best designers. Aynslee was determined to be Caroline’s friend, come hell or high water, but sometimes when she saw the Valentino “knockoff” Caroline had bought from a vendor on the street, she literally felt nauseous.
    From the day Aynslee could assert herself, which was about at the age of five, she knew what she wanted to wear. Her parents were older, she was an only child, and anything she wished was granted with the obeisance one would grant to a queen. She must always be color coordinated, at the age of five, so that not only were her outer garments always pink, if that was the color of the day, but her underwear, socks and even shoes had to be the same shade of pink as the bow in her hair. When Aynslee was grown, she was just as stringent about color-matching, and her lingerie to this day, was always exactly the same design and color as her outer garments. When she had to go to a formal affair, even the shade of ash in her well-blonded hair was adapted to blend in with the color of her clothes that day.
    Caroline, on the other hand, though just as fascinated with clothes, clothes, clothes, was much less puritanical. To Caroline, pink was pink. It was not dusty rose, blush, or any other euphemism. And blue was blue. To Aynslee, blue was royal, aqua, robin’s egg, teal-she rarely even used the word blue.
    Aynslee was pondering over all this as she selected her outfit for the evening. She never wore a dress; she always wore an “outfit”. When Caroline appeared at the door, grinning and saying. “Are you all ready to go Dotty—oh, oh, I’m sorry, Aynslee?” Aynslee grimaced. In her teens Aynslee had decided that her name, Dorothy, did not really express the kind of person she was and wanted to be, but this time she did not correct Caroline verbally, just gave her a look which Caroline understood too well.
    As Aynslee took her Prada purse and opened the door to leave, Caroline’s face began to twist and contort and blood came pouring out of her mouth—out of her mouth and onto Aynslee’s newest Versace creation—and, having done that, the blood went on to her Jimmy Choo shoes, and even, even, even on to her La Perla underwear. Aynslee was horrified. Caroline kept spewing blood all over the place, all over Aynslee’s outfit, over and over. This was awful. When Caroline had recovered, Aynslee would demand that she cover half of the cost of her outfit. Caroline finally managed to choke out “Ambulance” and Aynslee went to the phone and dialed 911.
    The ambulance service came almost immediately and the driver insisted that Aynslee come along with Caroline since Caroline was in no condition to answer questions. Aynslee was horrified. There was no way she was going out in public in the state that Caroline had mercilessly left her in. But there was nothing she could do but go along, since the driver did not know how serious Caroline’s condition was.
    When Aynslee came home afterwards, she carefully listed everything that her clothes had cost item by item, then halved the total, even rounding out the numbers so that it would be a fair division.
    She never heard from Caroline again. She called the hospital over the next few weeks, left innumerable messages for Caroline, and learned that after two weeks she had gone home well. She left messages on Caroline’s home phone time after time but there was never any response.
    The years went by. Aynslee became lonely as she aged, having no other real friends and eventually in her late sixties, entered a retirement community so that at least there would be people around her. She was always admired for her appearance and people were pleased to be seen with her and often asked her to attend formal functions because she made such a good appearance, but, for some reason, no one ever called her to go out for coffee, or dinner or just to chat..
    It was the custom of the retirement community to throw a huge birthday party for any resident who reached the age of 70. All one’s friends were invited no matter where they had to come from, and were given free room and board for several days if necessary. When Aynslee admitted to the age of 70, her party was duly held but she sat by the huge birthday cake alone, except for one or two nodding acquaintances who felt obligated to attend. She sat for an hour when suddenly Caroline came in the door. Aynslee was totally overcome with pleasure and relief, and they began to talk in the same old intimate ways that old friends always do, no matter how much time has passed. They talked and talked until the lights were politely blinked out a couple of times. Caroline said she would come back in two weeks and Aynslee felt a happiness she had never felt in her life before. After Caroline left, an acquaintance came up to Aynslee and said, “Did you see what your friend was wearing? That outfit must have cost her a fortune. That had to be an original Valentino.”
    “Her clothes?” Aynslee was mystified. And suddenly realized that she was so happy to see her old friend that she had never noticed a thing Caroline was wearing. Not her dress, shoes, purse, shade of her lipstick, size and shapes of her jewelry. And for the first time Aynslee had the blinding light of true insight and began to understand what life was all about.

A House John D Built (1)

    This is a house John D built
    This is the well drilled in the gulf by a house John D built
    This is the rig that exploded while drilling the well in the Gulf for a house John D built
    This is the methane that leaked from the hole made when the rig exploded while drilling the well in the Gulf for a house John D built
    These are the creatures at the bottom of the sea killed by the methane leaking from the hole made when the rig exploded while drilling the well in the Gulf for a house John D built
    This is the oil that rained up for many times the biblical period above the creatures at the bottom of the sea killed by the methane leaking from the hold made when the rig exploded while drilling the well in the Gulf for a house John D built
    This is the state-sized slick formed from the oil that rained up for many times the biblical period above the creatures at the bottom of the sea killed by the methane leaking from the hole made when the rig exploded while drilling the well in the Gulf for a house John D built
    These are the creatures at the top of the sea killed by the moving state-sized slick formed from the oil that rained up for many times the biblical period above the creatures at the bottom of the sea killed by the methane leaking from the hole made when the rig exploded while drilling the well in the Gulf for a house John D built
    These are the people who depended on the lives of those creatures at the top of the sea killed by the moving state-sized slick formed from the oil that rained up for many times the biblical period above the creatures at the bottom of the sea killed by the methane leaking from the hole made when the rig exploded while drilling the well in the Gulf for a house John D built
    This is the fox who guarded the henhouse for the people who depended on the lives of the creatures at the top of the sea killed by the moving state-sized slick formed from the oil that rained up for many times the biblical period above the creatures at the bottom of the sea killed by the methane leaking from the hole made when the rig exploded while drilling the well in the Gulf for a house John D built
    This is the President who to save face fired the fox who guarded the henhouse for the people who depended on the lives of the creatures at the top of the sea killed by the moving state-sized slick from from the oil that rained up for many times the biblical period above the creatures at the bottom of the sea killed by the methane leaking from hole made when the rig exploded while drilling the well in the Gulf for a house John D built
    This is Dopey and Sleazy and the rest of the Congressional Dwarves who criticized tax insufficiently obsequious to the house the President who tried to save face by firing the fox who guarded the henhouse for the people who depended on the lives of the creatures at the top of the sea killed by the moving state-sized slick formed from the oil that rained up for many times the biblical period above the creatures at the bottom of the sea killed by the methane leaking from the hole made when the rig exploded while drilling the well in the Gulf for a house John D built
    These are the people who drove the cars and who elected Dopey and Sleazy and the rest of the Congressional Dwarves as well as the President who was criticized for insufficient obsequiousness and who tried to save face by firing the fox who guarded the henhouse for the people who depended on the loves of the creatures at the top of the sea killed by the moving state-sized slick formed from the oil that rained up for many times the biblical period above the creatures at the bottom of the sea killed by the methane leaking from the hole made when the rig exploded while drilling the well in the Gulf for a house John D built
    And these are the eleven who died right away in the longest and deadliest war, forgotten in all of the above

A House John D Built (2)

    This is a house John D built
    This is the pipeline from the pristine wilderness built by a house John D built
    This is the oil loaded on ships after being carried by the pipeline from the pristine wilderness for a house John D built
    This is the single-  rather than double- hulled ship and half-staffed crew that transported the oil loaded on board after being carried by the pipeline from the pristine wilderness for a house John D built
    This is the oil that spilled in the Sound when the single-hulled ship with its half-crew ran aground on a not-Good Friday while transporting the oil loaded on board after being carried by the pipeline from the pristine wilderness for a house John D built
    And these were the governments federal and state and the other companies who shared in the profits who had no plan for immediate response when the oil spilled in the Sound
    Thus:
    This the ninety-plus percent of the oil blown over hundreds of miles by an Easter storm
    And these are the tens of thousands of birds and thousands of marine mammals killed by the oil blown over hundreds of miles in the Easter storm
    And this is the food chain contaminate from bottom to top in additions to the thousands and thousands of animals killed by the oil blown over hudnreds of miles in the Easter storm
    And this is a culture nearly destroyed because it depended on the contaminated food
    And this is the fine that paid for causing all of the above that was a mere fraction of of one year’s profits for a house John D built

Geronimo Reading the L.L. Bean Hunting Catalogue

    I was born Goyahkla, that means in Apache, “one who yawns”. I can only conclude that I was either a sleepy baby or one who was bored with my surroundings. My people, called Bedonkohe, were a branch of the Eastern Chiricahua. You can read all about me elsewhere because now I want to tell you about the time my spirit came back from the mountains and I found an L.L. Bean hunting catalogue lying beside someone’s mailbox outside a ranch. This was on the road that now leads to the Cochise Stronghold. I was headed there to try and resurrect Cochise’s spirit so that the two of us could have a long talk about our days fighting the White Eyes when they came to Arizona to steal our hunting grounds and murder us as they did using the Papago at the Camp Grant Massacre.
    It was far too hot on that ranch road to stop and read the catalogue, so I stuck it under my arm and continued on to the Stronghold. You may question why my spirit was not immune to the hot desert of Arizona, so I must tell you the truth; Apache spirits are so close to the owner of the former body that heat and cold have the same effect as when that body was alive. You can believe that or not, but if you are White Eyes you probably will not believe it just like you never believed the Apache was telling the truth. Therefore, you lied to the Apache almost every time you spoke, especially if you were a military or government person.
    Back to the heat, I must say that these machines you White Eyes have outside your wickiups that keep the inside cool are quite nice. We never had anything but breezes blowing through the sticks from which we made the walls of our wickiups. We stayed inside our dwellings during the heat of the days and hunted in the evening when the animals came out of their dwelling places. They stayed away from the heat of the day for the same reason we did.
    I must tell you that my people considered me a good hunter. I was also known as a better trainer of warriors than a warrior in my own right. So, you can see why I was so interested in the L.L. Bean Hunting Catalogue.
    Upon reaching the old Stronghold, where Cochise stayed between raids against the White Eyes, I was appalled to see that the White Eye government had changed it into a campground for vacationers. Such a sacred place should never have been marred by such sacrilegious an act. In spite of my fuming anger, I sat down on a log, pulled the catalogue from under my arm and opened the outside cover. What I saw made my eyes open wide. I was not startled, just amazed at the shotguns. Had we been able to have shotguns like those we might have beaten General Crook. He was the Fellow who rode mules that we Apache consider the greatest delicacy going. He outsmarted us by paying our people to be scouts and to kill us if they could.
    The clothes those hunters wore on that first page were strange, especially the orange hats and vest. Even their dog wore an orange collar. Don’t these White Eyes understand that deer and pheasants are color blind. And, don’t they realize that with those clothes with orange make good targets? The hunting bag they call Magnum Duck Blind Bag and say it is functional. It looks to me to be more than I would want to carry around when I am trying to hunt. Also I wonder if the duck they are hunting is blind. It should be easy to kill.
    On the next page there are some things I really fail to understand. The vest that holds electronic stuff seems expensive and that GPS thing I found out is to find their way around so they don’t get lost. Now, if that isn’t a typical White Eyes rig. I remember when they would get lost trying to find us. Maybe they should have had one of those GPS deals back then. And, those boots that you twist a knob to tighten on seem quite overdone for my taste.
    Turning the page I saw Technical Upland Shirt and Technical Upland Pants. I wonder if they would call our Apache britches and skirts Technical Apache clothing. Back then I guess they wouldn’t bother because all they cared about was dead Apache warriors, and dead Apache women. They even were proud of dead Apache children because they knew they wouldn’t grow up to become Apache warriors and raiders.
    Then next page, more of the same clothes with different names and an orange whistle. That ought to be good at scaring deer away. Maybe that was for when they get lost and their GPS quits with a low battery. More clothes and orange hats. They call it “hunter orange”. Nice looking dog, though.
    The following page had jackets for winning the wrestling match with thick cover in our rugged briar turning coat. We Apache wrestled with one another but never with briar patches. Down below they started showing knives and tools. Another page and more clothes about the same as before and again an orange whistle. Maybe those orange whistles are required equipment.
    The next page showed shotguns close up and all kinds of clothes for “shooters”. At least they said “shooters” and not hunters, because I doubt anyone could ever hunt loaded down with all that stuff I had seen on previous pages. On the next page they have a school for Outdoor discovery. Now that is a way to make a buck. I used to train warriors for nothing and they turned out really well. Ask General Crook!
    Finally a couple of bows and arrows, but they sure as hell don’t look like the bows I made, and the dude shooting the arrow wearing dark glasses. I wonder if those are for not seeing the target.
    After colored glasses, gun cleaning stuff and earmuffs come all sorts of knives. These are all about the same size but they all have different names. My question is how does a hunter carry all these knives that they say are for different purposes. Again there is more stuff to weigh the White Eyes down. I am beginning to wonder about these White Eyes hunter fellows. Next are flashlights. Do these dudes hunt at night? Why?
    The next page is full of electronic stuff that blows me away so I will not describe this mess. Do they bring a tech person along with them when they hunt? Or do they call the tech people in the Philippines on their cell phones. Then again, their cell phones might be out of range. I guess I had better not go there!
    The next nine pages are clothes to hunt in I assume. I wouldn’t want to be caught dead in any of it. For the most part the clothes are doen in what they call “Camo” these days. That’s the lazy way to say Camouflage. Perhaps they shorten it because they cannot spell the original word. These clothes in so-called “Camo” must be used for suicide attacks because wearing this type of clothing hides one from other hunters so they cannot see what they are shooting at. That seem superfluous since they probably can’t see what they are shooting at anyway with their bellies full of beer and booze. I do have an interesting picture in my mind of all these hunting fellows out scouring the countryside for their deer to tag, and they end up bumping into each other because with this clothing they cannot see one another. At least the deer survive because they can see exactly what is coming after them.
    The next page pictures what the White Eyes must have copied from Apache because these are wickiup with Camo and they call them “Primos Gunhunter’s Blind”. Copycats!!!
    The next few pages are full of more equipment that I haven’t a clue about, but again I think with all this weight these hunters would need the stoutest mule ever born of a mare to carry them and their stuff around to hunt for their annual deer. Following that are Camo women’s clothes. Wow, I thought women stayed back in the wickiup taking care of the children and cooking for their men who were out hunting. Times do change, don’t they?
    I am half way through the catalogue, but I will summarize what is left. There are spy glasses, dog beds, more guns, enough boots for an army and more other just stuff that is for any possible occurrence while off in the wilds chasing game. From what I have seen in this catalogue deer will never become extinct and for that I am quite happy.
    I sure wish Cochise could have been here with this catalogue and me. I am sure he would have enjoyed looking at it. I did. I will tuck this catalogue under this log. Maybe Cochise will find it.

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.