“An Unconfortable History ”

    “The Report of the Commission to Inquire Into Child Abuse reveals an uncomfortable history of Ireland,” says The Irish Times. According to the newspaper, this report uncovers a history stained by the systematic abuse of children in Catholic religious institutions, ranging from “beating children whose crime it was that lice had infected their heads” to sustained sexual abuse. The abuse was ignored because of misguided loyalty to “the absolute authority of the Catholic Church,” says the paper. “Shame on You, Government and Church,” said the headline in the Times, quoting the words of one who sympathized with the victims.

Pinching the cancer on my face
verses I and IV

I.

Pinching the cancer on my face/ death
spurting over the worldly things/ no
more room for graves/ corpses

inundating the cosmos/ Jews
in the promised land called
Auschwitz & Belsen, curling

up in smoke/ my German
ancestors shoving them into the
ovens as

            my Scottish ancestors break
down the death camp door with
Patton to find the wasted corpses

packed into shacks/ Patton freeing
the inmates to tear apart the guards &
capos as Jesoo screams from his

Jewish cross, but no Christian
bothers to take him down as
the rusty nails pierce our

souls, & we die of
lockjaw trying
to open our sullied lips to

cry for forgiveness, but
there’s no one left who can
forgive, & all our souls are dead/

the smell of His rotting children
asphyxiates the Lord, &
the sun falls dead from the sky in

shame/ the cold & darkness
freezes the children in the nursery, &
they’re put in the freezer for the

Last Supper, but Jesoo is too
drunk on the wine to
eat/ Judas rats him out &

hangs himself with God’s
umbilical cord, as
Mother Mary is raped in the

madhouse &
can’t stop
chortling ...

!

IV.

WikiLeaks
exposes Joe McCarthy as
still the leader of the Republican

Party spreading the bile that
the opposition is communists in the
pulpit, who

hope to fairly redistribute the wealth &
love thy neighbor like thyself/ some
call them Christians & want them in

Guantanamo to be eaten by lions/ they
first & foremost want to eat
Obama who loves his people enough to

seek for them equal shares of the U.S.ofA., &
the GOP wants to screw the people with
their noble army of Hitler & Hirohito, Boehner &

Palin, the Antichrist & Antipeople/ off
to war in Somalia & Palestine, Detroit &
Chicago, Afghanistan, Iraq, Iran ... to

kill kill kill &
keep Mussolini &
Wall St in power/ O

America, we love you, &
on your grave we
put a flower, then

put the petals against the wall &
shoot them
DEAD ...

!

Soul Keeper

I keep my soul
in a little glass jar
hidden in the back
of a kitchen cabinet.
Sometimes, at night,
when gods and saints and neighbors
and other strange people stalking
through my yard are not looking,
I open the jar up to see
if the glow is still enough
to frighten away the darkness.

Poem From
The Hartford Epic
(Last Known Address)

Last known address:
the motel selling
teenage runaways
& crystal meth

In your former room:
a racing-car decaled
cube refrigerator
with a half drunk
screw cap
bottle of wine

From which you
took your last toast:

to a world
which only
lets you choose

between today’s
unidentified victim

or tomorrow’s
still wanted
killer

Confess to Me

Confess to white slavery.
Confess to armed burglary.
Confess to cooking crystal meth
on your range. Confess to running
over motorcyclists sprawled
in the street. Confess that you hate
priests and nuns. Confess to humming
bombastic Wagner overtures
while shaking hands with rabbis.
I know you more deeply than your many
lovers do. Your eyes turn blue
for some, brown for others, green
for your favorites. The night we drove
to the lake and swam all silver
in the uncensored starlight I spoiled
the moment by naming the gap
between spirit and body, ending
forever your love of the bible.
But you’ve never trusted books.
When I gave you Anna Karenina
you choked on the thick Russian names
and blamed me for rumpling your tongue
and souring your favorite kisses.
Later at the Black and White Ball
we danced like the plastic couple
on wedding cakes. Your rococo gown
swept the floor clean. My white tie
twinkled moth-like, my carnation
suggested a shell-burst. Confess
you liked me a little that night
although you went home with a crowd
of men you hadn’t met before.
Confess to harboring symptoms
of benevolent dictatorship.
Confess to pilfering mother lodes
in a dozen African nations.
Confess, confess, confess to me
while we lie in bed and hear robins
trouble over a fallen nestling
and a hawk in the distance whistles
a single explosive note.

Religion

Recognized by many to be true
Except for those who have
Learned through studying them and found similarities
In each belief which are to
Give hope, comfort, and meaning to life which are all
Instilled into every man and woman’s mind
Overwhelming them with rules of stupidity
Never allowing them to release themselves from their chains of words that bind them.

today I want my children’s pediatrician to love me

first he’ll tell me my kids are fine despite the flu
and broken wrists and unexplained diarrhea

then I’ll burrow into his matter-
of-fact nature and his armpit
which must be upscale post-racquetball musty

I’ll make him forget medical school
send him back to his roots
back to the Porsche poster that hung in his New England boy bedroom
the 70s Playboys stashed under his mattress
his first trip to California full of booze and pussy

later he’ll push back my frosted strands
tell me my mind is sweet, my taste is sharp
laugh at the mix-up
then hike deep into my admiration

today love
is acceptance from a man like that

the Color of Shy

What makes a woman shy when she’s older
is a raisin in the sun, dream deferred,
same as in youth though struggle is preferred.

Death stresses depression for bipolar
as well estrangement from siblings conferred...
What makes a woman shy when she’s older

are literary projects that smolder
despite hundreds of readings where she’s purred
same as in youth when struggle is preferred.

On left side of mountain she’s not bolder;
lyrically passionate but footnote referred.
Yet, what makes a woman shy when older

isn’t fear of demise just mortal tears
for inhumanity towards Earth and birds
unlike in youth when struggle is preferred.

Salinger turned inward, refused to share.
One woman is running away from herd.
What makes a poet shy when she’s older
is same as in youth though struggle preferred.

For Peace

I chase the night’s curve, around the planet,
penniless, over paved terrain.
The mountains guide me with gradual slopes;
they know my journey is difficult.

I feel the truth in a chickadee’s chirp.
Shedding my egoic skins,
like Elm leaves,
they shed when you breeze by.

When a Pregnant Woman Reads
the Surgeon General’s Warning

The upside-down brown cylinder sits
amongst the rows of circular white filters.
I slowly slide it beyond the gold foil,
and my fingertips raise the cigarette
to its resting position between my lips.
I flip the lid on my shiny silver Zippo,
and as my calice-laced thumb rubs the wheel,
it sparks the flint that combusts the charred wick.
The flaming orange cherry bursts the tip
in a cancerous cloud of crackling steam,
as inhalation lunges against my lungs.
I round my mouth so swirls of smoke
spiral in disintegrating circles into the sky.
The ash drags along the paper and tobacco,
until I flick it with a snap of my wrist
and watch as dust drifts with the wind.
Once the glow reaches the cotton butt,
I drop it to the cold concrete and snuff it out
with my moccasin, extinguishing the smoldering light,
knowing I will decompose long before the remains.

Worship

I killed god! I worshiped him to death
Just to feel his blood wash over me.
And it was through my humility
That I was exalted in his place.
Reverence it was that catapulted
Me into his sphere, onto his throne.
And there I breathed his air and felt his pulse
In a rhapsody of non-communication.
Why not?
Should I lie bloodless by the altar
On the cold stone floors of a cathedral
I could not not have made?
Care for a god that I cannot imagine?
And dwell in darkness and catastrophe?

Little White Cat Paws

we
all
walk
with
padded
little
white
cat
paws?
squeamishly live
with
small-scaled
thoughts
and injured wings,
pocket-sized
words,
expressions
exaggerated?
edged
within seconds?
till
the
small
black
box arrives,
sobering,
stores death
like angel or devil
in cahoots,
kitten and man alike,
annihilated-
clock stops
archives in place,
zap the last whistle.

Michael Lee Johnson Bio

    Michael Lee Johnson is a poet, and editor, from Itasca, Illinois who lived 10 years in Canada during the Vietnam era, published in 23 countries. He runs five poetry sites, his website: http://poetryman.mysite.com. His published poetry books available through his website above, Amazon.Com, Borders Books, iUniverse and Lulu.com.

Country Living

Living in the country
With bugs and other critters
Isn’t the way it looks in magazines
Where the gardens never need weeding
The house doesn’t need painting
And the smell of manure is never mentioned.

But the leaves drop from the trees in the fall
And you don’t have to rake them up.
In winter the snow falls and you can watch it
Without worrying about shoveling the sidewalk.
The dog can even poop in the yard
And it doesn’t have to be sealed in a baggie.

And when night falls in the summer
The insects chirp and fireflies glow
The frogs croak and the owls say “Who? Who?”
The grass grows in the summer
But it doesn’t have to be mowed right away
Just so the lawn is even with the neighbors’.

In the country you can have clotheslines
And sheets that smell of fresh air.
You want no floodlights shining in the window at night
Or blinds blocking the sunrise in the morning.
And you welcome the darkness which falls
When the moon and stars are at their brightest.

Upstage Everyone Else

you wake up in the morning
clean yourself up
take the commute
figure out what you’re supposed to do
go through all the motions
take your lunch break
feel dreary
keep up with the schedule
make it home
screw making dinner
there’s gotta be some leftovers in the fridge
then go to a bar,
watch a movie
or just sit at home with some beer
and leave it at that
before you do it again
tomorrow
and again tomorrow
and again tomorrow

that’s what it always is, you know
we’re all in this cycle
we’re all on this racetrack
there’s this goal we all keep going toward
get married
get the house
churn out the kids
make a ton of money
buy the nice cars
wear the big jewels
go on the fancy trips
upstage everyone else

it’s like we’re all on this racetrack
like
we’re a donkey
and someone is dangling this carrot in front of us

to keep us moving

so this is what we do

we see the commercials on tee vee
we see what we have
and we become dissatisfied

so we see that carrot
dangling in front of us
just always out of reach

so this is what we do
we stay in this cycle
and we trudge forward
on the only track we know

I finally decided to look at this cycle
look at what I’m doing

and I saw the carrot

and the donkey was dead

and I thought

hmmm

letter 09/16/06

    I just played gin with my dad for the first time ever. All my life I remembered mom and dad playing gin with another couple coming over, playing at our poker table, and I learned how to play, it’s kind of like rummy... I don’t think I ever played gin with my parents, but I knew how to play it, and I probably played with my sister (I can’t really remember). Now all I do is teach my husband to play gin when we’re together and want to spend time doing something other than watching tv. But when we play and don’t keep track of the score, we call all the time, because why not? It’s just a game, right?

    Anyway, I asked my dad after mom died if he wanted to play gin, because he played cards with people before, when people hadn’t died yet. But now they play pinochle, and I don’t know pinochle... But anyway, I’ve asked dad a few times if maybe he’d want to play gin, and he always says no. Yesterday even, he was playing a computer game, and I offered to play a game of gin with him, and still he said no. But today, my second to last day visiting him, he was playing a computer game and I thought, okay, I get into a rut, and they say I’m like him, so I should take some initiative. So I went and got a deck of cards and sat down next to him and just started shuffling. And he finally paused long enough form playing computer solitaire to see what I was doing, and I said, “I got a deck of cards. Want to play a game of gin?” and he said, “let me finish what I was doing, and okay.” So I kept shuffling until he was finished playing, and dealt.

    I actually ginned the first game, when I got the winning card form his discard I said, “I’m sorry, but gin,” and then we played again, he called and beat me because I had absolutely nothing in my hand. And then we played a few more hands and then he said he was wanted to watch the game on tv, so we stopped playing after about 4 or 5 games.

    And I talked to my husband on the phone long distance afterward, and I said that this was probably the first time in my life I had ever played gin with my father.

    Interesting. I learned this game from my father, without him trying to teach me, and this was the first time I had ever played gin with him. Interesting.

refuse in a single church

walked into a church one Saturday
when all the property on their land
was converted for a weekend rummage sale

churchgoers donated their belongings
their refuse, the things they didn’t want anymore
got their tax forms from the church
so their acts of kindness
won’t cost them so much

and there were rows and rows of trinkets
half an aisle of appliances, half an aisle of glassware
someone would pick up a wine glass. “how much?”
“twenty-five cents.” “how about ten?”

“how much for this iron?” one would ask.
a church lady would answer, “four dollars.”
“fifty cents?” “no.”

someone would point at the iron, a toaster,
a blender. “all for a dollar?” “no.”
And I thought, hmmm,

as I looked at the appliances
and thought about the appliances I donated
to a church for their annual rummage sale last year.

half the place had hanging clothes
and there were grocery bags available at the front
“fill a bag with clothes for two dollars”

hmmm, maybe I’ll look for men’s button-down shirts
look for anything like a classic white shirt
but of course, those were never donated

this is everyone’s refuse
rows of dresses, pairs of shoes,
pairs of shorts, shirts, loneliness,
anger, belts, jewelry, extra socks

and I thought:
it’s amazing how much refuse
you can find in a single church

here is me

Janet Kuypers

i have a secret
i have an awful secret
and i can’t tell anyone

you see, my life
would fall apart
if anyone knew

everyone thinks
i’m some one different
but here is me

Painted Buddhas

when in Beijing
I saw a wooden wall
with many rows
of tiny
sculpted
painted Buddhas
some Buddhas
had their heads torn off
& I thought
hmmm

On a High Horse Like This

I listened to a hunter from Africa
say
“all life is sacred”

and he said that after separating
a small, thin, non-venomous snake
from around a large African hawk-like bird’s neck

because you see, the bird attacks snakes,
but that snake couldn’t eat the large bird once it died:
that would have been a senseless death.

“all life is sacred,” you say.
so I couldn’t help but think:
as a hunter, do you pray for the sacred dead

after you killed it?

I mean, I don’t usually vocalize
when I’m on a high horse like this

and I’ve had to explain myself
to meat eaters:
no these aren’t leather shoes

I wear; I’m a vegetarian.
though I still have to feign a smile
to commiserate with men eating slaughtered

animal. cause you see, I’d look like a fool
for having beliefs. people don’t want to hear about
a moral choice different from their own.

I mean, we’re Americans,
if it’s not human,
or maybe a dog or a cat, eat it. it’s that simple.

###

but I married a hunter
a marine who served our country
and he told me

that every time he killed an animal
a part of him felt a regretful twinge of pain
when he killed his prey.

the prey that he searched for.
with a weapon he could use
before anything got close enough

to be an enemy.

oh, I’m sorry.
I’m getting on my high horse again.

it’s convenient that people
can get their kill from the grocery store
without getting any blood

on their hands.
anything to stop everyone from thinking
about what they’re doing.

because I’ve heard that killing something
makes you feel something.
And I thought:

Look at the Downs

I go every week to my favorite bar
and pick up a “Reader” newspaper
to thumb through while I drink

and once I looked at their “Ink Well,”
their crossword puzzle,
and their second clue, 5 across, was

“Things on a cat’s penis.”
So... I started looking
at every other clue:

14 across: “Defender of NAMBLA.”
16 across: “Sex column topic.”
Okay, maybe I should look at the downs.

So I randomly picked another clue
and read “Get off my _____.”
So, I thought about the pain in my back,

then thinking about how everyone
worries about their back,
but no one ever talks about their front.

My front’s killing me.
I’ve got a pain in my front.
Get of my front.

I seriously had to find something else
to read, so I saw within their “matches” section
a section called “I Saw You”.

Now, I never look at the Matches section,
I prefer drinking in my favorite bar
by myself, but the voyeur in me

had to read some of these
hundred words or fewer
one chance writings and hopes.

‘You said you liked a dirty martini,
then you left.’ ... “Care to see
how dirty you next martini meet up

can get? You: man. Me: man.”
And I thought... hmmm...
then there was a meeting date and time.

So I read the next one:
“Thanks for opening the door for me
and letting me use the ATM

because I got there first.”
Wait a minute, that’s called etiquette,
not a budding romance.

But I have to admit,
when I sit here every week
at this bar, drinking by myself

it’s nice to hear about stranger’s stories
in pen and ink like this
every once in a while.

Eat Me Alive

I had a dream I woke up in a sewer
my clothes were wet from the filthy water

it felt like something was pulling me down into the filth
as I worked harder and harder to just stand

and I thought
how did I get here?
who put me here?
how on earth can I get out of here?

who drove me to this point?

I felt the slimy, filthy walls
of this coffin-like cave
as I was
trying to find a ledge for support
trying to find any way out

the noise from people walking above ground
was muffled
when I heard the rats coming
along with the water
from down the tunnel

I turned in the darkness to run
until I tried to take a turn
and was wedged in the concrete slabs

I was stick in the sewer
and the rats would eat me alive

Escaping Every Cage

I felt caged in that tiny Windsor hotel room
I wanted to get out

that’s when he struck
I was attacked, knocked over, strangled

I managed to break free
scraped arms, bruised and bloody knees

strangers offered to help me
as I made my way through the lobby

I had to get so far away,
I left the country and never went back

###

when I couldn’t take being trapped at work
when I was too caged by those office walls
I quit my job
and drove around the country in my car

now, I know a car can be a cage
but with this little cage,
I felt like I could be free
and could go where I wanted
and do what I wanted to do

I was free for that split second of time
until someone tried to kill me in my car
and they put me in another cage again

###

labeled me again Janet Kuypers (a twitter-length poem inside of a poem) written 05/17/10 they gave me a straight jacket slapped on a bracelet i contorted out of the straight jacket tore the wrist ID please don’t they labeled me again

###

when I was in the hospital for weeks
I would tear the medical bracelet off my wrist daily

please don’t track me

when I was able to walk,
I would try to leave
but I didn’t know where to go
and they would find me again
and bring me back to my cell

###

when I was a child,
I wanted to get away from my family
wanted to get away from my town
I wanted something bigger, faster,
stronger than anything I ever knew before

and so as I grew older
I took those childhood memories
those childhood toys, those childhood stories
and one by one
started placing them on an Island
surrounded by deep water
where no one could touch them
and they would always remain
just on the horizon

###

I have always loved the water
swam all my life
I swam in pools with friends when I was little
I swam along side the tropical fish off the Oahu coast
I swam with dozens
of White-Tipped Sharks off the Galapagos Islands

when I get closer to water
I get itchy to just jump in

but even when I could let go in the water
I’d see that Island in the distance
holding all of my childhood traumas
and I still never felt entirely free

###

one day
I decided to face these ancient cages
that still hold me down

I wanted to face it all
battle all of those past demons

so I went down to the shoreline
arched my hand along my eyebrows

looked for that Island of mine

the water at the shoreline lapped over my feet
pushing the coastline farther inland today

I kept searching
until I realized

my Island fell into the ocean

###

everything from my past disappeared
except my memories

###

that day,
I couldn’t go into the water

###

we all have our cages
sometimes we can’t see them
but they’re there,
holding us back
restraining us
holding us down
holding us in

as I sit in my cage right now
I look at these walls
hear the cars driving past me
and I think of these things that hold us down

Letting Ourselves Go

I hear that in France
they have a national music day,
when everybody sings
and it doesn’t really matter
if it’s not all in tune.

not that I’m all for France or anything
but we could learn from that,
that would be kind of good here
where everyone could just let go.
I mean, just allow ourselves to sing.
On key or not. Hum a tune.
Music is supposed to make us happy,
and we’re filled with so much
that takes away our happiness.

If people sing,
I’m probably the first
that would be the stickler
if someone was off key.

The stickler:
someone who who insists
on something unyieldingly.

We’ve all been taught these rules,
we’re taught when we’re little
that if we’re not good at something
we just can’t do it.
We just close ourselves off
to letting ourselves go.

I mean, think of it:
have a national music day,
where everybody sings
and it doesn’t really matter
if it’s not all in tune.

It’s just letting ourselves go,
hearing the rhythm,
and enjoying the music.

Janet Kuypers Bio

    Janet Kuypers has a Communications degree in News/Editorial Journalism (starting in computer science engineering studies) from the UIUC. She had the equivalent of a minor in photography and specialized in creative writing. A portrait photographer for years in the early 1990s, she was also an acquaintance rape workshop facilitator, and she started her publishing career as an editor of two literary magazines. Later she was an art director, webmaster and photographer for a few magazines for a publishing company in Chicago, and this Journalism major was even the final featured poetry performer of 15 poets with a 10 minute feature at the 2006 Society of Professional Journalism Expo’s Chicago Poetry Showcase. This certified minister was even the officiant of a wedding in 2006.
    She sang with acoustic bands “Mom’s Favorite Vase”, “Weeds and Flowers” and “the Second Axing”, and does music sampling. Kuypers is published in books, magazines and on the internet around 9,300 times for writing, and over 17,800 times for art work in her professional career, and has been profiled in such magazines as Nation and Discover U, won the award for a Poetry Ambassador and was nominated as Poet of the Year for 2006 by the International Society of Poets. She has also been highlighted on radio stations, including WEFT (90.1FM), WLUW (88.7FM), WSUM (91.7FM), WZRD (88.3FM), WLS (8900AM), the internet radio stations ArtistFirst dot com, chicagopoetry.com’s Poetry World Radio and Scars Internet Radio (SIR), and was even shortly on Q101 FM radio. She has also appeared on television for poetry in Nashville (in 1997), Chicago (in 1997), and northern Illinois (in a few appearances on the show for the Lake County Poets Society in 2006). Kuypers was also interviewed on her art work on Urbana’s WCIA channel 3 10 o’clock news.
    She turned her writing into performance art on her own and with musical groups like Pointless Orchestra, 5D/5D, The DMJ Art Connection, Order From Chaos, Peter Bartels, Jake and Haystack, the Bastard Trio, and the JoAnne Pow!ers Trio, and starting in 2005 Kuypers ran a monthly iPodCast of her work, as well mixed JK Radio — an Internet radio station — into Scars Internet Radio (both radio stations on the Internet air 2005-2009). She even managed the Chaotic Radio show (an hour long Internet radio show 1.5 years, 2006-2007) through BZoO.org and chaoticarts.org. She has performed spoken word and music across the country - in the spring of 1998 she embarked on her first national poetry tour, with featured performances, among other venues, at the Albuquerque Spoken Word Festival during the National Poetry Slam; her bands have had concerts in Chicago and in Alaska; in 2003 she hosted and performed at a weekly poetry and music open mike (called Sing Your Life), and from 2002 through 2005 was a featured performance artist, doing quarterly performance art shows with readings, music and images.
    Since 2010 Kuypers also hosts the weekly Chicago poetry open mic at the Café, while also broadcasting the Cafés weekly feature podcasts (and where she sometimes also performs impromptu mini-features of poetry or short stories or songs, in addition to other shows she performs live in the Chicago area).
    In addition to being published with Bernadette Miller in the short story collection book Domestic Blisters, as well as in a book of poetry turned to prose with Eric Bonholtzer in the book Duality, Kuypers has had many books of her own published: Hope Chest in the Attic, The Window, Close Cover Before Striking, (woman.) (spiral bound), Autumn Reason (novel in letter form), the Average Guy’s Guide (to Feminism), Contents Under Pressure, etc., and eventually The Key To Believing (2002 650 page novel), Changing Gears (travel journals around the United States), The Other Side (European travel book), The Boss Lady’s Editorials, The Boss Lady’s Editorials (2005 Expanded Edition), Seeing Things Differently, Change/Rearrange, Death Comes in Threes, Moving Performances, Six Eleven, Live at Cafe Aloha, Dreams, Rough Mixes, The Entropy Project, The Other Side (2006 edition), Stop., Sing Your Life, the hardcover art book (with an editorial) in cc&d v165.25, the Kuypers edition of Writings to Honour & Cherish, The Kuypers Edition: Blister and Burn, S&M, cc&d v170.5, cc&d v171.5: Living in Chaos, Tick Tock, cc&d v1273.22: Silent Screams, Taking It All In, It All Comes Down, Rising to the Surface, Galapagos, Chapter 38 (v1 and volume 1), Chapter 38 (v2 and Volume 2), Chapter 38 v3, Finally: Literature for the Snotty and Elite (Volume 1, Volume 2 and part 1 of a 3 part set), A Wake-Up Call From Tradition (part 2 of a 3 part set), (recovery), Dark Matter: the mind of Janet Kuypers , Evolution, Adolph Hitler, O .J. Simpson and U.S. Politics, the one thing the government still has no control over, (tweet), Get Your Buzz On, Janet & Jean Together, po•em, Taking Poetry to the Streets, the Cana-Dixie Chi-town Union, the Written Word, Dual, Prepare Her for This, uncorrect, Living in a Big World (color interior book with art and with “Seeing a Psychiatrist”), Pulled the Trigger (part 3 of a 3 part set), Venture to the Unknown (select writings with extensive color NASA/Huubble Space Telescope images), Janet Kuypers: Enriched, She’s an Open Book, “40”, Sexism and Other Stories, and the Stories of Women. Three collection books were also published of her work in 2004, Oeuvre (poetry), Exaro Versus (prose) and L’arte (art).

The End

    It’s coming for you. On this night, the wind steals your breath. Far away and around the corner, fires feast on forests, encircling beautiful barren woods, desiccated and old and exposed to the vicissitudes of nature and Darwinian law. And rushing forth from the sea, mammoth tides flood the sands on abandoned beaches stretching far, it seems, to eternity.
    It’s coming for you. It’s your time, and nature’s justice. You can’t escape. A western cottonmouth comes out of hibernation and travels across the same road it slithered along last year. But now, it doesn’t make it. Lifeless, it lies still by the side of the road. On another trail, rattlesnakes that left their underground lair in search of food come to the end, a dark, breathless vanishing point on a dark road.
    It’s coming for me too. It’s my time, perhaps. I’m not sure. I’ve got things to do and plans that might keep me busy for at least another decade. My body’s old but my mind’s fresh and young and vibrant. I’m not ready to go. Don’t think I’ll ever be ready. I protest. But the Lady comes into my home and gazes at me. I look away.
    I scurry out of the house and vanish into the crowds. I hide amongst the living and the living dead. I spend a few hours in the Public Library on 42^nd Street. Later, I visit the King Tut exhibition that enchants and thrills me. Then I go on the half-price line and get theater tickets to see The Phantom of the Opera. After the show, I stroll along Broadway.
    Suddenly, the wind howls and I’m rushing through the labyrinth heading home. A storm’s coming and I need to lie in my king-size bed and rest. But tonight, I won’t make it. The Lady’s here with me in the wind. She followed me wherever I went. Guess I’m not alone, not tonight. I stop abruptly and turn around. She smiles wickedly at me, her dark, eerie eyes holding me in her universe.
    I rush to the Lady. Now, she stands in the middle of traffic. She waits for me. I’m not afraid anymore. I’ve got a rendezvous tonight with her. Now, on Broadway, beneath the sprawling, glittering lights, she’s my date. She’s mine. And I belong to her, perhaps, for all eternity.

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.

Remedy

    Emily Louise Gilmore and Eric Victor Gilmore played the $1 Draw in the State Lottery twice a week. Their weekly gambling habit of two dollars helped them keep the faith. If you don’t play, you can’t win...
    Then they won, small time.
    Five White Balls yielded a little over $100,000 after state and local taxes. Not enough to remedy the latest “severe worldwide economic downturn,” but Emily and Eric could once again afford ice cream, sardines, and footwear.
    “Let’s ride up the shore road,” Eric proposed. He was a tech guy who loved mobility, machines, and cruising.
    “Yes,” Emily consented.
    Their Chevy Malibu was nearly new, and in good shape.
    A war in North Africa was freshly minted. The job recruiters were offering half of the 90’s going rate for temp tech. Things were looking up in the USA.
    They headed North along the coastal route. It was early morning, and the sunrise, tungsten orange, alive, chased the fog away. Eric studied the layered cloud formations unique to the seacoast. He noticed the fragrance of plant and animal life cycles was returning to normal.
    Eric had an uncanny sense of smell. Earlier that month an incident occurred at the waste treatment plant upriver, 40 miles. Eric diagnosed it before it was reported on the evening news.
    Emily and Eric met thirty years ago at a divorced parenting meeting. Eric held firm that Emily “started it” by inviting him to visit her that year.
    The Malibu was approaching the remains of The Diamond State Hospital, around the next bend, Oceanside. It had been closed and abandoned since before Eric was born, although it had aged far less gracefully.
    “It’s haunted, that’s why they emptied it,” Emily asserted.
    “What isn’t haunted, to a paranormalist?” he countered. However, Eric wasn’t as sure as he used to be.
    “Me and the boys, when they were small, went inside one night. I had that little Maglite, before the LED lights came out. Petey saw the hole in the floor and warned me...”
    “You could have killed yourself and gotten arrested for child endangerment.”
    “Both?”
    Emily didn’t dignify his question.
    The shoreline parallel to the decaying structure consisted of severe black cliffs and shiny troubled water. Had the former state home for the mentally and criminally deranged been placed to simplify containment?
    Even though it was against the law, Emily and Eric intended to turn onto the cracked tarmac, up to the rusted chain and fused padlock, and then walk through wild grass and weeds to the Diamond.
    “We can’t go inside, but maybe I’ll feel something, Eric.”
    “It’s daytime, take your camera. I’ll edge inside, not too far. It’s probably too ruined to go very...”
    She interrupted him, “...and get us arrested.” The man was foolish.
    Eric had been drawn to the Diamond State Hospital since he first drove by it. It seemed alive in spite of its emptiness. He wondered if he was a paranormalist like Emily, or maybe worse, an occultist?
    It was still morning, the Malibu cruised, whispering softly and assuredly. Eric pretended it was a Ferrari FF, color Grigio Titanio. He was bad at names and specs but nearly eidetic with sights, sounds, and smells, particularly concerning machines and architecture.
    Diamond Hospital. Four stories tall, red brick faded, it would have been long gone if the state could have benefited from its shoreline. But, due to the threatening rocks and hungry whitecaps, the place persevered, a faded Mausoleum.
    Eric remembered the last time they went past it on the shore road. The building was foreign, and sinister, especially for a Hospital. The construction challenged concise definition.
    The roof, crossed gables, sickly gray, was so frayed it extended tendrils skyward. The North face, vertical, featureless. The remaining aspects were joined arcs, linked dormers, and tall bay windows with leaded panes miraculously intact. An eerie violet blue glowed within, or was it just one’s imagination?
    They were almost there, entering the curve. Emily gasped. Eric was preoccupied with being careful at the bend, and then immediately veering into the abrupt turnoff of ancient tarmac. Somehow, the deteriorating surface felt a little tighter, more solid, and the dust rising up smelled... fresher?
    “Eric, it’s not there. The chain, the lock...”
    Eric stopped his imaginary Ferrari. His eyes followed the dark shadow cast by the looming structure. It wasn’t <>Igone. It just changed.
    “The same size and form factor.” Eric, always the engineer.
    “As if they substituted metal... titanium? and added bullet-proof glass...”
    “Bullet-proof, Eric, what for? To keep the loonies out? Is it that bad these days?”
    “They haven’t confronted us or shot at us. Looks like they deleted the entire place then reconstructed it from modern materials... Or alien materials?

    “Hey, it’s lit, the glass is thick or translucent, tinted, probably not even glass, but there’s light in there.”
    Emily forgot all about trespassing or danger and marched. Eric lightly brushed the SIG Sauer at his belt, affirmed the Cold Steel Folder was in his opposite side pocket, and took up rear guard.
    She said, “There’s a little sign on the door. ‘Intuitive Connections,’ what is that?”
    Eric without hesitation made suggestions.
    “Electrical Contractor... Dating Service... Psychic Reader?”
    “OK.” Emily grabbed the door handle, and pulled. It opened. She went.
    Eric did not have time to protest; besides he was backup, was he not?
    The air temperature inside was similar, but smelled different. Actually, to Eric’s keen sense, it smelled of nothing. Not adhesives, cleaning materials, nor even the apparition in the foyer... A woman.
    Attractive. Alabaster flesh, even whiter than Emily. Just a touch of lipstick... or... no? Auburn hair that didn’t come from a shop. She looked so perfect she could not be real. Eric was mesmerized, and a little worried.
    “Lady” moved fluidly, purposefully. She reminded Eric of their granddaughter, Petey’s first girl. Self-assured, wiry strong, dominant personality. Lady Angel was the kind who could break a man’s heart; as well as the rest of him.
    “Emily,” Eric stated the obvious.
    “I see him.” Him?
    There were two. A male with the same sleek physique and presentation as his counterpart, but well tanned, darker. His tailored outfit darker still. Other than gender and shading, the two defined paired perfection.
    Eric appraised the fit and quality of their garments. Pricey – the material did not shine. Nothing about them, or the place was off-the-shelf.
    Emily scanned the foyer, it was quite expansive. In the late Nineteenth Century, it would have been even more impressive, occupying the front third of floors one and two. The flooring, dark hardwood, joined by supernatural artisans, impossibly tight. No carpeting anywhere. Zero wall paintings or photography, only glass and spectacular sky.
    Looking skyward, the ceiling angled up towards the inside wall, a lovely pale blue containing interior windows at the third level, the same violet blue glazing except lighter in shade. For Security? Staff Meetings?
    The Diamond had been modernized and reinstated to its timeless splendor.
    Eric saw plenty of seating areas and the sky shone cheerfully, in spite of the thick glazing. If the place was intended to control and restrain lunatics, they probably admitted them at some other entrance.

    “Emily, Eric. Good Day,” Lady Perfection greeted them.
    “Congratulations on the win, thank you for coming.”
    Emily and Eric exchanged glances. Strange, but OK so far.
    Lady continued, “Eric, it’s fine...” as if she was aware of his caution and armament. Probably with Angels... it was not worthy of consideration.
    Lady directed them to one of two doors designated “Aristotle” and “Nietzsche” at the ends of impeccable main counter with phones, computers, all high-end. Bright, healthy, live flowering plants complemented the sleek hardware.
    If this was an asylum, it would be a very nice play to stay and relax a while, if you could leave when you wished. The peaceful and complete silence was a rarity, anywhere on earth these times. How did they manage the acoustics?
    The four entered via the left entry, Aristotle. Inside were the same two doors exactly as expected, a refreshing confirmation of some normality. There was also a pair of rear exits. But to where... the ocean? the Cliffs?
    “It’s late, are you thirsty, hungry?” Lady was getting the show moving, but courteously. Eric saw the lighting was natural, and slightly brighter, as expected on the East wall. It was still morning. Why did she mention <>Ilate?

    They sat at a geometrically exact table of clear glass in the center of the meeting area. It sparkled in the sunlight, projecting little errant rainbows on the pale front wall. Crystal, it looked like to Emily.
    Eric had never seen any single solid item this large made of crystal leaded glass. It must have weighed a thousand pounds. That piece wasn’t going anywhere soon, he figured.
    No fingerprints or dirt. Emily flashed Eric the be careful don’t touch look.
    The hosts looked like... “Angels?” Lady asked. Sir provided water in thin, delicate vessels of glass, with that violet blue tint. Not a single dust mote anywhere. On the crystal table were four laptop computers, likely sync’d for presentations.
    Emily picked up the glassware, and drank. She gazed at Eric. He studied her a moment, she still looked OK. Eric was thirsty.
    He went for his water. The glass was cool, smooth, and slightly smaller at the bottom, an elegant tumbler. He touched, it was frictionless. It slid and began to tilt.
    Rapidly, he caught the glass just before it went down.
    Lady Perfection observed. “Timing is everything, isn’t it?”
    “It is.” Eric concurred. He didn’t like the way she had said that.
    On the sync’d PCs, a News Website was updating the situation on climate, radiation, rebellion, and new beginnings.
    “Angels made people? For all this?” Emily asked, observing the logarithmically progression of a disease called Earth. A bold but relevant question. Eric was thinking the same thing. Though small, Emily had good brains and big courage. Eric admired her greatly.
    “Some of us, Product Development, made people, and what you are seeing is the result...” Lady replied, peculiarly unemotionless. Sir and I are from Remedial.”
    “You have called us ‘Angels’ - we are similar to one another, yet diverse, just like your people. We have been called ‘Aliens,’ and ‘Demons’ as well - they’re all just words, shades of interpretation. Our only desire is to become Gods, but regrettably...
    “We have existed longer than humans and we’re more advanced in the methods of physics and science. Humans are more intuitive and more ingenious, but due to some flaw in the creation scheme, you came out unbalanced... despite our best practices. Sadly it’s a bit late now.”
    Eric was getting really worried. Lady Angel said “late” once more!
    “We are at a singularity, a turning point, and it isn’t good,” She continued and stopped abruptly.
    The sync’d PC’s displayed a Wikipedia Page entitled “Black Death” - a narrative, with artistically detailed illustrations, of the Fourteenth Century Plague that had wiped out half the Human Population.
    Emily and Eric exchanged worried glances.
    The two of them, Lady and Sir Angel, were really stressing out. They seemed to be almost in tears.
    Sir Angel took over - Lady was in really bad shape. “We’re slow learners. This is our second attempt. I’m sorry.”
    Something outside attracted Eric’s peripheral vision. He and Emily panned and looked outside together, through the thick glazing toward the Atlantic.
    The sun, slightly above the horizon was expanding, inflating like a huge golden balloon. Eric thought of the article on an early Twentieth Century airship called a Zeppelin, floating filled with hydrogen gas, lighter than air, which could burn. In the early 1900’s the Hindenburg had caught fire with about a hundred people on board. The Zeppelin Industry was finished after that.
    The sun kept increasing, becoming a huge oval. It turned whiter than ever witnessed by human eyes. The layered azure sky became twelve shades of writhing, shimmering red. The Atlantic boiled violet blue, disappearing. It was getting really hot, even inside the Diamond...

    The otherworldly, incredibly crafted crystal meeting table was melted beyond recognition, containing the charred remains of the four creatures. The remedy had worked according to plan, and on schedule.

Desperation

    [SETTING: A quiet kitchen at six in the evening. MIRANDA sits at the table alone. Her hands nervously wander down her stiff red dress, smoothing out any creases they find. She starts to stand, thinks for a moment, then sits back down.]

    MIRANDA: [under her breath] He should be here by now... I don’t want...

    Three quick knocks sound at the door and MIRANDA jerks to her feet. She peers through the peephole to be safe before turning the locks and opening the door. DEREK stands before her, looking tired but content.

    DEREK: Good evening, sweetheart.

    MIRANDA: [anxiously] Hello. Won’t you come inside?

    DEREK takes the hint and strides in. She hastily shuts and locks the door then follows him over to the table.

    DEREK: What’s for supper?

    MIRANDA: Just sandwiches, if that’s okay. It’s been a long day.

    DEREK: [very slowly] Did you stay home today?

    MIRANDA sighs softly and nods. Silence is the dominant force in the room as she walks over to the counter and carefully opens the bread box. DEREK takes a breath, too loudly, for the words he’d wanted to say have been scared away at the sound he made. Meanwhile, she sets the bread out on plates.

    MIRANDA: What will you have on yours?

    DEREK: [softly, knitting his fingers together] Doesn’t matter. I’m not picky.

    MIRANDA: Sorry this didn’t turn out to be a cozy, romantic dinner.

    DEREK: It doesn’t matter. [smiling slightly] We’re together, aren’t we? That’s romantic enough for me.

    DEREK strides over to stand next to her and places his hand at her waist. At first she cringes and ignores his touch, but a few moments pass and she forgets what she was worrying about, leaning into his side.

    MIRANDA: What toppings will you have?

    DEREK: [teasing] Who calls them “toppings”? Isn’t that what goes on ice cream? [playfully poking her cheek]

    MIRANDA: And what would you call them? [grinning in spite of herself]

    DEREK: I call them lettuce, tomato, pickle, and onions.

    MIRANDA: Well! [laughing] Aren’t you an intellect?

    DEREK: I try.

    MIRANDA: [turning slightly so her nose brushes his cheek] Well mister, you—

    Their playful banter cuts off abruptly at the sound of a car pulling into the driveway. MIRANDA’s eyes widen and her hands freeze in place.

    DEREK: [hurriedly] Guess I have to go. Call me when you get the chance, please? Love you.

    He dashes from her side to the back door where he makes his escape. It’s hard for MIRANDA to ignore the pulsating space he left behind or the warmth that followed him out. Her hands begin to shake, but she can’t seem to make her feet move. Footsteps pound on the walkway to the front door. MIKE slips his key in and throws the door open.

    MIKE: [sarcastically with an unmistakable slur] Aw, hunny, are you making those for me?

    MIRANDA would respond - it’s what he prefers - but her mouth is malfunctioning as well, so she stares at the yellowing wallpaper as he makes his way over and tears the bread from her hands.

    MIKE: [angrily] You will answer me when I talk to you! Understand?

    She cannot form a reply, so he grabs her arm tightly, demanding her compliance. She finally finds her strength and tries to struggle free, but she’s forgotten - it only makes things worse.

Murder Transformations

    The rain slammed onto the windshield like bullets as my mother drove me home. Thunder ruptured the eerie silence. The oncoming car swerved back and forth across the road. A shrieking sound filled the air and seemed to be coming closer with every passing second. My mother tried to get the car under control, but it was useless. The road to destruction had already been paved...

    Willow brushed her black gangly hair in the bathroom of her boxy apartment and couldn’t stop thinking about the event. She never let the memory progress to the worst part. She knew what she had to do.
    She slipped on her oversized sweatshirt and clunky military boots. She was determined and no one or no thing, was going to get in the way of what needed to be done. She watched herself transform as she applied black eyeshadow, making her eyes the darkest shade she could.
    She walked out to her black, low-riding car that sat in the desolate driveway. She stepped in and turned the key in the ignition with angry force. She was infuriated. Yet still, she knew what she had to do. The radio blared Pain by Three Days Grace and she began to sing along, her voice gravelly and rough. “Pain, without love, pain. I can’t get enough, pain...” She pressed her foot to the gas and began to drive the short way to his house. The soft hum of the motor seemed to calm her nerves. Then she saw it. The house. His house. Her singing stopped abruptly as she grew angrier still. She heard the screech, the pain, the rain smashing against the car, everything streamed back in vivid color.
    She got out of the car. It was dark but the lights and sounds of big city Nashville were distant to the suburban house he lived in. She knew he lived alone. She stalked up the stairs that led up to his front door and knocked. She could hear his sluggish walk down the stairway and she prepared herself. She knew what she had to do.
    Clearer than it had ever been, the imagery from the accident flowed into her head- the screeching of the brakes, the goliath rain pounding against the road, the car, the bone-breaking sound of the thunder.
    The door handle turned. He was coming. Willow wasn’t scared. She knew what she had to do. The door creaked open and Willow leaped forward and slapped a hand over the fighting victim’s mouth. She struggled to pin the man against the wall. Somehow, she managed to pull out a small handgun from her back pocket while pressing all her weight against the fighting man. Willow jammed the gun to the the side of the victim’s head.
    “Damien, my dear, we meet again.”
    She could hear the screeching as if it were again that night. She could hear the pounding thunder and feel the frigid rain on her pale skin. Damien kicked Willow in the shin forcing her to come back into the reality of the moment.
    “Don’t worry. This will be quick Damien. It’s really a shame you’re so young and handsome. Such a waste of a good man.”
    “Who are you? What do you want? What did I do?!” Damien croaked out through the cracks in the hand covering his mouth.
    Willow placed her finger on the trigger of the small, loaded gun. Damien tensed and struggled in the arms of Willow but his escape was impossible. He thrust his free arm into Willow’s stomach. She lapsed and her hand slipped from his mouth but she kept his body pressed to him so he couldn’t escape.
    The screech, the rain, thunder, lightning striking the soaked ground. Willow saw the car whip towards her mother’s side and smash into it with a crunch and crash. She saw her mother fly through the cracked windshield and land on the wet gravel. “Oh my god,” Willow thought. Her mother lay lifeless as Willow rushed out of the car to help her. She ignored the cuts in her side where crushed metal had sliced her skin. “Why didn’t I take the wheel and veer us away?” Willow thought, feeling blame for the whole situation. She saw the flashing lights of the ambulance cab. Then she heard Damien, talking to her. “Oh gosh,” he said, “I’m so sorry. I couldn’t get under control. I didn’t mean to hit you. Are you okay? I’m really sorry...” Willow’s rage became so overwhelming at that time she stopped listening. That was all she needed to hear, to know exactly what she had to do.
    “You killed my mother!” Willow shouted at Damien’s silent, terrified face, “Killed her!” Tears began rushing down Willow’s blank face. The man in front of her had unintentionally murdered her best friend, her companion. It didn’t matter to Willow that the incident was unintentional, he had still committed it. She wanted Damien to have the same fate as her mother had. She placed her frail pointer finger on the trigger, which felt large to her petite fingers, and began to apply pressure even through her doubt. “I don’t want to see you anymore. Never. Forever you will be gone.”
    “Please, don’t kill me! I’ll do anything!” Damien screamed at Willow.
    Willow ignored his comment and pressed firmly. She heard the bullet rush through the barrel of the gun. She moved the gun to his well-built chest and once again felt the recoil of the bullet as it rushed into the body of the young man.
    He fell lifeless to the ground. She knew she wasn’t done with Damien. Not yet. He was still very much intact, while her mother had been forcefully broken, shattered, cut-up and dead.
    Willow exited the house with the tall, heavy man dragging behind her as she pulled him by his arms. Willow threw the man into her back seat and drove off towards her house. When she reached the house, she took Damien’s limp arms and began to once again drag him into the house.
    The blood colored walls and curtained window of the her bedroom protected her neighbors eyes from what she was about to do. She grabbed the large butcher knife off of her bed stand and raised it above Damien’s body. She lined the knife up above his neck and swung it downward, squirting blood across the room. It oozed out from the slice in the neck of the horrid man. She once again swung downward, hearing a sharp snap as the bone broke and the head rolled to the side. She moved the knife over his legs and flung it into his fleshy thighs. She grabbed a serrated knife from the bed stand and began to saw at the thick bone, putting all the pressure she could to get through it. She sawed back and forth listening to the crunching and grinding sounds of the bone as she worked. Finally, it broke through and she sawed through the fleshy part of the leg, once again squirting blood everywhere. Then she swung at the arms.
    Willow realized she was having a twisted kind of fun. She didn’t think about herself chopping up a man, but that she was playing a game. It was like a frenzy had come over her and killing was a new part of her life.
    The red flew and colored the white ceiling and oatmeal colored rug. She could see the blood being absorbed by the comforter on her bed. Pressure onto the bed spread brought forth pools of the thick crimson liquid. The liquid gathered together and dripped onto the floor collecting in a puddle. Willow rushed downstairs to get two large garbage bags. She threw the parts into the two bags. She tied the tops of the bags as tightly as she could, making sure there was no opening. Willow knew what she had to do next.
    She threw the bag of parts into the trunk of her car and drove off into the night. It would only be an hour drive to get to Mammoth Cave. There she could quickly dispose of the body and forget the incident and her dirty deed. She thought she could hear the dead man’s beating heart pounding out of his cold body, but she knew she must be hallucinating. He was dead. He could not possibly have a beating heart. She heard a hesitant breathing and thought it was his, but realized it was her own. Only ten more minutes and this awful person would be disposed of and she would never have to worry about his haunting incident that killed her mother.
    Finally, she saw the entrance. Mammoth Cave National Park. Perfect. She pulled into a dirt driveway near the entrance and veered off the road into a shady patch of forest to park the car. She yanked each bag of parts out of her trunk and dragged them one by one to the entrance of the cave. On her way back from the car with her shovel, she saw a park ranger standing over the bags and examining them. “I’ll have to kill him.” Willow thought, her whole body tensing. She tiptoed closer to the ranger, lifted the shovel over her shoulder and watched as it connected with the head of the man. The man fell to the ground but he wasn’t dead. Not yet anyways. Willow threw herself on top of him and beat him to his death. She hadn’t intended to kill him, but after the first hit, she couldn’t stop herself. It was as if she enjoyed the act of killing, of murdering innocents. As she thought more about it, she contradicted herself, feeling bad for the victim but she wouldn’t let this slight insecurity get in her way of her mother’s approval. She dragged the dead man to the side of the cave and left him in the cold for someone else to find. She had work she needed to do.
    She traveled on into the cave until she reached a place hidden by the entrance light, a mysterious place. It was perfect for him. She began to hollow out the floor of the cave. Inch by inch, foot by foot, she kept on shoveling. The hole in the cave floor was about five feet deep now. “Good enough,” thought Willow and she stuffed the bags into the dug out. Willow shoveled the moist dirt back into the empty space of the hole and slammed it with the back of the shovel to pack it down.
    The deed was done. Willow slowly walked out of the cave, thinking about her late mother. How beautiful she looked the last time Willow had seen her, at her funeral. She was happy to have satisfied such a great role model as her mother had been. “What have I turned into?” Willow thought. She knew her time as a free woman was limited. She knew the police would come soon. Truth was, Willow hated herself for becoming a murderer but the pleasurable act of doing it felt good to her. In the moment she had a feeling she had never experienced before, she was satisfied, and she loved it. It was after that that Willow had uneasy feelings. Yet still, she had done it, she had gotten revenge. Damien would face the future that her mother faced and that was what she wanted. She knew her mother would have been satisfied with her work. So, with a smile on her dirt-covered face, she drove off into the midnight skylight.

A New Year Me*

    * Copyright © John Bolen. Adapted from a one-act play of the same name and part of “Nothing for Christmas and Other Holiday Tales” a collection of short stories.

    The year had been a depressing one for Dara, made even more so by the passage of her thirty-fifth birthday in July. That milestone had triggered a self evaluation of what she had accomplished in her life and in her mind she fell far short of what she had dreamed would have transpired in her life by that date. The flippancy she had expressed in her twenties concerning the importance of marriage and having children had passed by her thirtieth birthday, and day by day for the last five years her longings for those things had increased as the chances for them seemed to be, at least in her mind, slipping away.
    And this self evaluation led to depression which led to bad habits trying to cope with it, and the particular bad habit of using food for comfort had led to weight gain, which led to greater depression which led to more eating to console her pain. This continuous cycle went on until she now found herself sixty pounds overweight. And being that obese caused such low self esteem that she unconsciously projected to all around her resulting in fewer and fewer dates with the opposite sex.
    In this year she had not been asked out once, and when she tried to take the prerogative and ask men she was attracted to out, there had been a continuous series of doubtful excuses from the young men that rebuffed her efforts. Statistically, there could not have possibly been that many deaths in the men’s families with services corresponding to the exact dates and times she had suggested.
    The one thing that had kept her from thoughts of suicide by chocolate for the last couple of weeks had been a glance her way from the new hunk at the office named Aldon. And she had almost chalked up that glance as a misunderstood signal, when a second glance had come her way. In fact, this second occurrence was much more than a glance, more of a long stare that had not been averted when returned by her. Still, she was too gun shy from all of the earlier rebuffs by other young men for her to act on her own to determine whether this stare had been a true signal of attraction or a fluke. And then it happened.
    “So he asked you and then what did you do?” Dara’s roommate Ezzie asked, plopping down on the sofa next to her with a half gallon of ice cream in one hand and a spoon in the other.
    “I just acted cool,” Dara lied. “I mean it’s not that big of a deal.”
    “Not that big of a deal?” Ezzie laughed at the obvious lie. “I’ve never heard anyone use the adjective dreamy that many times in describing someone. All you have talked about for the last two weeks since he was transferred here from Atlanta is what a hunk you think he is, and you hope that he’s straight and is he married or not and how old is he and do I think he would be interested in getting married and having children and you could find the perfect house to spend happy and contented bliss in with such a...”
    “All right,” Dara cut Ezzie off knowing that if she truly recited all of the things that she had wondered aloud it would go on for some time. “It’s a big deal, okay. Don’t you need a bowl for that?”
    “For what?” Ezzie asked.
    “For the ice cream, that’s what.”
    “Oh did you want some?” Ezzie inquired.
    “No, I don’t want any, but most people put their ice cream in a bowl,” Dara commented.
    “Well I’m going to eat it all, so why dirty a dish?” Ezzie replied. “You always say I’d be a perfect roommate if I didn’t leave dirty dishes around, so no bowl, no dirty dish.”
    “You’re going to eat it all?” Dara could hardly believe her ears.
    “You know me,” Ezzie laughed. “I’m lucky I guess, because I can eat anything and I never gain weight.”
    “Have you ever thought how painful it would be to be disemboweled with a spoon?” Dara sinisterly questioned.
    “You don’t have to be violent,” Ezzie chided her friend.
    “Until I was twenty-five-years-old I was slim, I was trim, and then I had one spoonful of ice cream and gained ten pounds,” Dara commiserated. “The next year I had two chocolates and gained twenty pounds. Over the next three years I had three pieces of cake and gained another thirty pounds. I could kill you for eating a tub of ice cream and be acquitted by any jury on the principle of justifiable homicide.”
    “Let’s not continue on this subject,” Ezzie begged. “So tell me all about when he asked you.”
    “I was in the break room, and I was pretty pissed off because someone had stolen my lunch despite my posted warnings of a slow and painful death,” Dara related. “So I was distracted by that when he came in.” And so Dara related the following enounter.
    “Hi, you’re Dara aren’t you?” Aldon asked. “The one with the funny notes on your lunch? I’m Aldon, Aldon Ferminger.” Aldon reached out to shake her hand and then held it warmly for a few seconds.
    “Hummahummahumma,” was all that Dara could respond.
    “Are you okay?” Aldon asked with concern. “Dara? Are you okay?”
    “Hummahummahumma,” was all that Dara could muster in answer.
    “Would something to drink help? Some coffee?” Aldon offered.
    “No, I’m hummahummahumma,” Dara continued to answer.
    “I really find your little notes funny,” Aldon said trying to put her at ease. “I’ve never considered a staple remover a medieval torture device, but I guess you’re right the if used on the proper part of the anatomy, it could do the job. I’m glad you’re here. I’ve been curious to meet someone so devoted to their lunch.”
    “What makes it worse,” Dara was able to sputter out, “is no one else’s lunch is worth stealing. I mean, it isn’t like I would steal someone else’s lunch, it’s just hummahummahumma.”
    “I bet you make a great lunch. They say lunch is the most important meal, don’t they? You need nutrition midday to keep operating at your peak level and all that. But I have to confess,” he laughed, “it has been so hectic with the move here from Atlanta and now being twenty-five hundred miles away from the woman that kept me on track with such things, I’ve been a bad boy and haven’t taken time for lunch.”
    “The woman?” Dara asked, her heart sinking.
    “Not what you think,” he quickly replied. “Just my mother. No romantic entanglements. I guess I’ve been bad in not making time for that either,” Aldon confessed and Dara cheered inside at that news.
    “I love eating lunch,” Dara responded, thinking that Aldon was going to ask her out to a restaurant right then and there to make up for her lost repast. “I love eating lunch, I mean I think lunch is important, too. You’re mother is sure right. I sure wish I had lunch right now,” she continued to blather.
    “I have to be honest,” Aldon said, looking deep into her eyes. “I noticed you the first day I got here, and you look like someone I would like to get to know a lot better, Dara. So to get straight to the point, I would very much like to ask you out. Do you have any plans for New Years Eve?”
    This threw Dara. She had been expecting a lunch invitation that day, and New Years Eve was two-and-a-half months away. Jarred by this surprise Dara just stood and stared openmouthed, unable to respond. She was disappointed that he had not asked her out to lunch right then, and then on top of it was confused as to what it meant to ask her out on such a distant date. Did it mean he really was not interested in her but just wanting to insure having an escort on an evening like New Years Eve at the big annual company gala where one would not want to show up with out a date? In her confusion, she froze up and to all outward appearances seemed to have lapsed into a coma.
    “Are you okay?” Aldon voiced his concern. “You’re not sick are you?” Dara continued to stand there with all the outward signs of life of a mummy. “I suppose you think it’s odd for me to be asking now,” Aldon started to explain, “but you see I have to go back to Atlanta tonight, finish up a project there, arrange to sell a house, relocate my mother, that kind of thing so it being so close to the Holidays, I’m going to stay there and return after Christmas.” With that explanation received Dara broke into a large smile. “Well that’s a relief,” Aldon laughed. “So I’ll ask again, would you like to go to the company New Year’s Eve bash with me?”
    During her odd stupor, Dara had forgotten to breathe, and yet she found enough air in her lungs to yell out an embarrassing, “Yes!” followed by a deep loud inhale.
    “Wow, I guess you really are sick,” he was apologizing. “Sorry. Maybe I shouldn’t be asking you out at this time.”
    Dara blurted out with another yell, “No! I mean to the sick part, not to the going out part. Yes, to the going out. I would love to go out with you on New Year’s.” She should have felt embarrassment for her behavior, but she was so happy to be asked out by this hunk that she could feel none of it, until later at home where insecurities so often grow larger and paranoia sets in.
    “If you’re sure you would be up to it,” Aldon voiced his concern.
    “I’m sure I’ll be up to it,” Dara assured him. “I’m fine. I was just a little distracted over someone stealing my lunch and wondering where I left my staple remover,” she tried to cover.
    “Oh, okay,” he chuckled. “Well e-mail me your phone number and I’ll call when I get back. “That’s great. Really great.” And then he looked at her in his sexy manner, his eyes taking in her entire body. That final glance struck hard to the heart of her insecurities.
    Having given all of the details, Dara continued her conversation with Ezzie saying, “And then he was gone, and now all I can think about is...”
    “Why he would ask you of all the women in the world,” Ezzie interjected.
    “Not that,” Dara replied.
    “That it’s a joke,” Ezzie further offered.
    “No.”
    “That he needs glasses.”
    “Not that at all,” Dara said.
    “That he must have been attacked by a vicious wolverine when he was young and underneath that immaculately tailored suit is a body so mangled that it no longer operates as a man should.”
    “No,” Dara giggled.
    “How can you possibly lose sixty pounds in two and a half months,” Ezzie continued.
    “Bingo!” Dara conceded, as a look of dismal hopelessness clouded her face. “I know he’s above judging a person by her exterior, that he is attracted to me for the me that is inside. A person, as noble as he is, cares about intelligence, sense of humor, and goodness of heart that leads to long lasting relationships. But I haven’t had a date for a year, and if I want to feel really good about myself and not blow this chance to have a relationship with the biggest dreamboat around then I know I have to lose that sixty pounds. And when I do I will feel so much better about myself, so much more confident and assured with myself that there will be a whole new me. So that is my resolution, my New Years resolution two and a half months early, that I will lose that weight and he will be so amazed he couldn’t help himself but fall in love with me. I am thirty-five-years-old, which feels so much like an emphasis on the word “old”, and who knows but this might be my last chance. So you better get out of my way because a brand new Dara is on her way, a brand new New Year me.”
    The next couple of months became dark indeed, as Dara starved herself towards her goal. Came Thanksgiving when Ezzie begged her to join the group of friends she had gathered to share in the feast, Dara declined saying, “I can gain two pounds just looking at stuffing, and just by saying the name of the dessert that has the initials P.P., I can suddenly break out in spontaneous fat. Besides, if I start my ten mile run now and only pass out once or twice, I might be back before midnight.” Then noticing that Ezzie had a serving bowl in her hand, Dara inquired, “What is that in your hand?”
    “Oh, it’s a bowl of cranberry sauce,” Ezzie explained.
    “Why are you bringing it back from the table?” Dara questioned. “Is there something wrong with it?”
    “There’s nothing wrong with it,” Ezzie answered, “I was just going to eat it.”
    “You’re going to eat a whole bowl of cranberry sauce?” Dara pressed, looking menacingly at her roommate. “Why don’t you just have a boat of gravy while you’re at it?”
    “You silly,” Ezzie giggled, “I only do that when it’s leftovers.”
    And so it continued that with each pound that Dara lost, the very sight of food inspired in her darker and darker thoughts. Christmas was a glum occasion when Ezzie’s Aunt Martha’s gift of a fruitcake was unwrapped that led to a near homicidal outburst. Ezzie locked her bedroom door at night in fear that Dara’s privation might lead her to cannibalism. Dara would sleep fitfully, suddenly screaming out in the night, “I’m going to kill me an Eskimo and bake him in a pie and I’ll have an Eskimo Pie, hee hee hee hee hee!”
    Finally New Year’s Eve arrived and there was a palpable tension in the air as all wondered if Dara would fit in the dress she had bought as her goal to be met. And the sigh of relief from all could be heard for miles as Dara handily slipped into the slinky garment.
    Aldon was staying at the hotel where the New Year’s Gala was being held, so he sent a car for Dara and arranged to meet her at their table in the ballroom. “Get a load of me, Aldon Ferminger,” Dara whispered to herself, “because I’m ready to knock your socks off, so I hope you are ready for the date of your life.”
    As Dara glided to the table, she raised her hand in a coquettish little wave to Aldon as she said, “Hi.”
    Aldon looked at her and returned the wave saying back to her, “Hi.”
    “You look great,” Dara hissed at her handsome date.
    “Miss, I am very flattered, but I am meeting someone here tonight,” Aldon attempted to dismiss her.
    “It’s me, Aldon. It’s Dara,” she explained, dismayed that he had failed to recognize her.
    “Dara? Oh wow!” Aldon voiced his amazement.
    “Quite a change, huh?” Dara chuckled at his confusion.
    “I didn’t recognize you,” Aldon admitted, flustered by his astonishment at her new appearance. “Gee, I am so sorry.”
    “What are you sorry for?” Dara asked with a giggle, trying to make light of his confusion.
    “Well, I thought you must be sick when I first asked you out, but I had no idea how serious it was,” Aldon said with genuine concern.
    “What are you talking about?” Dara laughed, thinking he must be making a joke.
    “Is it cancer?” he asked.
    “I don’t have cancer,” Dara replied.
    “My aunt died from stomach cancer,” Aldon explained. “She was just a walking skeleton at the end.”
    “I’m fine,” Dara insisted, catching on that this was no joke on his part.
    “Oh, that’s great,” Aldon sighed, “you’re in remission.”
    “I’m not in remission,” Dara replied.
    “I am so sorry. Well be brave,” Aldon said encouragingly, “it’s amazing what modern medicine can do now.”
    “I’m not sick,” Dara insisted. “I’ve never been sick.”
    “Oh, I get it,” Aldon said with understanding. “It’s one of those eating disorders. Is it anorexia? Bulimia?”
    “I don’t have an eating disorder,” Dara snapped, getting a little testy over this exchange.
    “Of course you are in denial,” Aldon tried to comfort her. “Well, it’s nothing to be ashamed of. You just need to face it head on.”
    “There is nothing wrong with me,” Dara shouted. “No cancer! No disorders!”
    “You don’t have to yell,” Aldon came back defensively. “With you wasting away like that, I normally assumed that it was one of those things as the cause.”
    “I just lost weight,” Dara explained, feeling hurt. “For you. I lost weight so you would think me more attractive.”
    Aldon was stunned. “You lost weight for me?”
    “Yes for you,” she answered. “I’m really interested in you, Aldon, and I didn’t want you to think that I was a fat slob.”
    “My mother is a heavy woman, but I certainly don’t think she’s a slob,” Aldon shot back offended.
    “I’m sorry,” Dara apologized profusely. “I didn’t mean to insult your mother. I just wanted to be slim so that you were more attracted to me.”
    Aldon looked at Dara with a shocked expression. “You got slim for me?” he asked.
    “That I did,” Dara said again. “It took a lot of work but I did it. And the guy with the ice cream truck promised he wouldn’t press charges.”
    “I don’t know what to say,” Aldon said, shaking his head in disbelief.
    “A compliment would be really, really appreciated right now,” Dara near begged of him.
    “You look really... thin,” he offered in a poor attempt.
    “Well thanks, I guess,” Dara replied.
    “You didn’t have to do that for me,” Aldon said firmly.
    “I know, and I think you are great for it, that all you cared about was the me inside,” Dara praised him.
    “I never dreamed that a girl would go to such extremes,” Aldon spoke with a tone that conveyed how confused he was by her behavior. “I’m flattered, I really am. But we hardly know one another.”
    “I know,” Dara explained, “but I just wanted you to see the real me, the happy me. Not the sad me because I had put on so much weight.”
    “I probably should tell you something about myself,” Aldon started his own confession.
    “What? What is it?” Dara panicked. “Oh no, you’re not gay are you?”
    “No, I’m not gay,” he answered.
    “Is there something wrong with you? Don’t worry about that. I don’t care. You’re not sick yourself, are you?” the questions shot out of Dara.
    “No, I’m not sick,” he answered.
    “Wolverines didn’t attack you, did they?”
    “No, wolverines haven’t attacked me,” he assured her.
    “Then what?” Dara begged to know. “We can work through anything.”
    “Well to be perfectly honest with you,” Aldon explained as he gazed deeply in her eyes, “I’m only attracted to fat women.”
    “Then there is something wrong with you,” Dara shouted in disgust, disturbing all the other revelers around.
    “There is nothing wrong with being attracted to fat women,” Aldon defended himself. “A lot of women would think me great for it.”
    “But how shallow can you be?” Dara questioned in disbelief.
    “I’m shallow?” Aldon argued. “You’re the one infatuated with being slim, and you call me shallow?”
    “Well, you are certainly not the norm,” Dara protested.
    “The real norm is that there is a great many women of large proportion out there, and I have them almost all to myself,” Aldon came back at her unrepentant. “I’m sorry, Dara but this is not going to work out. I mean, just look at you. You’re skinny.”
    Aldon left the ballroom headed for his own room. Dara stood but for a few seconds before she left as well, passing by the appetizers laid out on the buffet. With the depression mounting in her the temptation to dive into them was almost too much to bear. But she was able to resist. Besides, there was an entire fruitcake waiting at home.

John Bolen Bio

    John Bolen is a novelist/playwright/actor living in Southern California. He has been published in The Write Place at the Write Time, OC180news, and YouthPLAYS. He has just completed a collection of Holiday themed short stories, “Nothing for Christmas & Other Holiday Tales”, that are adapted from his plays that have been produced throughout the USA. John is the Producing Artistic Director of the New Voices Playwrights Theatre & Workshop.

I’m Watching the News Tonight

    My Oxycodone pill is a wide white wafer, chalky and thick on the back of my tongue. There’s a fleeting fear that it’ll get lodged in my throat, like the penny I ate when I was three. But I push that thought away because I have to take it. You see, I’m watching the news tonight.
    I take a gulp of Bud and feel the Oxycodone pill rub against the inside of my throat as it glides toward my belly. Now I’m safe. I pick up the remote and aim it at the flat screen and there’s Wolf Blitzer, life-sized and earnest, telling me that Wisconsin has fallen. Decades of human progress obliterated. Unions are dead. And I think—always a mistake, but I do it anyway—how can we give 700 billion to outright crooks, like JP Morgan, Citigroup, and Goldman Sachs, yet vilify teachers, firemen and even home health care workers who spend their days wiping other people’s asses and barely live above the poverty line? My heart pounds, my shoulders tighten and I begin to grind my elbows into the back of the sofa. So I pop another Oxy to calm myself, to get numb and stupid. Because if I tried to watch the news without my Oxy, I wouldn’t be watching it, I’d be on it.
    My Bud is finished, so I go to the fridge to get another, fearful the numbness isn’t hitting me quick enough. I shove my wife’s Amstel Lights aside and grab another Bud. I sit back on the couch, holding the cold can on my knee. Wolf’s talking about the meltdown at the Fukushima Nuclear Power Plant. They’re pouring seawater on it and sending workers with families into it to try to make repairs. I start to get weepy and feel, so I chug half my beer because I need to stay numb to get through this hour. But I just don’t understand, can’t understand why the place that gets the most earthquakes on the planet, a little sliver of an island, would build 55 nuclear power plants. It defies all logic. And this is what really messes with my head: the Japanese are smart. You hear about they’re amazing schools, all their technological advances over the years. So if the smart people are building nuclear power plants in earthquake alley, what the fuck does that say about the chances for the rest of the world? I’m just some dude who did 19 credits at community college, full of beer and Oxycodone, and I see how suicidal it is. But that’s the purpose of the Oxy, and the Bud, the internet, World of Warcraft, the iPhone, trendy martinis, and big bags of Pringles—keep us occupied and stupid as cows. They say we only use 10% of our brains, but that’s 9% too much. Because if you really used your brain, thinking about this shit would make your head implode. I bring the Bud to my lips, tip my head back and chug like a college freshman at his first frat party. Don’t think, don’t think.
    Now Wolf’s talking about Gadhafi and Libya and the invasion. His voice is getting a little blurry, the crusty baritone starting to bend a bit, thank God. We’re bombing Libya. And we’re part of a coalition with lots of other countries, yet all the leaders are American and in a few months or a few years, it’ll just be America, always is. And our bitch, England. I kind of feel like I’m being rocked in the ocean, and there’s a softness between my temples. Thank you, Oxy, thank you.
    I watch Wolf, and realize I’m not even against this attack. I mean, of course I’m in favor of humanitarian efforts, but I just can’t quite understand how we’re in three wars during a time of peace, how every time I turn on the news we’re bombing another country full of dark skinned people—sending our poor and dark skinned to kill theirs. I try to think of all the countries we’ve invaded since I was born, but lose track after Grenada, the Oxy making my synapses misfire.
    I feel dreamy, watching Wolf’s lips move, his 2D figure wavy and father-like, the words caught in the wind, sometimes blowing into my thoughts, sometimes away. Incoherent, thank God. Finally, incoherent.

Park Bench

    Rosalie Burns was tired and just wanted to die. She was 89 years old and it was time. She wasn’t suicidal. She wasn’t depressed, or unhappy with what life had dealt her. She was just tired. When the person who bored you most in the world was yourself, it was time to say sayonara to this mortal coil. Why couldn’t her daughter, Marjorie, understand? One got tired of all kinds of things in life—the same job, the same clothes, the same mate—why couldn’t she accept that just the daily chore of going through life was exhausting.
    “You haven’t been out of the house since you went to the doctor’s last year. You must get an interest, mother.”
    Rosalie gave an inaudible sigh. She did not want an interest. Her daughter, Marjorie, just didn’t understand. Marjorie was what one would call a success in life. She had one of these many high-powered jobs in the fashion world that had titles which existed nowhere else, but which usually ended in the word Coordinator. She had a good husband, also a go-getter, and two highly achieving children who, of course, would make the most of the American dream.
    Just getting up in the morning and putting on clothes exhausted Rosalie. She was tired of trying to care about anything, tired of a society that was endlessly striving for goals to be replaced on success by more goals. She was just tired. Why couldn’t her daughter believe her? Believe that she really wanted to die. It would almost be a relief to have Fate do something to take the decision out of her hands.
    Suddenly Marjorie was there before her, striding briskly through the door.
    “Mother,” I’m taking you to the park,” said Marjorie. “It’s only a block away. It’s time you got out of the house. Come on, let’s go.”
    “I can’t walk that far.”
    “Yes, you can. I’ll hold you up.” Marjorie pulled her up out of her chair.
    “Ouch, you’re hurting me.”
    “It’ll go away in a minute, come on.”
    In a series of small, catastrophic steps, Marjorie got her mother dressed for the outdoors and out on the sidewalk.
    “What a beautiful day,” said Marjorie, “aren’t we lucky!”
    I don’t give a good goddam, thought Rosalie. I want to be back in my own house where I belong.
    “You’ll enjoy the park,” Marjorie continued, “the fall flowers are up. I’ll seat you on a bench and come back for you in an hour. And, really, mother, you’ll be fine.”
    Rosalie sat on the bench with her hands folded and her feet together, annoyed, jerked out of her stoicness into fury. She didn’t want to enjoy the flowers, the beautiful. day, the fresh air. Why didn’t people believe her? Talk of denial—nobody should want to die, they said, but she did. She was tired of being old and of being tired of being old.
    She sat there almost comatose, not feeling, not thinking, waiting for her daughter to return. A little boy, about two years old, came by and stood in front of her and stared at her. She had noticed early on in life that this seemed to be a characteristic of very small children. They would pick out a person, and for some unaccountable reason, just stare unabashedly at them until they had had their fill or whatever it was they needed to decipher about the person. Then, satisfied, they would just as suddenly leave. But this little boy did not turn away. He just kept staring at her. She became annoyed. I am not going to stare back at you, thought Rosalie, and I am certainly not going to smile at you, which I know is a requirement of adults in this situation. Go away little boy, go away this minute, she said to herself.
    Rosalie looked around for the mother. She was several feet away walking slowly and thoroughly engrossed in talking to another woman, delighted to be able to be speaking to another adult in her long child-oriented days. Funny, thought Rosalie, you rarely see men talking to each other in this way, happily, excitedly, enthusiastically enjoying the very act of conversing.
    The child should have run to catch up with his mother who was still walking slowly away, but he did no such thing. He just stood there, thinking his child-thoughts, staring at Rosalie.
    Just then, a big, red, Irish setter, smiling joyously at his freedom, came dashing by, swishing his huge flowing tail in canine bliss, unaware that this same tail had just knocked the little boy to the ground.
    Rosalie looked at the little boy. Why didn’t he get up? His eyes were closed and he did not move. She should do something. She didn’t want to be involved in a crisis but she had no choice. He might have a concussion or even a fractured skull. Where was her daughter when she needed her? Rosalie creaked to a stand and tried to shout—nothing happened, finally a loud screech left her mouth and hurled itself into the air. The mother turned around, saw her child lying on the ground motionless, and, with her friend, began running to him, shouting, “My God, he’s dead, he’s dead.” Her companion, who had just come up, said, “Don’t lift him.” She had had one course in CPR. The little boy opened his eyes, and began to move his arms and legs, trying to get up. “I think he’ll be fine,” said the companion, “we’ll take him over to the clinic to be sure.”
    “Oh, thank God,” said his mother, crying and holding him tightly. The little boy, suddenly aware that he was getting a lot of unusual and very animated attention, began to milk the situation for all it was worth, screaming as loudly as he could. They all began to walk away, when at that moment the mother turned around and said to Rosalie, “Thank you, oh, thank you. You saved my little boy’s life.”
     Suddenly, Rosalie felt a feeling she had not experienced in a long time. This feeling is pleasure, she thought. I like it. I haven’t felt it in a long time. She sat there enjoying the feeling, and she began to smile.
    Soon, her daughter came into the park, saw her mother sitting there just as she had left her. “She hasn’t moved a muscle since I left,” Marjorie thought bitterly, when suddenly she was in front of her mother and saw her face.
    She’s smiling, Marjorie was amazed, that’s the first time she has smiled in ages. She likes the park, we’ll have to come here often. With that she helped her mother up gently and started walking her home.
    Encouraged, the next day her daughter told her they were going to the park again, and to her surprise, her mother gave her no argument. In spite of herself, Rosalie wanted to see if the little boy would be there again and in good health.
    She sat in the same spot on the bench but the little boy and his mother didn’t seem to be in the park today. However, the big, red, Irish setter was there today, dashing around in seventh heaven. Why is it that he is so happy, she thought, and I don’t care at all what happens today, tomorrow, or next year. Rosalie began to wonder why she was even here.
    A young woman, about l8, sat down on the next bench and busily began working on what looked like a crossword puzzle. It was evidently hard going because she was biting on the end of her pencil furiously. Finally, she turned to Rosalie, “Excuse me,” she said, “could I ask you a question for my puzzle?”
    No, thought Rosalie, no, I don’t want to talk to anyone, I really want to go home. Because she didn’t answer, the young woman assumed she hadn’t heard and asked again in a louder voice, “Would you by any chance know what the fifth column was? I mean, was it, like, a column for an ancient Greek temple?”
    How stupid can anyone be? thought Rosalie. Then she said carefully and, hopefully dismissively, “No, it was a spy system during World War II.” She turned her head away; she did not want to elaborate on it. In her head, she begged the young woman to go away, far away.
    “Gee, thanks, I would never have gotten it”, she smiled gratefully, “it fits in beautifully.”
    The seat on the old wooden bench was getting hard. Rosalie wished her daughter would come. All of a sudden the little boy walked by. He was slowly kicking a small stone ahead of him, chasing it from side to side as it rolled away. His mother followed behind, talking animatedly to her friend. The little boy paid no attention to Rosalie this time. He was obviously all right, but Rosalie found herself a little disappointed that he did not stop to look at her. His eyes passed over her as if he did not see her at all.
    Rosalie was getting impatient. When was her daughter going to come? She could go home on her own, but then her daughter would not find her in the park and might begin to worry. Her mind went back to its favorite question: What is the purpose of all this anyway? We live, we die, that’s the end. Who cares if there is an afterlife? If there is, it will probably be just like this one. Rosalie went back into her usual slump of thinking life was all for nothing. As she sat there, the girl on the next bench said, “Excuse me, but since you seem to know so much, would you know Marilyn Monroe’s real name? I am sure you must have heard of her. She was a movie star in the olden days.”
    Rosalie couldn’t believe it. Had this child’s ignorance no bounds at all? “Her name was Norma Jean Baker.”
    The girl continued, “Every so often I read about her. I wonder what she was really like. They say she was really beautiful.”
    Rosalie thought wryly of what someone had once said about Marilyn Monroe, that she was the kind of person who walked around with a book of poetry with the title showing. Rosalie decided not to disillusion the girl. “I really thought she was a fine comedian, and should have stuck to that instead of trying to become a dramatic actress.”
    “Well, thanks,” said the girl, uninterested in Marilyn’s aspirations. “Norma fits perfectly.”
    After a few minutes, a young man came over and said to the girl, “Pardon me, are you doing today’s crossword puzzle?”
    He’s trying to pick you up, thought Rosalie, don’t pay any attention to him. He’ll go away.
    The girl looked at him, smiled, and said, “Yes, why, do you do it too?”
    “Yes,” he said, “would you know what the answer for fifth column is?”
    “Oh, sure,” she answered knowingly, “that’s simple. It was a spy group in World War II.”
    “Gee,” he said admiringly,” you know a lot, don’t you?”
    “Not really,” she said modestly, looking at Rosalie with a grin on her face.
    All Rosalie could think of was, he is trying to pick you up, you don’t know anything about him except he does crossword puzzles and isn’t too good at them. Be aware. But the girl apparently had no fear of strangers, and said, “I have another hard one. Do you know what Marilyn Monroe’s first name really was?”
    “Yeah, it started with an N I think—Naomi?”
    “No, take another guess.”
    This is getting ridiculous, thought Rosalie. He is going to ask her for a date and she is going to go with him. Who knows what will happen to her. Beware, she pleaded silently, beware.
    Just then, Rosalie’s daughter came to pick her up and saw the two young people so near her, and thought this is a really good experience for my mom, being around other people. Just then the young woman spoke to her, “Hi, you must be this lady’s daughter.”
    As Marjorie nodded, she continued “She has been so helpful to me in doing my crossword puzzle. She must be very smart; she seems to know everything.”
    Inside herself, Rosalie cringed. What was this latest generation coming to if they thought the height of knowledge was knowing a movie star’s real name.
    The girl had obviously been taught to be polite to older people and she began to introduce herself, “I am Charlotte Jamison. I would very much like to know your mother’s name, if she doesn’t mind.”
    “Oh, of course,” said Margaret, brimming over with pleasure that her mother had actually made a real acquaintance, “my mother is Rosalie Burns. We live a block away.”
    “I am so glad to have met you, Mrs. Burns” said Charlotte. She turned to the young man, “and this is—oh, my goodness”, she said, “I don’t know your name so I can’t introduce you.”
    “That’s okay. I’ll be glad to introduce myself. I am Robert Scott,” and turning to Rosalie, “I think it’s great that you do crossword puzzles. I love doing them.”
    Rosalie said nothing and tried not to show her exasperation. She had never done a crossword puzzle in her life.
    After all this, Rosalie was delighted when she finally got home. She made a silent vow never to go to that park again. What was the point of all this togetherness when they probably were never to see each other again.
    As it happened, because it was late fall, the weather turned to cold days with lots of rain. Her daughter did not try to get her to go to the park again. So Rosalie was back to staying in her apartment alone, day after day. But, in spite of herself, once in a while she thought of the young lady in the park and the young man whom, she was sure, had tried to pick the girl up. Did she ever see him again, go out on a date with him? How could she, a pickup in the park. Who knew what dark secrets lay in his background?
    One day, about seven months later, Marjorie, with a puzzled look on her face, came in with an envelope in her hand. “Mother,” she said, “do you know anyone by the name of Charlotte Jamison?”
    “That’s the young woman who did crossword puzzles in the park. What does she want” I hope she doesn’t want to know a synonym for Santa Claus.”
    “She has sent us both an wedding invitation. She is getting married to a Robert Scott. Is that the young man she was with that day?”
    “Oh, no,” Rosalie groaned, “she is marrying the pickup she met in the park. I do hope he is not an axe murderer.”
    Marjorie grinned. “If he were an axe murderer, I doubt that he would wait seven months to do his dirty work. Anyway, I don’t think I ever heard of an axe murderer who loved to do crossword puzzles.”
    Marjorie looked down at the invitation again. “She wrote you a very nice note. She is asking you to please come to their wedding because if you had not been there when she first met Robert, she would not have known the answers to the puzzle and he might just have gone away. And anyway, she will always remember you because you were there the day she met him in the park. Isn’t that sweet, mom?”
    “Well, I am not going. I want to stay here where I belong.”
    “Mom, you can’t disappoint them. Your presence there will mean a great deal to both of them.”
    “I am not going.”
    “They might take it as a bad sign for the success of their marriage.” Marjorie thought a bit. “After all, both times you went to the park, you changed people’s lives.”
    “What are you talking about?”
    “Well, his mother thinks you saved that little boy’s life. And Charlotte thinks you are the lucky chance that resulted in this marriage. Mom, you are the good luck charm for both these people.”
    “Marjorie, you know this is nonsense. Have you become superstitious all of a sudden?”
    “Maybe, but will you go anyway—they really want you.”
    Rosalie looked at the four walls of her room for the first time, at the two windows gazing out at two windows across the street brazenly staring back at them. And she decided that she might be willing to go after all. But, she wasn’t going to give in that easily. “Okay, but if her fiancé turns out to be an axe murderer, don’t blame me.”
    Marjorie smiled and kissed her mother. That park was worth its weight in gold and they would go back there as soon as the weather got better.

Chief Executive Officer

    “Loxheed Milton, the name says it all. Loxheed Milton moves product in times of crisis. The company is the world’s &#035;1 defense contractor, ahead of Boeing and Northrop Gruman.” The narrator’s voice-over began on the infomercial playing on the T.V.
    It was the deep, masculine, throaty voice heard on virtually every Hollywood movie preview. On the large HD wide screen television hanging from the wall, the images seen were of patriotic Americans on their lawns; the American flag in various locales and shot from various angles; American workers (of different ethnic backgrounds, male and female, all with big smiles) in offices and operational facilities; and the various weapons systems mentioned below by the narrator. The images continued to change as the voice-over continued, but the thematic content of the images did not. The voice-over went on,
    “Loxheed Milton’s business segments include: Aeronautics, which includes the F-16 and F-22 fighters, and the upcoming F-35 Joint Strike Fighter (Lightning 2); Electronic Systems, encompassing everything from missiles and submarine warfare systems to homeland security systems, radar, and postal automation systems; Space systems, which includes satellites, strategic missiles, and airborne defense systems; and Information Systems and Global Services provides IT solutions, mission solutions, and command, control, and communication systems and reconnaissance/surveillance systems.
    “Clearly, Loxheed Milton covers all the bases in the area Americans care about most: security. Loxheed Milton is the forerunner, the pioneer in America’s line of defense. And not only is Loxheed Milton the trusted provider of defense, it is also one of the foremost bearers of ethical trust as well. No other company values ethical standards and practice more than Loxheed Milton. And it all starts at the top. Long-standing C.E.O. Barry MacDonald will tell it to you himself.”
    The voice-over narration ended as the images changed to a medium-wide shot of Barry MacDonald at a desk in his office. The room was not lavish nor decorative at all, just plain and simple. He looked straight into the camera, with an uncanny, healthy directness.
    “Hello, folks, I’m Barry MacDonald. I’m here to tell you about Loxheed Milton’s corporate vision and values. First of all, our number one priority at this company is Do What’s Right. We are committed to the highest standards of ethical conduct in all that we do. We believe that honesty and integrity engender trust, which is the cornerstone of our business. We abide by the laws of the United States and other countries and we take responsibility for our actions. The second element, just as important, is to Respect Others. We recognize that our success as an enterprise depends on the talent, skills, and expertise of our people and our ability to function as a tightly integrated team. We appreciate our diversity and believe that respect – for our colleagues, customers, partners, and all those with whom we interact – is an essential element of all positive and productive business relationships. The third and last element, again, just as important, is to Perform With Excellence. We understand the importance of our missions and the trust our customers place in us. With this in mind, we strive to excel in every aspect of our business and approach every challenge with a determination to succeed.”
    The image changed from MacDonald’s office to a park where he sat on a park bench with his family surrounding him.
    “Take it from my family, if you’re looking to be employed with Loxheed Milton or be a shareholder, we’re the company you can trust to be the best. Thanks for listening and have a great day.”
    “Yaaay!” A six-year old girl exclaimed in enthusiastic celebration as soon as the DVD infomercial was done.
    Everyone else in the large living room applauded affirmatively.
    “So, it’s a success?” The CEO in the video, Barry MacDonald, asked with a boisterous chuckle. “We got the director of ‘Heart of the Homeland 2’ to do it. I hate using industrial filmmakers to do our videos. Annabelle here,” he patted the six-year-old on her head, “my granddaughter could make a better Loxheed Milton video than the typical industrial filmmaker could.”
    “Right you are, Barry, unfortunately.” A thin, middle-aged balding man who sat somewhat apart from the family said.
    “Being PR executive you would know, Steven.” Barry responded.
    Barry sat in his traditional 1965 Atwater recliner, his large body fitting in snugly, with his family surrounding him. To his right on one couch was Barry’s oldest son Jonathan, Jonathan’s daughter Annabelle, and Barry’s wife Miranda. To Barry’s left was his daughter Melissa, her five-year old son Jimmy, and Barry’s sister Bernice. Behind them were various friends and family sitting in chairs, standing near tables, sitting in recliners and couches. Amongst these people were Jonathan’s wife, Melissa’s husband, Steven the PR executive, several high level executives from Loxheed Milton, and United States congressional representative for the 36^th district, Judith Katzenberger, of which Loxheed Milton’s main offices and buildings of operations were located in.
    It was cocktails and appetizers time at the Barry MacDonald household, just prior to Thanksgiving dinner. The main attraction for tonight’s festivities – besides, first, the spirit of Thanksgiving, and second, the Loxheed Milton infomercial – was, as usual, Barry MacDonald himself.
    The man who many referred to as “The Orson Welles of the Weapons Industry,” was, in appearance and certain behavioral quirks, similar to the maverick filmmaker. Barry was huge in width, stood tall at 6'2"’, clean shaven (so like Welles when the director had no beard), had a Wellesian grin, a similar laugh (an enormous, boisterous, deep, pounding chuckle), and also had a love for verbal storytelling. But, as Barry would agree and even promote himself, there was nothing maverick about him. As far back as he could remember, Barry played by the rules. It was a sign of good character to be as forceful, aggressive, and charming as he was and yet never run against the grain. After all, he made it to the top by playing by the rules. The key to life,
    “ ... is not to look out only for oneself, not to screw the other guy over, to constantly, time and time again, put oneself first – me, me, me – but to play the game within the natural bounds of the laws of nature itself. Things are designed exactly for the purpose of harmony and order. There are no chance meetings, accidental rights or wrongs. But don’t get me confused with fate or destiny. There is 100& free will in this universe of ours. We create our destinies. We must make the decision for the good or for the bad.”
    “Well put, dad, as always.” Jonathan said with an amused yet positive smile while clapping his hands. “My father, C.E.O. of philosophy.”
    Everyone laughed good-naturedly at Jonathan’s good-natured crack.
    “Who says C.E.O.’s can’t be philosophical?” Barry said amongst the laughter.
    “Well, that is what’s made you stand apart from the rest.” The 36th district congressional representative added politically. “That and your charm, wit, joviality, keen intelligence, and, of course, your storytelling prowess. I have never seen a more involving and entertaining storyteller.”
    “My Lord, Judith, those lips of yours are beginning to tickle my ass!” Barry exclaimed in bombastic humor, making everyone in the room except the children and Barry’s sister explode in laughter. The laughter eventually subsided. “No, seriously, though, Judith, thank you. I’ve always appreciated what you’ve done for this district and the people have always appreciated what you’ve done for them. I could go on and on with my own form of ass-kissing, but,” people laughed after he said this. “I believe that would be best done behind closed doors! I’ve never been much of an exhibitionist!” This made almost everyone laugh loudly once again.
    “Barry, please, the children.” Barry’s wife said quietly with a blushing smile.
    “Oh yes, I’m sorry, dear. Mr. Big Mouth strikes again.”
    “That’s the name of a Smiths song ...” Barry’s sister Bernice added awkwardly. No one knew what she was talking about and her verbal interjection unfortunately stalled the natural flow of the festivities. One of the executives decided to get the train back on track.
    “Speaking of your storytelling, Barry,” the eldest executive began. “We have yet to hear any tonight. You know we’re all here not only for Miranda’s cooking and to see how big the kids are this year, but also for you and your good times, my friend. We are your audience. We are here to be entertained.”
    “Charles, don’t be so desperate about it. All in good time. What I need,” Barry said as he stood up from his 1965 Atwater. “is some ocean air. Let’s all head to the patio. Bring your drinks, nick-nacks, and children. Miranda, please make me another scotch.”
    “Yes, dear.” Miranda responded as she and everyone else got up.
    Miranda and a few others either went to the kitchen, bar, or the bathrooms while the rest of the gang went outside to the beach-front patio. Bernice was lagging behind, trying to finish her glass of vodka and orange juice. Barry came back to the living room.
    “Who’re the Smiths?” He asked her.
    “A band from the ‘80’s. I’m sorry.”
    “That’s ok ... I would like to know, though, if that drink has vodka in it?”
    “... It does ...”
    “How many glasses have you had since you arrived?”
    “Three.”
    “Don’t have any more.”
    “Ok.”
    Barry looked at his sister with compassion before turning to leave. Suddenly, a crash. Bernice still had some orange juice and vodka in her glass, and as she was taking a sip, her trembling hands were too much. She dropped the fragile glass to the hardwood floor, causing glass, orange juice, and vodka to shatter and splash below. Barry immediately turned around while Bernice almost jumped to the floor in fright.
    “I’m so sorry, Barry ... I’m so sorry ...” she began to cry in dread.
    “It’s ok, Bern. But please, go to the kitchen and get some paper towels or a cloth or something. Crying over it isn’t going to help.”
    “Right, right, of course. I’m such an idiot.”
    Bernice rushed towards the kitchen, but Barry got in the way. He looked her directly in the eyes with a stern fixation. He was in utter and complete control of himself.
    “Bern ... don’t slip.” He commanded quietly.
    “Yes ...”
    “There is no way in hell you’re going to make a scene. If you do, this is your last Thanksgiving here. Understand?”
    “Yes, I do. I’m sorry.”
    “That’s alright. Just remember: composure.”
    “Right.”
    “No more alcohol.”
    “No more.”
    Miranda soon came from the bar with a tray of various drinks, including Barry’s scotch whiskey. She caught the moment between Barry and Bernice and knew what was going on. Bernice rushed towards the kitchen as Miranda offered to help clean the floor. Bernice said she would take care of the mess herself.
    “She’s got it.” Barry said as he took his drink from Miranda’s tray. Barry looked into Miranda’s concerned eyes with assurance. “She’ll be fine.”
    Outside on the patio, eventually everyone gathered as the sun set. The Manhattan Beach beach-front property was the ideal location for a sunset gathering. Barry took a sip from his scotch while enjoying the beautiful Pacific Ocean, then began a story from his old navy days. The salty sea air triggered some memories.
    Barry had so many anecdotes, stories, and tall tales that he never ran out of telling new, fresh ones. Even his wife and kids hadn’t heard this one before. Only rarely would Barry forget he’d already told a story before to someone. By the end of this particular tale, everyone laughed good-naturedly and applauded enthusiastically. Barry was in fine form this evening.
    Inside the house, the doorbell rang. Barry’s El Salvadorean maid of 25 years was in the kitchen putting the finishing touches on Thanksgiving dinner. She stopped what she was doing and let the two other El Salvadoreans continue with the preparation. Once her hands were clean and dry, she walked to the front door and opened it. There before her was a person she hadn’t seen in years. The sight of him almost made her heart stop. It was Edward, Barry’s middle child and youngest son. He had a generous, friendly smile, but that wasn’t what made her uncomfortable. It was the rest of him.
    Edward had a razor sharp, shiny, clean-shaven, bald head. He began balding prematurely at the age of 17, then soon decided thereafter to shave the rest of his hair on a daily basis. He had penetrating bright blue eyes, the blueness from his mother, the penetration from his dad. Father and son had the same arresting, forceful eye contact. Edward’s skin was paler than pale. He lived and breathed the night, and hated sunshine. He shaved his eyebrows, along with the rest of his face and body, and wore pitch-black lipstick. He was smooth and serpentine. His clothes were also pitch-black, with his high collar German leather Heichtmann jacket, a 19^th Century Dandy-style laced black shirt, tight leather pants, and foreboding military boots. Some would call his representative style, Goth.
    “Hello, Martha.” Edward said gently while still smiling. “Long time no see.”
    “Senor Edward ...” she was still in shock as she tried to collect herself. “It has been 8 years.”
    “I know. I’m here because my mother invited me to Thanksgiving dinner. May I come in?”
    Martha hesitantly let Edward come in from the post-dusk night air. She was a bit confused about what to do, but before she could do anything, Jonathan’s daughter Annabelle ran from another area of the house. She jolted upon seeing Edward.
    “Hi. You’re probably my niece.” He said with calm amusement.
    Annabelle said nothing, afraid that this might be Satan himself in front of her. Then, she decided to scream,
    “Grandma! Daddy! The devil’s here!”
    Edward laughed as Martha went to calm Annabelle down. But the six year old ran away before Martha could get to her. Soon, Miranda and Jonathan appeared, with Annabelle hiding behind her father.
    “Oh my God ...” Miranda said in exasperation.
    “Mother, Jonathan ... hello. Happy Thanksgiving.” Edward said simply.
    “What’re you doing here?” Jonathan asked.
    “Well, our mother invited me, as she does every year. It’s just this time I decided to show up. I guess she didn’t tell you.”
    “Yes, but ...” Miranda said nervously while Jonathan looked at her.
    “I don’t think she was expecting me to come this time, not after seven rejections. If you’d prefer I leave, I can.”
    “No ...” Miranda replied passively, making Jonathan give her a surprised look. “I did invite you, after all. Martha, please make another place at the dinner table for Edward.”
    “Yes, Ma’am.” Martha replied and quickly went back to the kitchen.
    “I see that hasn’t changed.” Edward remarked.
    “What?” Jonathan asked defensively.
    “The same maid, the same orders, the same duties, the same house ... who says there isn’t an aristocratic tradition here in America? The Weapons Industry can certainly boast of a few families with that prestige.”
    “Regardless of what mom may say, I’ll have to ask you to leave if you’re planning on upsetting everyone here.”
    “I make no plans to upset anyone.”
    “You certainly have done your fair share of that already.” Miranda said tragically, almost with an air of theatricality, which, because his mother was never very theatrical, almost made Edward laugh.
    “Yes, mother dear ... but no, I didn’t come to pick a fight. I simply came to see the family after all these years. Don’t expect anything important to come from my lips.”
    “Very funny.” Jonathan responded. “Well, fine then. Why don’t you come out to the patio. Dad’s telling tales.”
    “So things really have changed.” Edward said as his brother and mother chuckled lightly while they all began walking towards the patio.
    “We’re letting the Devil come to dinner?” Annabelle whispered to her father.
    “No, no, sweetie,” Jonathan laughed. “This is your uncle.”
    “Oh.” She replied in confusion while looking at Edward.
    “Just call me the uncle from hell.” He said to the six year old with a reassuring smile.
    “Edward ...” Miranda scolded.
    “Sorry, mother.”
    The four of them soon arrived at the patio. Everyone who was already there were laughing exuberantly at one of Barry’s stories. Once seeing the second-born Goth son, people froze and the laughter fizzled. There almost seemed to be real, true, honest to goodness ice in the air.
    “What the hell?” Barry quietly erupted.
    “I apologize for my dramatic appearance – dad, sister, everyone,” Edward began his introduction, “but I just had to come to Thanksgiving dinner this year.”
    Barry lost his temper for a good three minutes straight, shouting expletives and curses at Edward. Barry’s yelling became uncomfortable for everyone by the third minute. Edward smiled despite the verbal assault. Then Barry realized the mistake he was making. People began to look at him differently. Why was Barry so angry? This new visitor was polite and didn’t seem deserving of the attack, however distasteful his appearance was. Barry caught himself and switched gears as fast and smooth as a person could. He smiled large and came towards Edward with warm, open arms.
    “Now that I got that off my chest,” the patriarch joked. “give your father a hug.”
    Edward allowed Barry to hug him. Suddenly, the mood on the patio changed. The ugly violence of Barry’s curses was forgotten. The charming, jovial Barry everyone knew and loved returned. That was the true Barry, after all.
    Martha the maid came outside to the patio to announce dinner was ready. Now was the time for Turkey. Barry and his family and friends made the trek inside to the dining room. There before them was an opulent Victorian dining table, chairs, chandelier, cabinets in a large, welcoming dining room. On the table were four large turkeys on silver trays, Massachussettes stuffing, Italian cranberry sauce, black and green Greek olives, a small Caesar salad for each person, and more. It was the works. Everyone congratulated Miranda on the feast and she thanked them. Edward knew better. The only thing his mother probably did was decide on turkey and Caesar salads. The rest was up to Martha and her crew. Edward gave a quick glance and smile to Martha as she stood by in stoic silence.
    Barry sat at the head of the table, with Miranda on the other end, and everyone else on the sides. The food was exquisite beyond measure. Most people had taste bud orgasms. They congratulated Miranda a few more times and she blushed a few times. Once the excitement for the food began to calm down, the next obvious step was to focus politely on the intruder. Edward’s appearance was quite hard to ignore. Like his father, he had a flair for the dramatic and easily became the center of attention wherever he went.
    “What do you do?”
    “Where do you live?”
    “What line of work are you in?”
    “Are you a fashion designer?”
    “Musician?”
    “Painter?”
    “Photographer?”
    “Writer?”
    “I actually work in the weapons radar systems and control panels for Northrop Gruman.” Edward replied in straightforward deadpan. Everyone either fainted or froze in confusion. “Sorry, no, just kidding. I’m a musician. Surprise there, right?”
    “You have your dad’s sense of humor.” One of the executives joked. Everyone laughed.
    What kind of music did he do? Most would call it Goth or Industrial. The more melodic and romantic the songs were, he’d refer to them as Goth. The harder edged and angrier songs were Industrial. He made references to bands such as Fad Gadget, Cocteau Twins, Virgin Prunes, Gary Numan, Skinny Puppy, Ministry, and Nine Inch Nails, then quickly realized that was stupid. They had no idea who those bands were. He described his music as non-conformist, expressive, inventive, mysterious, dark, ethereal. He passed a postcard around the dinner table advertising a gig he was doing at a club in Los Angeles. Most of the people were taken aback by the darkly erotic imagery. Miranda made sure the kids didn’t see it.
    A lot of the people said they never met a Goth person before. Was it true, they asked, the rumors about Goths? Did they think they were vampires? Did they drink blood? Sharpen their teeth? Worship pagan gods, even the Devil Himself? Sacrifice animals? Practice magic? No, no, no, no, no, no, and no, Edward answered with a smile. He was enjoying this. Why exactly then did Goths dress the way they did? Self-expression, he responded. As the French philosopher Michel Foucault said, the aim one should have is to turn one’s life into a work of art. Barry was silent, but hated his son when he mentioned Foucault’s name and that quote. Now, Edward continued, one doesn’t have to play dress up to turn one’s life into a work of art. In fact, that’s secondary to the psychological side. Art in one’s mind. For Edward, it was just fun to dress up and look the way he did. Why did people dress in any particular style at all? Why put on business suits? Why California casual?
    They were impressed with Edward’s intelligent answers. Little did they know that Goth people could be so collected and elegant. Based on this meeting with Edward, it really did seem that they were misunderstood by society. Surely, Jonathan said, there must be a few Goths who worshipped the devil, sharpened their teeth, or killed a few cats. Probably, the younger brother replied, but none that he knew.
    That was an unfair assessment, Jonathan’s wife added, since every group had its rotten apples. There were alcoholics who beat their wives and listened to country music, but that didn’t mean if you listened to country music, you’re an alcoholic and you beat your wife.
    Edward gave an inconspicuous glance at his aunt Bernice after the comment about alcoholics. Barry noticed the glance, almost as if he was waiting for it. Edward caught his father noticing and said, And of course just because the CEO of Enron was a rotten apple doesn’t mean all CEOs are rotten apples. Kenny Lay was just that: a rotten apple amongst golden ones. Everyone chuckled. Tonight’s eventful Thanksgiving dinner was becoming more a success than the usual MacDonald Thanksgiving dinner. Edward’s surprise appearance provided some spice.
    Barry saw how his friends, business partners, and a few family members approved of his son. If only they knew, the patriarch thought. If only they could see through this façade and see the real Edward. Sure, he may be all dressed up in his usual strange way, but in his demeanor he was not being himself. If only they could know all the years of torment, pain, and frustration Edward created in the family, all the discord and wrong.
    If only they knew Edward was a problem child; that he threw temper tantrums like no one had seen before; that he almost killed his older brother with a baseball bat at the age of six; that at nine he was expelled from school; that at eleven he accused his poor, tormented aunt Bernice of molesting him when it was he who had molested his younger sister; that he got into fight after fight at school, claiming the other kids were picking on him; that every time he talked to a psychiatrist or someone at school, he always harassed and offended them and always refused their help; and when Edward was in his early 20’s, he actually physically attacked his father. After that day, Barry and the family gave him an ultimatum: reform his ways and get help, or never see the MacDonald family again.
    Remembering this ultimatum, Barry looked at his wife. Was it true as Edward said? Had she been secretly inviting him to Thanksgiving dinner, year after year? She didn’t deny it so it must be true. How could she? The Family had decided Edward should be shunned. He was given a choice and he chose to deny the family. He chose himself. Barry could see his wife’s discomfort. He could see her shame. She knew she had done wrong. She knew she had disobeyed her husband, she had disobeyed the family. Couldn’t the other family members see through Edward’s performance? Jonathan was restless, Melissa uncomfortable. Jonathan was probably with his father, he always was, but Melissa he could never understand. She was always so quiet. Miranda was also quiet and uncomfortable, as was Bernice.
    But the others, they were actually taken in by Edward. They accepted him and that was exactly what “The Prodigal Son” wanted. That was why he returned, that was why he decided to show up this time. He wanted to show everyone he was normal. But Barry knew, god damn it, he knew better. Barry decided to put an end to this. He couldn’t take it anymore.
    “Edward, why don’t you have a drink?” Barry asked politely.
    “I still don’t drink alcohol, dad.” He responded just as politely.
    “Why not? You’re old enough now.”
    “I think you can remember the reasons why.”
    “I’m sorry, I don’t. Inform us.”
    “I’ve seen what alcohol can do to people.” Edward said as he glanced at his aunt then turned back to his father.
    “You’ve become the expert on it, have you?”
    “If you mean I became an alcoholic in the years since I left, no.”
    “Well, there’re other things you’re an expert on, though, right? You still doing coke, speed, or whatever it was you were doing before?”
    There was a slight gasp and hush amongst everyone but Jonathan, Melissa, Miranda, and Bernice.
    “Really, dad, that was rather melodramatic and after-school special of you. I was trying my hardest to make this a decent evening.”
    “Barry,” one of the executives said calmly, “maybe now isn’t the time for this kind of conversation.”
    “No, the truth needs to come out. It’s time to end Edward’s performance.”
    “I was enjoying my ‘performance’ so much, though.” Edward shot his smile at Barry. Barry hated that smile.
    “Tell them the truth. Tell them who you really are.”
    “And who would that be? That might take all night to explain.” Edward continued with his casually sarcastic smile.
    “God damn it! Tell them!” Barry pounded on the table. The ugly side of Barry was coming out again, the side no one at the dinner table, except perhaps Edward, wanted to see. “You’re a drug addict, a liar, and a miserable despiser of mankind.”
    Edward couldn’t help but laugh at his father, which made Barry even more incensed.
    “Alright then, let’s get to these accusations.” The Goth said while collecting himself. “What I’ll say will unfortunately contradict what my dad thinks of me. Well, at least the last two. The first is somewhat true. I usually do six lines of cocaine every month, although I’ve been known to not do any at all for months at a time. I don’t do anything else, no cigarettes, no pot, no other kinds of drugs, no alcohol, not even coffee or energy drinks. Just a few lines on occasion, usually in social situations or just right before sex. I would hardly call that an addiction, not like my aunt’s.”
    “Don’t you dare start talking about Bernice!” Barry snapped.
    “As for the liar accusation, I’m afraid I’m going to have to include my aunt, in my defense.”
    Most of the people at the table began to get extremely uncomfortable. They were not accustomed to seeing Barry like this and certainly didn’t enjoy seeing him this way. He was always in control. More than anyone they’d met before, Barry seemed to be born to be in charge, to know not only other people’s limits, but his own. Society cried out for in-control CEOs like Barry, it cried out for leaders of all kinds for people like him. Now, though, he was anything but in-control.
    Whenever someone tried to leave the dinner table, to use the bathroom, get something to drink, or to bluntly say they were leaving the dinner altogether, Barry told them to sit down. Edward joked that his father was a sadist: he wanted to torture everyone. At least let them use the bathroom.
    Edward laid out his argument for why he wasn’t a liar. As a child when someone asked if he did something wrong or he was accused of something, he would deny it only if it wasn’t true. When his aunt molested him, he told the family psychiatrist what she had done. The psychiatrist told Barry, whereupon Barry fore-bade Edward to ever see that psychiatrist again. Edward was to see psychiatrists who were professional and not prone to accepting the lies of a problem child.
    Soon thereafter, Edward continued, he was accused of molesting his sister. He was 11, she was 10. He didn’t deny that he and his sister played doctor, but he did clarify that it was for mutual pleasure and curiosity. Edward did not force himself onto his sister like his aunt did onto him. When the 10 year old Melissa was asked at the time what happened, she responded that she wanted to play doctor. Barry assumed Edward told her to say that. Melissa never talked about it again, and tended not to talk about much at all as she got older. Nevertheless, Barry was able to find a psychiatrist who agreed with him. The family took the legal action within their means to send Edward to a mental institution for troubled youth.
    As for the accusation for “hating mankind,” Edward said, Barry was one to talk.
    “How so?” Jonathan asked sternly. He was always intimidated by his younger brother, but felt he must help his father somehow. “I can’t think of anyone else who has mankind more on their mind than dad does.”
    Edward laughed and asked if they watched the Loxheed Milton infomercial earlier in the evening, as he knew Barry liked to do so in years past. “Loxheed Milton – the name says it all.” Edward poked. “The world’s #1 weapons dealer. Billions and billions of dollars made from human beings killing other human beings. Millions of deaths at the hands of Loxheed Milton. Don’t imagine that was mentioned in the infomercial.”
    Upon hearing this, the Loxheed Milton executives and Judith the congresswoman demanded to leave. Edward had truly ruined this Thanksgiving dinner by showing up. But Barry fore-bade anyone from leaving. They had to see this. The charming Goth they initially knew was now showing his true colors. If anyone needed to use the bathroom, Jonathan would escort them there and back.
    “Your father,” Judith the congresswoman said nobly, “has been a pioneer in ensuring America’s defense for decades. He hasn’t made billions of dollars in killing people.”
    Even the Loxheed Milton executives gave a look to their congresswoman. Did she really believe what she said or was she just a good actress? Edward caught the executives’ glances, but they were also quick to hide the looks. They were now just as indignant as Judith.
    “It is a pretty wacky and unfair assessment of your father, Edward.” One of them said smoothly.
    “I think the argument you folks are trying to make is that the millions of people who died from the weapons, bombs, weapons systems, etc., etc., that Loxheed Milton built were killed justly. Those people were sometimes killed directly by the U.S. military or sometimes by countries and people Loxheed Milton sold the weapons to. You’re saying that those killings –”
    “They weren’t killings. It was war.”
    “In war people don’t get killed?’
    “They do, but –”
    “It was justified killing, then. Little children and their mothers killed in El Salvador, Columbia, Nicaragua, East Timor, Vietnam, Palestine, Iraq, Afghanistan, etc. etc., with Loxheed Milton weapons. And all so you can show the shareholders what a profitable company you are.”
    “You make it sound as if your very own father pulled the trigger against a baby’s head.” Judith said with a strange, unsettling laughter.
    “He might as well.” Judith’s odd laughter unsettled even Edward.
    “Edward! Please, stop!”
    “No, Miranda ... let him finish.” Barry hushed his wife with his quiet, pensive authority.
    “You want me to go on? Ok. Why don’t we take a look at all the deaths Loxheed Milton was responsible for since my father took his seat as CEO. When was that, dad? 1982, right?”
    “That’s correct.”
    Edward went on in detail with a wide range of Loxheed Milton arms sales to foreign countries, often to right-wing military dictatorships, whereupon those dictators massacred not only “rebel forces” but also hundreds of thousands of innocent civilians. Then he went into direct U.S. military action, often times with Loxheed Milton weapons and weapons systems, whereupon more hundreds of thousands of not only “America’s Enemies” were killed, but, again, innocent civilians. In the recent Iraq invasion, he noted, the conservative estimate of civilian Iraqi casualties was around half a million people, which was more than Saddam Hussein had killed during his reign of terror.
    “Well, it’s obvious you’ve done your homework.” One of the Loxheed Milton executives said. “But, unfortunately, the research was compiled from left-wing nut job sources. Very little of what you said is true.”
    “What I said didn’t happen? If you look into the records, all the –”
    “Well –”
    “I imagine if we had Loxheed Milton and U.S. military documents right in front of our faces, right now, none of it would contradict what I just said.”
    “It’s just the way you put your spin on it, young man.” Another executive interjected. “You have no idea of what’s at stake, nor are you able to look into the souls of people like your father. After all these years, do you honestly believe that someone like him would consciously undertake a murderous campaign to slaughter hundreds of thousands of people for the last 25 years, and all just for profit and shareholders?”
    “No, I don’t think that’s how he sees, and I honestly don’t think that’s how any of you see it.” Edward looked into the executives’ eyes. He knew his father was an idealist. These executives, though, were not. Edward’s penetrating blue eyes unnerved the executives. “I think my father has been blinded by a foolish idealism. That’s the only way he can live with himself. I’m not sure how anyone could be a part of Loxheed Milton, especially making high-level decisions, and live with themselves.” One executive turned away and whispered something in another executive’s ear. “The sad thing is,” Edward continued, “besides the obvious horrible, rotten tragedy of it all, is that my father’s idealism has had a price. Besides all the Third World innocent deaths, there was a more personal price that was paid. He paid for it in his life and in his family and we’ve suffered for it. I suppose it doesn’t matter much, compared to the large scale destruction, but still, it’s there.”
    “Edward, please, stop ...” Miranda pleaded through tears, as she’d begun crying several minutes ago. She couldn’t take this any longer.
    “Alright, mother ... I will. You were the one who invited me, so I shall obey. I apologize to everyone for tonight’s Thanksgiving ugliness. My father and I tend to bring out the worst in each other. I’ll be going now.”
    “No, stay.” Barry demanded with quiet, unsettling anger.
    “Barry, I think we’ve had enough.” One of the executives said.
    “No. He’s not leaving thinking he walked away on a higher moral ground. Edward is evil and shall be exposed as such.”
    “Barry –” Another executive began to say.
    “He is a creature, this son of mine, of darkness. He is not going to make us look like the evil ones.”
    “And how’re you going to do that?” Edward asked in irritation. He was tired, emotionally depleted from it all, tired of his father.
    “Martha, please take the children upstairs.”
    “Barry, what’re you doing?” Miranda asked as Martha took the children and the other servants upstairs.
    “You’ll see.” Barry said as he got up and left the dining room.
    There was silence once Barry left. No one said or did anything for several minutes. There was just awkward silence and nervous anticipation at the Victorian dinner table. Eventually, Barry came back, empty-handed and perplexed.
    “I don’t understand ...” Barry said, dumbfounded.
    “Look, Barry,” one of the executives said as he got up from the table. The other executives and Judith the congresswoman got up. “We all need to go. We have families of our own we’re neglecting by staying here, even if Thanksgiving was yesterday.”
    “No, wait, I’m sorry, but ...” Barry said with a defeated air. “I thought I had it ... I had to show you all something ... about Edward ...”
    “Barry,” one of the executives said. “Enough is enough.”
    “We need to talk, Barry, later this week.” Another executive added.
    The executives gave The Look to Barry. It was a look Barry never saw before. It was a look he had given to others hundreds of times before ... The You Are Finished Look ... He had never been on the receiving end of that look ... So that’s what it felt like ...
    He was done, Barry thought to himself ... He was finished ... He had expired as CEO of the world’s largest weapons contractor ... He was done with Loxheed Milton, or rather, Loxheed Milton was done with him ... He knew from That Look the executives gave him, that was on their minds and that was what they were going to talk about later this week. There were some insinuations the last few months, Barry thought, but he brushed them aside as paranoid delusions. But now ... after Edward’s visit and the resulting implosion created in Barry ... Tonight was the beginning of the end and all because of Edward. His son had brought out the worst in him.
    “What were you going to show them about me, Chief?” Edward asked.
    Edward, Barry, and the other family members were still at the dinner table. Miranda came back after seeing everyone else out. It was almost as if Edward knew, Barry thought. Edward was always so keen to pick up on things. He must have caught The Look.
    “Trying to throw enough dirt on me to justify yourself? Justify all the choices you’ve made? Justify your character, your way of life, your success, and perhaps even your failure ... ”
    “What?” Barry shot in anger. So he did see it.
    “Edward, I can’t take this anymore! Please, leave!” Miranda yelled in exasperation.
    But Edward wouldn’t stop, he wouldn’t let up on his father. Edward walked around the table and sat right next to Barry, at first talking with restraint but then as the emotions grew, the violence in his voice became louder and more extreme.
    He said he was tired of being a human punching bag, a scapegoat, a demon for his father’s love of demonizing. His entire life he was his father’s demon, the object for Barry’s negativity, the target for all the ugliness and hatred Barry refused to see in himself. Edward screamed into his father’s face. Barry was his punching bag now. Barry couldn’t take it. He couldn’t take this kind of defeat, not from Edward.
    Barry turned and looked into his son’s face like a wounded animal, almost to win sympathy. But Edward kept going while Jonathan and Miranda were yelling at him to stop. The words in Edward’s screaming became intangible to Barry. Sound began to disappear for him. He was so shaken, so in turmoil and shock, he was frozen in pain.
    Edward was a demon to him, his serpentine, smooth, bald head and face with no eyebrows, deathly ice-like killer blue eyes, angular nose, sharp ears, and wrathful, shiny, black lips screaming 30 years worth of beaten down rage.
    Something shot inside Barry, something jolted in him, as if finally Edward’s raging had crossed a threshold. Barry grabbed Edward’s throat with all the strength he could muster and began strangling his son ... Jonathan and other family members rushed to stop, while Edward tried to take his father off him. Barry’s enormous body pushed itself onto Edward, forcing the son to collapse to the floor ... Barry’s weight was crushing Edward as his fingers dug into his throat as hard as he could ... Screams and shouts and cries of pleading and physical force could not stop Barry ... In minutes, he choked Edward to death.

Gotta Keep Them in Line

    I don’t know why I’m here, hell, I don’t even know where here is. First thing I saw was white walls, one window high up with bars. I tried to move and it hurt so bad I musta passed out again. Now I can tell I’m lying on a bed with tubes up my nose and in my arm. Gotta figure out what happened, how the hell I got here.
    It had to be that bitch I’m married to. She was getting out of line, worse and worse. It was a helluva lot better when she stayed home and took care of the kids. Whatever time I got home from Steve’s, she’d have dinner waiting for me and the kids put to bed. She kept the house clean, and she was good in bed too. Always ready to screw, gave me a good ride and never mouthed off.
    Worst thing the old lady did was ruin the kids, especially the boy. Got him to writing poetry, for God’s sake, make a fag out of him if she had her way. She called him Maurice which was his middle name, Mickey wasn’t good enough for her. But I fixed that okay, took my belt to him when he got out of line. Then when he started high school there was this big jewboy that was beating him up. I’d taught Mickey to box but that just didn’t cut it, so I lent him my brass knuckles and he gave that jewboy a helluva lesson. Good kid, Mickey, never did tell where he got the knucks. So he got sent up to Juvie for a year, and when he got out he just took off. Wherever he is, at least he’s a real man now, knows how to take care of himself. I never had much to do with raising the girl. Marlene was sorta pale and wishy-washy, but goodlooking enough to get pregnant when she was sixteen. I twisted the guy’s arm a little so they got married and she has three kids now.
    After Marlene left, the old lady got a job. Letting her do that was the biggest mistake I ever made. She was just a glorified secretary, but she made more money than me. That pissed me off, especially when I’d come home after working my ass off, eight hours on the dock. Once she even tried to hold out part of her paycheck.
    Things kept getting worse. I remember one time when Monday night football was on, she wanted to watch some dumb PBS program about the Civil War. Stupid woman, she actually tried to grab the remote. I backhanded her and she went off to bed. I almost missed the best play of the game. That black bastard Geronimo Jones finally got what was coming to him, got both legs broke, one snapped when he got hit and the other in the pileup.
    The next week I went out to Vegas to see the big fight of the year, Tony Cannizaro versus Stash Krynitsky for the heavyweight championship of the world. Greatest fight I ever seen. The wop decked the polack three times in the ninth round, but the polack came back and cut the wop to pieces. Blood all over the place. They both lost rounds for low blows, and it looked like they were biting in the clinches. The polack won in the thirteenth on a TKO when he closed both of the wop’s eyes. What a fighter, that polack! Got real heart.
    Anyways, when I got home from Vegas the old lady was all bent out of shape because Marlene had brought her three kids to see us, over Thanksgiving. Hell, I’d told the old lady two weeks ago I was going to Vegas. She just didn’t get the picture.
    At least I could get away from her yapping. Rocky, Jack, and me had a cabin up by Bear Lake, and the second deer season was just starting. We took along a case of bourbon and plenty of beer, figuring we could play poker and ride it out in case the weather turned sour. The snow held off, but we never got out hunting till the third day, and by then we were too wasted to get anywhere near a deer. Did shoot something, a cow, I think. Whatever it was, we put a dozen rounds in it, and it bled like a deer. Then a blizzard came along, and we hunkered down for some serious poker. It was a great trip.
    We headed for home with me driving because Rocky and Jack were passed out. I dumped them off, one on each front porch. By the time I got home, it was almost midnight. The old lady had me locked out and I’d lost my key somewhere. I banged on the front door and kicked it until she came and let me in. “Where the hell have you been,” she asked me. Now wasn’t that a great welcome?
    I hustled her into bed, took off my clothes, and jumped in on top of her. I was riding pretty good when something hit me between the shoulder blades. Felt like an icicle. I figured the bitch had stabbed me, so I got my hands around her neck and kept squeezing till I passed out.
    And that’s the last I remember.

    I’ve been sleeping most of the time, I guess they’ve got me pretty well doped up. The last time I woke up there was two of them in the room, a cop and a guy wearing a white coat and a stethoscope. I made like I was still asleep so I could hear what they had to say. The cop had been to the Speedway the night before, and he was saying what a great race it was. “You shoulda seen Barnhoffer crack up, right in front of the grandstand. His car caught on fire, but he got out all in one piece. One wheel came zoomin’ into the grandstand and wiped out two citizens, and I was standing no more than ten feet away. Blood all over. Talk about a great race!”
    “You were really lucky,” the doc said. “I saw it on TV, but it wasn’t the same as being there.”
    The cop came over and stood by my bed. I was still faking it. He turned back to the doc: “How’s this guy doing? He ever going to get well enough we can get him out of here and into a regular cell? And how’s his old lady doing?”
    “She didn’t make it.” The doc waved his arm in my direction. “He won’t be leaving here anytime soon. Poor bastard, one thing you have to say for him, he didn’t let his old lady push him around.”
    That made me feel a little better, and I decided to go back to sleep.

Bob Johnston Bio

    Bob Johnston is a retired petroleum engineer and translator of Russian scientific literature. He waited until his sixtieth year to start writing fiction and poetry, and over the next thirty years he has been trying to catch up. He lives in the original Las Vegas, New Mexico with his wife, three cats, and some hope of completing his memoirs and the Great American Novel.

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!

    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 monthly by Scars Publications and Design. Contact Janet Kuypers via e-mail (ccandd96@scars.tv) for snail-mail address 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 2011 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.