Let the dead bury the dead

Let the dead bury the dead/ all
those bones & joints afire/ ashes
of soul/ smoldering hole/ fish

frying at the end of a fishing pole/
hooked on the white whale/ Ahab
a crab that needs rehab/ from

skateboard champ to the grave/ drugs
drugs & even more/ from the queen to
a whore/ shut the casket evermore/ let

the dead bury the dead/ it’s
getting smelly down here, so
they’d better hurry up!

Sniff sniff . . . YUKS ...

!

I fly up to the sun until

I fly up to the sun until
I see I have no wings.
I’m held up by my nose until

my nose goes poof in fire.
My bellybutton sustains me until
it runs off with the fire eater.

My ears become my wings until
I hear the screaming &
slink off with my eyes.

The eagle tears out my eyes &
feeds them to his babies, but
the babies have no viscous humor &

do not join my insane laughter/ Baudelaire
tries to hit up his mother for some cash/ the
flames reach her, she turns to ash.

I dive down
down into the sea until
the Asian carp devours me/ I’m

feces from the fish’s bottom
befouling the sea until
it’s rotten/ all

sea creatures surface dead beneath
the flames of the sun/ they’re the
heros of the fish fry/ we

eat them up UNTIL
WE die/ UNTIL
we

DIE ...

! (yummy
yum
yum ...
!)

My nose is an attack rifle

My nose is an attack rifle/ it
has shot down the entire lst grade in
Small Slaughter, CT, after

splattering the children & staff at
Columbine while still mowing them
down from the tower in Austin &

eradicating the nurses in Chicago with
bloody knives/ this is America at its
sharpest as the human boob squirts

gore from the All-American tit, & the
demons descend wrapped in Old Gory to
drink it up for their Medals of Honor &

Silver Hearts of corruption awarded for
kill    KILL    KILL filling the bill of
everything we find virtuous & worthwhile, so

smile, America, smile & drink
your bile/ God cuts off His
own head & watches it

splash in the Styx full
of the heads of horror
bobbing in the ice of

SHAME ...

!

Guns

Hunter wants to be buried with his guns
might have to shoot his way into heaven
he’s got a permit to carry concealed
and God-given Second Amendment rights

illicit Uzi in his right hand
Army issue .45 cal in his left
AK47 rifle by his side
.357 in a holster on his hip

12 gauge broken down at his feet
Saturday night special in his boot
even a Derringer up his sleeve
just like Jock Mahoney’s Yancy

he wants the coffin lid left unlocked
the earth on top left loosely packed
so he can see if the Devil will come and
try to pry them from his cold dead fingers

William Robison Bio

    William Robison teaches history at Southeastern Louisiana University and has published considerable nonfiction on early modern England, his most recent work being The Tudors in Film and Television (McFarland, 2012), co-authored with Sue Parrill. For more info, see http://www.tudorsonfilm.com.

    He is also a musician and a maker of short films, both which the curious can check out at http://www.myspace.com/562067730.

    Poetry is a newer form of expression for Robison, but recently hwe has had poems accepted by Amethyst Arsenic, amphibi.us, Anemone Sidecar, Apollo’s Lyre, Asinine Poetry, Carcinogenic Poetry, decomP magazinE, Forge, Mayday Magazine, On Spec, and Paddlefish.

Victim No More

religion
is a trigger
for all the abuse
I suffered as a child.
As an adult
it causes nightmares
and flashbacks,
it has made me an adult victim.
As I fight those nightmares,
I am a victim no more.

Eiffel Tower
(Rust smells better than rustproofing, too)

Anyone not know the factoid
That they’re eternally rustproofing it?
Because the thing is made of iron, and iron sort of
Goes bad that way,
If the French these days weren’t ready to start
Cap-popping Americans
--Which, I dunno when that started,
They used to like us, way, way long ago
My guess is, when they decided De Gaulle was
Part of the problem instead of the whole solution,
The liberators in green fatigues got tossed out
In the bargain—
I’d say to them, “Why are you bothering?”
And they would reply,
“For if we do not, it will rust!”
I’d say, “Let it rust!”
And they would say,
“But it will then soon, fall down!”
I’d say, “Let it fall down!”
And the reply would then be,
“Why let the tower die, merely from laziness?!”
And I pay off with,
“Because you can then sweep it up, toss it,
And begin to build it the right way.”
...but, the French are ready to start
Cap-popping Americans, these days
So, I suppose it’s Hilton Head, this year

I don’t know someone in a military prison

But I’ll sure as shit make a stinky-shit stink
About it
Like I care
There are so many, who do
It’s natural
They really feel it
They just look and care
I learned by doing
Aping behavior
If you want to learn to care
Just act like you do
Eventually, it’s second nature
To just act like you do
Like you care
It’s easy to act like you care
Just get mad ‘bout sumpin’
Then, get mad at anyone who disagrees
And if anyone calls “bullshit” on you,
Because they know you, and Know you don’t care,
Just
Get mad,
I don’t know anyone who got their freedom taken
Away, I don’t think that really happens
It’s never happened to me
But, I’ll pretend think it
Causes are cool
And usually, they serve a lunch

Report Overpost

Post a video
Double click, and here it is
Twice
Gotta take that off by posting it again
I really liked it, it is my soul
It spoke to me like an 80’s song
The video is my cowboy
Posted it again, it’s been three minutes
Double click and
First line-description is the same as the title
It’s like echoes and tunnel vision all at once
Posting it, I don’t know
I posted it four minutes ago, I gotta
Double click
Gotta take one of ‘em off and
Here are three more
I love this video, it says The Truth
It’s every heart which is my heart which is
Did I post the video?
It’s been three minutes
I can’t don’t there ain’t not enough
Double click
Remove by duplicating
Alias it and
My video is a wall upon the Wall
A new kind of retro BREAKOUT video game
You can’t get rid of it, because
I can’t stop posting it, because
I can’t see what’s in front of me
My eyes are in my mind

Dinosaurs

CEE

Dinosaurs had litta-bitty brains,
And they died because they were dumb.

There.
Just trying to correct a little bit of the damage.
I never went to see Jurassic Park,
Which caused a litta-bitty sensation,
And it died because summer was over.

If movies contain real research,
Then, we should have a fleet of starships
And rearrest the guy who greased JFK.

The Nixon’s Pool

I used to know their pool boy
When I was little and didn’t know
He told me about the Nixon’s
Like it was some big deal, some Renaissance Fest
Nixon was cool, he said, because Dick would tip him
Every time
Twenty dollars
Every time
Dick never bothered the guy, my sort-of friend
This older dude, this guy I knew
I bothered to go, just once
All I saw were crummy old people and
A really quiet house
Dark suits stood far away, but
Hell!    I didn’t know

I’m older, now        I like Evil
I don’t know why I’m supposed to hate a memory
Of some dying sack I saw once
They say he was really damned Evil, okay, cool!
I like Evil

Waste Management

I never knew my neighbors, didn’t
even say hi to them in the parking lot,
but today I had to think about them
as their possessions fell like rain

from the third story apartment, just
past my second story balcony, to land
in a dumpster. It was soon over-
flowing like a third world city dump.

As I sat outside smoking, the new
trash told me a story: I saw Christmas
decorations, a snowman made of lights
and tinsel, a crumpled air mattress,
a baby carriage and swing, all broken.

When they left, did they leave behind
things that they needed, were they
in a haste?
                Are their two children safe?
The discarded car-seats and pieces
of toys, and snow-like drifts of clothes
plus other detritus, formed a radius
of five feet away from the Burtec Waste
Management’s bin.
                                I know my neighbors
better than ever now that they are gone.

Window Of My Soul

face pressed firmly against the smooth cold window
squinting my eyes to sharpen my focus
trying to absorb all that can be seen beyond the glass
a thin layer of melted sand flattened carefully
in large sheet and placed inside a wooden frame
I view a complexity of electrical impulses
and I try to comprehend the thoughts within the maze
my brain captures billions of messages and stores them
in random layers and it is my challenge to try to access
any given thought at any given moment
just beyond that glass partition that holds my ideas
and my plans and desires, my wishes and dreams
my deepest anguished cravings, my most guilty sinful fetishes
my lofty ideals and my unfilled lost loves
that all but drowned in a lake of tears
I wander aimlessly down the millions of aisles
that hold my all my personal library
but there is no index or collated table of contents
my thoughts are laid out on shelves and heaped into baskets
and bins and boxes of various shapes and sizes
like someone just discarded them for the moment
an unorganized collection of a hoarder
of junk and meaningless trivia
nothing is ever filtered for substantial content
it has all been auto saved
the good, the bad and the ugly nightmares that haunt my dreams
nothing is spared, like a voracious monster
that will eat anything that it comes in contact with
my mind is a porous sponge that soaks up ideas, because it can
anything my eyes witness or my tongue tastes
my ears hear and my nostrils smell
all uploaded as fast as the impulses can travel
like lightning before a summer rainstorm
before I can even digest the content it is already filed
how much more can my brain hold
no one knows

there is always room for more
my window fogs over from my warm breath
as it contacts the cool glass
I wipe the window with my sleeve so that I can see much better
I can picture my thoughts but I cannot touch them
they exist beyond the window
I have a unique talent that is also a curse
unless I can see in my mind’s eye
the route I need to take
I cannot get there
I have to visualize it all
and I can see it all like watching it on a TV screen
but without that picture
I am lost

Crave

Thirty
is far too old
and young
to call oneself an orphan,
but I do.
But I do, and
I have
for twenty years, and I
long
for strong arms to lift me,
for all I never had.

Time has healed
nothing
for me, growing
ever more un-beloved
as I age. Looking
not for surrogates,
stand-ins,
or shadows,
but for the thing
that should have been.

I certainly am
a sour girl
searching
for the sunny lemon sweetness
of certain safety.
Bring me back
to you,
bless me
with your kiss,
I whisper
As I curl into a ball
cradling the thing- elusive,
gnawing with its soft teeth,
forever expired.

david rockerfellers last day on earth

david rockerfeller is dying
he is stuck in a pit of quicksand
his brothers & grandchildren
surround the pit with arms crossed
they look down at him
as he struggles and snivels
begs for help
he envisions hell
it is a very lonely vision
they are all in expensive suits
in quiet whispers they try to
hurry the event on
hurry up and die old man--
your day is past
all that you have obtained is now lost
they smile knowingly
they know it will pass to them
all that power
it’s like the satanic sword circle dance
where they dance and stab the person in front of them
all the billionaires are there
profusely they bleed and laugh
visiously stabbing their friend in front
“I got your back” he sez
then thrusting his sword into his friend
they are all going to die
it takes a lifetime for them
to lose that much blood
woe unto you folks!
you’ve had your fun! the angel sez
david rockerfeller gargles the mud
it fills his eyes and mouth
he coughs begs and sputters
his twiggy boney fingers reach out
to the heavens
no one is there

I Figured out How to Think Regler

On What Constitutes a Human Rights Violator

A dictator who always did so,
but now no longer obeys the United States

The Things You Feel
Cannot Be the Things I Feel

The things you feel cannot be the things I feel
but I wish they were—
shared like conjoined creatures
with mutual lungs and when we breathed
it could only be together and then you
would feel the things I feel because they would be ours—
vital organs working together to keep us living
but more so to keep us so miserably
from dying
misunderstood.

Nursing Home New Year

Human wheelbarrows, carts of dying meat
left to spoil in front of us—
an invisible rot.

Above the stalled procession of rolling chairs
cut-paper snowmen offer subtle mockery—
tipping back martinis, ringing in their new year.

Somehow, our efforts have given more life
to these placard witnesses
who will one day be called upon to testify
regarding the decay,
that a good time was not had by all

and that they were always above suspicion
in the case of the murders by oblivion.

In a Glass House

Everything looks smaller inside
as you drift from room to room,
testing boundaries, searching
for the heart of words, a detail
to match your long imagination.

Books line walls, obscuring
cobbled streets, slate sky,
wooden passers by,
lines of tourists snaking
across the grass, waiting

to see their own reflections
in the dead poet’s words.
At last you find it,
perfectly small, fragile
beneath glass eaves.

The air smells familiar:
pipe tobacco, tomatoes,
paraffin, polish. Your eyes
sting with forgetfulness
shaken loose from years until

catching the light, you discover
a tiny imperfection, scratched
lightly at first, later more firmly,
a dead man’s name,
while, on tumbling shelves,
books catch flame.

Torino

the beautiful beast had just careened onto Zerega Avenue,
back seat occupied by an opaque, speckled,
resemblance of a boy.
his mother, and her niece, were busy in the front seat
discussing various unimportances:
shopping, relatives, the tragic flaw of time.
“Jesus Christ!” someone yelled—
the boy looked up.
sure enough he saw the King of Kings
standing, arms outstretched,
atop the tallest apartment building in the span of known existence.
scores of worshippers awaited the second coming
on the ground
with the fire department.

the boy knew it was Jesus because of how the man posed
(though not, really, on a cross at all)
he certainly looked as if he had been carrying one.
the boy looked on as Jesus
flailed
his lofty brittle arms into a wave
and jumped toward asphalt the child never saw him hit—
because the Gran Torino was motoring to elsewhere.

Musings After A Good 3^rd Date

Would it be a deal breaker if I smoked? Would it be a deal breaker if I smoked 2 packs a day? Two packs an hour? If I was constantly smoking 3 cigarettes and I couldn’t hold your hand or kiss you because at any given time both of my hands and my mouth were filled with cigarettes? Is that something you could live with?

What if I grew a mustache? I know, when we met, I didn’t have a mustache but I really want a mustache. I really want a Fu Manchu mustache with the ends hanging off my lips like
goodbyes.
And I want to tie Slim Jims to each end and every time I’m angry or I’m sad, I can yell “snap into a slim Jim” and break one and feel awesome.
Would that be ok?

What if I’m actually an android?

What if I take bath salts and then have nightmares about eating people’s faces?

What if I take Prozac and then have trouble orgasming and sleeping?

What if I look happier than I am?
What if I only reveal fake insecurities when I make self effacing jokes?
What if, no matter what, I will be scared to love for the first year?

On our last date, I get kind of quiet over dinner. You ask if I’m ok.
I say “yeah, I guess I just had a bad day.” You ask why. I don’t know. Just woke up kinda sad.
You tell me, it’s ok, that everyone gets sad sometimes.

But what if I get sadder than that?
Would that be a deal breaker?

There are things I will try to hide from you until they burst out of me like a swarm of angry tapeworms

But, at the risk of over sharing:

I am not an android
I do not want to tie Slim Jim’s to my mustache
I rarely smoke
I don’t take bath salts
I do take Prozac
I do get sad sometimes

I will not blame you if you leave
But I hope that you stay
You seem like the type of person that I would really like to have know me.

Elegy for Avenue A (#2)

“Bentham’s Panopticon is ...[a] place [for]
a supervisor in a central tower and shut up in each cell
a madman, a patient, a condemned man,
a worker or schoolboy.” –Michel Foucault

In a loft with windows tall
as this city’s skyscrapers but
with only a drag queen’s G-string
pinned up as mock curtain are
six or seven futons sleeping
passed out poets who are now
blissful snoring fetuses or post-orgasmic
cadavers but one of them marked
with a half open book near her still
petite spike-heeled foot which
you nibble and kiss to see if
she’s still alive before picking
unknown tome up and while she
umphs! in her sleep you discover
Michel Foucault’s Discipline &
Punish none of which makes
any sense during the middle
of the Bush Sr. presidency
which has just declared war
on narcotic pellets shaped like
the teeth of supermodel mannequins
because in an East Village loft
with windows tall as this city’s
skyscrapers and with only
a drag queen’s G-string
to conceal the ruins of last night’s
poetry reading: as blissful orgasmic
poets we had no shame to display
to the Panopticon

Evil came to Sandy Hook

Forty converts, maybe millions more,
and twenty angels newly pure,
alone and madness no longer covets
innocence but grips our wounded heart
and renders lightness from our bones

let ruin and scoundrel speak no more
nor wraith and hate that spikes
our hands while the reaper digs
the graves we trouble in, as
carcasses scorn their soil

but I can no longer stand the pain
along with everyone who feels
embraced of a child’s skin,
who now must face this ended
joy of love forever as the sorrow grows,
except for twenty angels newly pure

so be forewarned of this lament,
for when you see my ire coming
my advice would be to run
because I speak not of justice for me,
but 40 converts maybe millions
more, and 20 angels newly pure

Winter on Civvy Street

Icicles, dangling from a roof
like frozen tears in a homeless soldier’s beard
house cringing from all it has seen
and heard during years it has stood on the street,
watching war wives and widows struggling
to make frayed ends meet, keep up appearances
for wishful thinking

Icicles, starting to melt, old house
unashamedly crying for the homeless soldier
walking its street in mid-winter, no place
to call home since returning from the Front Line,
haunted by dead friends, missing comrades,
walking wounded...all terrorising a mind’s eye
with wishful thinking

Icicles, smearing honest brickwork
with what has to be the saddest graffiti nature
ever left (if briefly) on the face of a house,
whose cosy curtains come alive with firelight
and companionable shadows, testament
to a kinder Spirit of Christmas and its poetry
of wishful thinking

Icicles, gone without leaving a trace
like the homeless soldier, long since moved on
to some other blurred, nameless place
that’s, oh, so scarily similar to that Front Line,
tossing images of love, hope, and peace
into the next coffin alongside a growing rage
with wishful thinking

Asking Too Much

It is not hope
this night wants,
just a simple wish
of no fear.
The dark brings much more
than a need for sleep.
Silent death, disappearing friends,
a home lost to unseen dreams.
Is there a world existing that
allows for eyes to close for the entire
passing of the moon?
to open and see a dawn
with no more surprises
than a rising sun?
That cannot be too much to ask.

Flicker

Lightning makes
the lights go flicker.
Almost like they shudder softly.
A tiny weakness,
and a gasp.

It is just
a little
shiver.

A mini-twinkle,
strong again,
a steady stream
of kilowatts.

Lightning makes
the light bulbs burp.
Almost like they draw a breath.
A tiny hiccup,
and a start.

Now they
stagger on
once more.

Lightning makes
the vision flake.
Almost like they shed a tear.

A tiny dewdrop
slaps the flame,
but causes nothing
real.

How Ron Paul
Could Have Got Elected President

Getting stoned,
a pothead got high hopes,

and wanted to send Texas Representative
Ron Paul millions for MTV ads, just
for his views on the legalization of cannabis,
but Paul, being the only honest man
running, soberly refused.

So a SUPER PAC was created,
and TV commercials with joyous, exuberant
people partying
smoked

up the airwaves! Everybody
must get stoned chanted Bob Dylan
on every rock-n-roll radio
station in the growingly intoxicated US of A.

And all of this was paid for
by a few rich musicians and movie stars.
Their leader, revealed
after the election, was Tommy Chong,
who said he was pissed-off
for being imprisoned for a harmless
marijuana habit.

(It will be rumored that Tommy smoked out
President Ron Paul in the Oval Office
after his inauguration.) Peace.

Prey

He looked down upon the innocent and decided he would prey...

he took the life they knew and it would never be the same.

they cried out to their Mothers and they cried out in vain. Those that heard their cries just turned their head away.....

the child with all their innocence grew frightened and afraid spent years fighting demons in the darkness of the night.

Then the child without his innocence grew up to be a man and they all came together and the fight began.

When the day of judgement came and the sentence it was read with these laughing words it came one year less a day.

the man who wore the cloth and caused them so much pain was sent away and protected once again.

When his time was over and he was free to step outside he looked down upon the innocent and decided he would prey.

then a gunshot rang out loud as rain came pouring down.

then the child with all their innocence, went outside....to play....

This is for all the children who were abused by Priests in the catholic church
and protected by the people who should have protected the children instead.

Vengeful Phone

I don’t have a smart phone.
I have a vengeful phone.
It always “accidentally”
calls my ex
(who’s still on speed dial)
whenever I’m ranting
about how much I hate him.

Goblins on Top of the Bus

Saw a cardboard display
of a school bus
as a point-of-purchase display
at the front of the store
with goblins on top of the bus
holding signs that say,
“Hey mom,
make lunch an adventure!”
The school bus display
carried shelves of Cheetos,
Doritos, Fritos, Funyons,
Sun Chips, Ruffles,
and Lays potato chips,
bundled together in variety packs
so kids can have their choice
of which “adventure”
their internal organs
can be assaulted with
during their mid-day meals.

Occupy

I’m not occupying Wall Street.
I just want to occupy your mind.

Jet Puffed

One of the things on sale
        at the front of the store
is Kraft “Jet Puffed” Mallows.
        They’re big marshmallows,
and as a vegetarian, I avoid
        candies that use meat product
to change the texture of sugar,
        but I had to look at the label
and see if there was any reason
        they called them “Jet Puffed”.
I mean, did they use some sort of
        high-powered air compression
to add to their puffiness, or
        are there jets on the package?
I didn’t think so, but it figures
        that there companies will do
anything to mass-market
        all this junk down our throats.

Pork Skins

saw a point-of-purchase display
of foods for sale,
and they all started
with the letter “P”.
Potato Chips,
Pickles,
and
Pork Skins.

Great combination,
I’m sure.

Y Chromosome Missing

So this man comes
to where I work
once every week or two,
and
at least
for the past three times
he has stopped
for,
I don’t know,
forty minutes,
to talk to me.
And you know,
I have work to do,
and even if
I didn’t
have work to so,
I’d rather
tuck my hair
behind my ears
repeatedly,
or pick at the skin
around my cuticles,
than listen to him.

But please
let me tell you somethmg
about this man...
(And yes,
he had told me
all of this
repeatedly...)
He is sixty-six years old.
He worked two jobs
and made a ton of money.
If the economy would
improve, his house
would be worth
three point five million
again, with jacuzzia
both indoors and outdoors.
He had three wives,
but divorced all of them
because they all
cheated on him.
(Can’t imagine why.)
He had two daughters
and he tells me
they are good looking,
but they’re still
both single after forty,
so he helped buy
each of them
their own house.
And he’s told me
more than once,
that he wished
any of his wives
could have given him
a son.

I mean,
he loves his girls,
he tells me.
But why couldn’t they
give him a son?
A few boys
would have been better,
but if only
they could have
ever given him
even just one son.

Yes,
he’s told me this
repeatedly,
while I’m working.

I’m sorry.
I thought I should
share this with you
before he spots me
sometime in the future
and tells me his life story,
and how much money he has,
and what a nice guy he is,
before he relays to me
his desire for a son
all over again.

One of the Carts

While working here
I’ve cleaned rotten fruit
out of shopping carts
stacked together
at the front of the store
for new customers to use.
And just the other day
I saw something
in one of the carts,
so I went over to pick it up
and throw it away.
When I got to the cart
I saw it was a folded
Used diaper in the cart,
so I had to pick up
a stranger’s used diaper
and throw it away.
Just today I walked by carts
and saw a folded used diaper
sitting on top
of one of the carts,
and after I passed it,
I thought,
some customer
is going to have to
deal with that diaper
if I don’t throw it away,
so I picked it up
and threw it out, and
like the other diaper
I had to deal with,
after throwing the used
diaper in the trash,
I grabbed a wet
sanitary cloth
to scour my fingers
and hands and arms.

People actually leave
their feces like this
for someone else
to clean up.

Just recently, two carts
were stuck together...
You know how these carts
have straps like seatbelts
to hold babies in place?
Well, while these carts
were stacked together
at the front of the store,
someone apparently decided
to tie straps
from two different cats
together into a secure
knot. So someone
wanted a cart, and I
stood there, trying
to untangle this knot...
and they asked me,
“Why do people do that?”
And like reflex, I said,
“People are mean,” while
I tried to make everything
right again.

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 Chicago poetry open mic at the Café Gallery, 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, the Stories of Women, Prominent Pen (Kuypers edition), Elemental, the paperback book of the 2012 Datebook (which was also released as a spiral-bound cc&d ISSN# 2012 little spiral datebook, , Chaotic Elements, and Fusion, the (select) death poetry book Stabity Stabity Stab Stab Stab, the 2012 art book a Picture’s Worth 1,000 words (available with both b&w interior pages and full color interior pages, the 2013 ISSN# color art book Life, in Color, and Post Apocalyptic. Three collection books were also published of her work in 2004, Oeuvre (poetry), Exaro Versus (prose) and L’arte (art).

Trapped

    Lewis Maser dozed for a second; the front wheel of his mini-motor home hit the rubble strip. He snapped out of it, but still lost control of the newly purchased Winnebago ERA. It spun on the rain drenched desert highway. The air bags exploded in his face when the vehicle flipped and slammed into a ditch. He lost consciousness.
    He heard rattling, like someone shaking beans or something in a jar. He stabbed at the seat belt button. It popped; but his legs got tangled. A lightning bolt pierced the darkness and revealed the shattered side and back windows. He totaled the surprise he had for his wife for their retirement. Dammit!
    Could he reach the glove box? He stretched his arm to the limit to open the glove box. Good, the flashlight worked. He pointed it at the back.
    Snakes...snakes everywhere!
    He yanked his legs free, fell and hit his head on the passenger side window.
    Something slithered on his neck. Don’t move, Lewis! He heard rattles.
    Lightning flashed and he got a glimpse of a coiled viper. It struck; its fangs sank into his right palm. He screamed in agony and tried to fling the slimy attacker. It held tight. He grabbed its head and pried it loose. He crawled through scattered dishes and clothing toward the back window. The beam from the flashlight bounced off the kitchen appliances. Snakes sprung at his torso; poisonous fangs penetrated his clothing. Lewis couldn’t feel his hand and numbness kept up his arm. He pushed a seat cushion at his attackers. They stopped and wiggled away. Why? They had him. No wonder. Two fat black snakes slithered through the jagged opening. Their heads arched up. They looked around and Lewis flashed the light in their eyes. One darted for the light, the other moved slowly along the side. A small rattler coiled to strike the larger predator.
    Too late, it missed and got wrapped in the constrictor’s grasp. Lewis trembled at the thought of crawling out the window. That ditch was full of them. His right side was completely numb and a coiled rattler sat by the opening. He kicked at it; it turned, bit him and coiled around his leg. He shook it frantically, another bit him and another.
    He couldn’t move. Move leg...move!
    He barely held the flashlight. Something tickled his ear. He turned and the black viper struck. It missed going completely around his neck. The fat body hit him in the nose and pressed against his face.
    “Help...help!”
    Now, he felt it go around the other way. The pressure increased on his neck and under his armpit. The bulge in the snake’s gut mashed his nose. He gasped for air and bit into the ebony scales. His teeth penetrated the constrictor’s abdomen. Putrid liquid squirted in his face. The smell burned his nostrils. It broke its grip. Lewis gagged; blood and spit flew out his mouth. Numbness crept up the right side of his face. He wiggled his tongue; opened and closed his mouth. That function slowed.
    Then his mouth stuck open!
    Tiny vipers spilled out of the snake’s side.
    It was pregnant!
    Snakes filled his mouth. The wormy creatures wiggled and bit his tongue. He forced a weak blast of air from his lungs. They didn’t move. His face and beard were covered with slimy reptilian after birth. They slipped to the back of his mouth and tried to avoid being trapped in his throat. They balled up and restricted the air flow and others nibbled at his eyes. Lewis gargled blood and body parts. Bloody bubbles popped as they spilled over his lips. His head pounded and pounded; while consciousness slipped away. His mind tried to prevent its escape, but his eye lids descended and he promised himself never to drive sleepy again.

Hell’s Desert Rose

    I see it in my darkest dreams, the desert rose dangling above the cliff that looms over the hot boiling seas below. I fear it is real and omnipotent.

    The desert rose is not a rose. Nestled in my frightening dreamscape, it is a surreal plant with fuchsia flowers. Or perhaps, beneath an oppressive sun, in an ancient ritual of black magic with dark alchemy, a giant tree transmogrifies into a shrunken, soul-cutting tree.

    When I gaze at the desert rose, it rushes across my quiet quintessence and steals my spirit.

    My dead black eyes travel to the other side of Hell. I see a dragon’s blood tree. It possesses the antidote to my life-threatening condition, a dark red sap. I must drink the cure. But of course, I can’t. The Devil and its voodoo curse won’t let me.

    Lost and soulless, like a zombie, I plunge into the seething seas below, vanishing in an ocean of oblivion.

    I sit on Hell’s cliff, a desert rose, opening its purplish-red flowers, hungry for your virgin eyes.

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.

Guilt by Association

    “Yo! Anyone home?” Assistant Professor Larry Galinski announced his entrance to Professor Greg Johnson’s laboratory. Both men were faculty members in the Department of Civil and Environmental Engineering of The Pennsylvania State University.
    “Should’ve called first Greg. But when I finished the final draft of our paper to Science World’s Special Edition on Global Waste Management, I got so excited. Came charging over here to get any corrections or changes you might like to make before we submit this baby.”
    “You did a great job putting the paper together. And some of your analyses? The older I get, the dumber I become. I’m the one who really benefited from this collaboration.”
    “I don’t know about that Greg. Your name on a paper carries considerable cachet. It was very generous to have me as first author.”
    “We both did a lot work on this project. You on the analyses. Me on the history and scope of the problem.”
    “Greg. This may be off the wall. You should send me to the rubber room. But the process for review and publication got me to thinking. Had to run it by you.” Greg’s attention level increased with Larry’s concerned tone of voice.
    “Last August Auberg and Layton published in Science World.” Greg nodded affirmatively. “We all know the turmoil that rocked the campus last November followed by the July Freeh Report. Even Sports Illustrated (SI) featured it in a special edition.
     “Yes,” Greg ruefully replied. “We were seriously criticized with media coverage There really was little SI could add to the outrage. ... Totally inconceivable that such flagrant, criminal, immoral behavior would occur on this campus or any other one for that matter. The emerging cover up made it even more unbelievable. The victims will never get over the assault on their personages.”
    Greg continued. “The idea that the university leadership was complicit in this matter is beyond my comprehension. But certainly Larry you’ve been aware that a goodly number of faculty have railed against Coach Paterno’s influence on the campus for years. The administration ignored these concerns. Lionized him to the point that he was essentially bullet proof, independent of the President’s and Athletic Director’s (AD) authority.”
    “As faculty members we are a fundamental part of the university. We have no control over the public’s perception of Penn State and their response to faculty, staff and students. We do have control over our personal and collective behavior.”
    “I can’t dismiss the generations of Penn State faculty and staff who have contributed to the welfare and productivity of the state and nation. Nor will I disenfranchise the thousands of students who matriculated through here benefiting from the generous labors of the above faculty and staff.”
    “You’ve provided a strong base to begin university healing Greg. Wish other faculty had the opportunity to hear what you’ve just said. However, this brings me to the reservation I was making earlier.” Greg was once again alerted to Larry’s tone.
    “Auberg and Layton’s paper was published in August before full disclosure of the university’s problem. Do you think the situation at Penn State could effect publishing a paper from our institution?”
    “Larry it never occurred to me to even consider such a question. The paper must be evaluated on its on own merits. Time will tell.”

    “Look what came in the morning’s mail?” Warren said to his colleague Brad.
    “Oh yes. Was expecting an extensive review and major contribution from Penn State’s Greg Johnson to our Special Edition on Global Waste Management.
    “You don’t think the publisher will be concerned?” Warren persisted.
    “Out of the question,” Brad replied. He settled back uncomfortably in his chair guiltily musing over how the publication date of the book Paterno by Joe Posnanski had been moved up after the scandal broke.

The Best Revenge

    Rusty Brull drove into the restaurant’s parking lot and found a space, which he took. Then he got out of his car and entered the restaurant.
    It wasn’t very crowded in there; Brull figured it didn’t get much business. It was out in the hot, remote desert.
    He sat at a table and took off his hat. A waitress walked up to him and handed over a menu.
    “What’ll it be to drink, sir?” she asked.
    “Draft beer,” Brull said.
    “Coming right up.” She went to the bar, picked up a can of beer, opened it, and came back with Brull’s brew.
    “Have you decided what you want?” she asked Brull.
    “I’ll have a cheeseburger and French fries.”
    The waitress wrote it down on a pad. “I’ll return with your order. It’ll take a while.”
    She went into the kitchen.

    A half-hour later, she brought Brull his food. Then she waited on another table occupied by a middle-aged couple, who were bickering loudly.
    “I want a juicy steak,” the wife said.
    “You know we can’t afford to have that!” the husband yelled.
    “You have a lot of money,” the woman said. “You just don’t want to spend it.”
    The waitress looked embarrassed. “May I suggest the pizza? It’s a lot cheaper.”
    “I suppose that’ll do.” The wife appeared petulant.
    When the pizza arrived, the husband complained that it was cold.
    His wife didn’t agree. “It’s just fine, honey,” she said to the waitress.
    “I hate it when you contradict me,” he said.
    “I only do that when you’re wrong, Skippy.”
    Brull was getting annoyed with the pair of them; he wanted a nice, quiet place to eat.
    “You always think I’m wrong,” Skippy said. “I’m right most of the time, Andie.”
    “Please let’s not argue here; people are looking at us,” Andie said in a low voice.
    Skippy stood up. “Listen, everybody! My wife thinks we’re arguing too loudly. If we are doing that, you can just leave right now.”
    Brull had heard enough.
    “Will you two stop hollering and let me eat my cheeseburger?” he shouted.
    “Just eat your meal and leave us alone,” Skippy said, as if he were talking to a child.
    That did it. Brull reached into his pants pocket and pulled out his gun.

    “Do I have to fire this gun to make you quiet?”
    There was a sudden hush in the restaurant. Andie’s voice shattered the silence.
    “I’ve heard about you on my car radio! You’re the man who killed a teenage hitch-hiker because she refused to have sex with you. You’re a monster!”
    “No, Andie, he’s not a monster,” the old man said, showing no fear of the gun. “He’s a coward.”
    Brull wanted Skippy to pay for that remark. But some odd voice in his head told him not to.
    “Can I take my pill?” Skippy asked, gentler this time.
    “Go ahead,” Brull grumbled.
    Skippy took out a bottle from his pocket. He opened it and got out a pill. He swallowed it with some of his soda.
    “What’s it for?” Brull asked, curious.
    “I take it to relieve myself of depression.”
    “Do you get depressed often?” Brull said.
    “Sometimes I get so depressed that I hate to get up in the morning.”
    Even though Brull still wanted to kill Skippy for calling him a coward, he didn’t do it. Instead, he put the gun in his pants pocket, got up from the table, and left the restaurant. He entered his car and drove away.
    Brull was smart. He got his revenge on Skippy by letting him live.

The Lucky Moustache

    Carlos Sinatra was a habitual gambler. He liked to play the roulette wheel and the slot machine at casinos. He would win money occasionally, but mostly he lost cash. This did not stop him from gambling every weekend.
    His sister Carmen wanted him to give it up.
    “You shouldn’t gamble anymore,” she told him one day at his apartment. “It just makes you have less money.”
    “But I enjoy it,” he protested.
    “You’re addicted to it.”
    “I could give it up anytime I want. It’s not an addictive habit.”
    “I think it’s hazardous to your wealth.”
    “I can afford to do it,” he said. “My job pays a large salary. I can gamble without losing all my money.”
    “Give it up, Carlos. It’ll just make you poor.”
    “That’s nonsense. I don’t lose money all the time at casinos.”
    And so, despite Carmen’s warning, Carlos continued to gamble. He found that he couldn’t stop it, no matter how hard he tried.
    He thought about joining Gamblers Anonymous, but if he quit gambling, he wouldn’t have anything to do during the weekends. Gambling kept him occupied.
    His girlfriend Daisy told him that her boss had grown a moustache recently, and that it had made him look quite handsome.
    “Why don’t you grow a moustache?” Daisy asked Carlos.
    “Do you really think it’ll make me look better?” he said.
    “It might improve your looks.”
    “I guess I’ll let it grow and see if it becomes me.”
    He let his moustache grow. Soon it was full, and he had his barber trim it.
    When Daisy saw it the next time they were together, she said, “You look quite dashing.”
    Carlos decided to keep it.
    All of a sudden, when Carlos went gambling, he now won money all the time. He found this odd – but then he realized that he had been winning ever since he’d grown a moustache. That was it – he had a lucky moustache.
    He couldn’t shave it, then. If he did, he’d lose at gambling. He couldn’t win unless he kept his moustache.
    At the same time, there was a powerful gangster named Frank Denatti, who gambled at the same casino that Carlos frequented. He cornered Carlos one night.
    “My name’s Frank Denatti,” he said to Carlos. “I saw how you’ve been winning in here because of your moustache being lucky for you. I want to be next to you when you gamble from now on. I want you to split your dough with me. If you don’t, I’ll have you rubbed out. What do you say?”
    Carlos sighed. “I suppose I have no choice but to do what you say.”
    Denatti beamed. “Splendid! I’ll start to hang around you when you gamble tomorrow night.”
    “I’ll see you then,” Carlos said.
    But when that night came, Carlos lost money instead of winning it. Denatti couldn’t believe it.
    “I thought you’d win tonight,” he told Carlos. “What’s going wrong?”
    “I don’t know,” Carlos lied. “I suppose my moustache isn’t so lucky, after all.”
    “Then I won’t be with you when you gamble now.” Denatti turned on his heel and walked away.
    Actually, Carlos didn’t want to have to share his winnings with Denatti, so that afternoon, he’d shaved his moustache and wore a fake one. Without it, he didn’t win, and Denatti stopped using him to attain money.
    He’d go to another casino, and grow his moustache back again. Because it was lucky, it would help him win once more.

The Jumping Bridge

    A very long time ago I used to jump from high places into small spaces. From the top of a cliff into that dark area of the lake that rumour had told us was deep, and safe. We could let all our fears out in that one magical leap from a perch on top of a sandstone ledge or the edge of an old iron bridge that spanned a narrow gorge.
    Whooowheee!
    Nothing quite like an adrenaline rush. Go ahead...challenge death...and come out victorious!
    I knew a bunch of guys that used to go up to the Adirondacks every summer, along about July, to a spot they called ‘The Jumping Bridge’. They’d been doing it long before I ever went along. It was the peak time for black flies, and why these boyscouts picked that time was a mystery to me. It seemed to be a tradition connected to an original expedition when the place was first ‘discovered’ by them.
    On my first trip there we drove continuously, drinking beer after beer, talking shit, or not talking at all, but beholden to the edict that piss breaks were not allowed. My bladder accumulated so much liquid effluvia as the hours passed by that I was sure I was going to burst apart. I finally had to beg like a secret CIA detainee to be allowed to stop to let it out. I had a hard time, going forward, justifying the rationale behind this glorifying of discomfort.
    But I liked those guys.
    They were my neighbourhood buddies, my ‘homies’ as some would say now. We’d known each other since were little kids. There’s a communion there that doesn’t completely wear off with time – after all, it’s stressful to be placed in the middle of a home you didn’t choose, with a family you didn’t choose, and a set of values you didn’t choose. One needs a support group after all that.
    I’d gone off for awhile with a bunch of hippy types; smoking weed, dropping acid, snorting and even shooting speed; but I finally thought it was time to get back to people who were a little closer to the ground.
    It was sometime past midnight when we finally got to the campsite. The van rumbled over the bridge with a clatter of planks and spikes while the moon shone through the windows in a luminous glare. Just past the bridge we pulled into a clearing. There was a stone campfire ring centered under overarching pines and oaks.
    “Who wants to go out and find a spot for the tent?” asked Slater, always the sardonic one. The demonic glint bubbling from his eyes should have been a clear signal.
    The tent was an old Army canvas 10-man job, durable, and heavy as a bag of rocks. Finding the spot could mean avoiding having to help set it up.
    “I’ll go.” I said.
    There was a general snicker all around. I sensed it more than heard it, but I’d committed myself.
    I pulled the door on the side of the van open and stepped out onto the Adirondack soil in my summer shorts and tank top. I waltzed out into the middle of the clearing. The moon cast a beam of light straight to the spot where the tent should be erected. I could hear the sound of the river crashing over the ancient broken boulders. Beyond that there seemed to be nothing but silence.
    It was beautiful.
    “Hey guys! This is the spot! I found it!”
    At that moment I felt about a dozen grappling hooks pierce my flesh. All around my head was a swarm of black flies. I could tell that they were literally tearing at my skin with their mandibles, ripping open little pieces of it. I ran across the clearing to escape, only to watch the swarm move en masse in my direction, finding me as quick as a blink. I darted and dashed and swatted at my head and back like a lunatic but the swarm kept onto to me, with every pirouette and acrobatic turn of my body, drunk with the taste of my blood.
    My buddies slid open the door of the van and called; “Dugan! C’mon! Get in here!”
    I dove into the van, fearing for my life, diving into the hunk of tin to the sound of laughter.
    They knew, of course.
    I had 19 welts across my back from 15 seconds exposure to black fly attack.
    We spent the next ten minutes covering ourselves with clothes and spraying repellent over all exposed surfaces till our skin glistened with insecticides. It was 93 degrees Fahrenheit and when we finally emerged from the van we shone like warriors under the light of a Hollywood set. We batted off black flies as if they were mosquitoes, and built our tent, our home for the next two days.
    As the night wore on logs were thrown onto the fire and sparks flew to the treetops as we revelled in a bestial dance that we had little inkling was a call to some primordial past. I would have been severely mocked had I said anything like that out loud.
    In the morning everyone gravitated toward the bridge.
    The fire had been started and the Coleman stove was fired up to make coffee. Out onto the bridge with our coffee we strolled, slowly, as if in a kind of rapture. There were a couple of guys, either suckers or good souls, who stayed behind to act as ‘cookies’. It would be a scrambled egg mess, filled with bacon and onions and anything else that came to hand.
    The morning sun cut through the trees like a caress, and the river down below sang, like only a river can.
    “Yeehaw!” shouted Slater. “THE JUMPING BRIDGE!” His eyes blazed with a crazed gleam as if they would pop out of his skull.
    “Calm down Bill, you’re gonna get your chance.” intoned Fred, the cool one. He was thin and spectral, happy to break into laughter, but never one to break the boundaries.
    “You gonna go up to the top this year Kenny?” asked Lee. Lee was tall and lithe, with straw hair, and he leaned across the narrow rail that kept him from falling into the river below, as he called this down to Kenny, who was three bodies down the line.
    Kenny had been making resolutions to himself for years that he would overcome his fear – of heights, of ridicule, of failure, of general engagement with the world – and would take the plunge off the upper level of the Jumping Bridge. Not only that; he would dive off that upper level. Jumping would be too plebeian for him.
    He vowed it every year, and every year failed to carry out his vow. You could see the shame in him pile up and bear down on his back. He felt he was a failure in toto, and an unworthy soul in general. Not only that, he didn’t believe in God. God hadn’t done anything for him. If he could do this, maybe all that would change.
    I tried to console him.
    “Fuck that shit, man. Jumping off this fucking bridge doesn’t mean jackshit! You know that! Don’t let these assholes fuck you up.”
    “No, I need to do this.”
    “Why? It’s just a moment, and then it’s gone. It’s no accomplishment”
    I knew this wasn’t true, though I wasn’t sure why.
    “How about you Dugan? You gonna jump off the top, or even from here?” shouted Lee, still leaning over the rail, standing on the road.
    “It could be a thrill from here, but from up there? No way?” I called down the line.
    In fact, only one person had ever gone so far as to dive from the top of the bridge. Dan Gonano had done it on many occasions. Gonano was a devout Christian. He wouldn’t push it onto you, the way so many evangelists did. He was subtle. I don’t think it would even have occurred to him to push his views onto another. He actually had the message of Jesus burrowed into his being, and it seemed to give him all kinds of leeway in interaction with others. He was believable.
    He wasn’t on the bridge at that moment because he was back at the campsite, cooking.
    “Yeehaw!” shouted Slater. “THE JUMPING BRIDGE”
    “Yeehaw! Breakfast!” shouted Gonano through the trees from his perch at the stove. His voice echoed across the gorge.

    The day was spent in anticipation. There was the gathering of firewood, and the setting up of camp tables, and the drinking of beer, and the telling of old stories, and the odd jabbing and prodding and taunting that seems to go with the union of men without women. But we did feel good with each other. We did not doubt that this was a good time.
    That’s saying something.
    There’d been some swimming in the pool below the campsite but when the sun started to sink behind the tips of the trees a new feeling set in, and all eyes went toward the bridge. A gathering began to happen. After all, it wouldn’t do to have a courageous act go unnoticed.
    The drunkest and stonedest of us all, Travis, suddenly got agitated.
    “I’M GONNA JUMP OFF THAT MOTHERFUCKIN’ BRIDGE!” he shouted.
    His long blonde hair cascaded across his tender cheeks, puffed with peachfuzz. He was the token hippy of the group, I figured, unless that was my role.
    “Yeah! Travis! Let’s get this thing started!” called Slater, at a somewhat lower and calmer pitch than Travis’, or his own, previously.
    We moved as a group onto the bridge, some faster than others but all steady and impelled toward that goal.
    By this time Travis had peeled off his shirt and climbed over the railing. He was hanging from his scrawny hands and leaning out over the gorge, his skinny arms bent backwards, taut and fully extended.
    I’M GONNA JUMP OFF THIS MOTHERFUCKIN’ BRIDGE!” he shouted, craning his head back to cast his burnt-out vision across the lot of us.
    “All talk and no jump, eh, Travis?” hissed Slater, oozing himself over to be next to The First Jumper.
    Travis gave him a sneer - a bent smile.
    Then he jumped.
    He was silent for a partial second before his screaming and hooting filled the canyon and echoed downstream off toward Albany.
    Then, everyone had to get in on the act. It was like an opening of a Black Friday sale at Sears in Cincinnati. Bodies were flying off the bridge like confetti. The flow of adrenaline surpassed the flow of the river. The granite sides of the gorge glistened from the endless blossoms of water that reached them. It all went on for quite some time, each new jump enlivening the spirit and conferring a certain kind of cocky confidence, and a sense of brotherhood that I’m sure I will never feel again.
    Then, out of the blue, Gonano was up on top of the bridge.
    “How’d he get up there?” asked Lee.
    “I’m not sure. Juice saw him almost run up the side of the bridge.” Juice was Slater’s little brother. He tended to tag along on these trips and caricature his big brother.
    Gonano was standing up, as straight and sure as anything you’re likely to see. He may as well have been standing on the foundation of the earth.
    He was fearless.
    It’s not too often that one encounters complete fearlessness.
    Gonano was fearless. It was something to behold. I could feel his power. I envied him. I was nowhere close to having that kind of guts.
    Of course, I had my doubts that Gonano’s act was a demonstration of guts, or one of delusion.
    I’m like that. Always have been. I have my doubts.
    He sliced into the icy pool below in a perfect dive. It had gotten the name ‘The Jumping Bridge’, but for Gonano it was the diving bridge. He was the only one ever to have done it.
    I sure as fuck wouldn’t do it.
    Everyone was in awe of Gonano’s guts, his superiority, his fearlessness. No one was really in awe of his faith. Nor did anyone have any doubt that his faith was what made him so fearless. Though those observations didn’t really fit together, it didn’t really matter.
    His fearlessness was a wonder to behold. He silenced us.
    To be free of fear is to be truly free. We all knew that.
    That’s when Lee saw Kenny climbing the cast-iron struts and beams of the upper part of the bridge, following in the footsteps.
    “Hey! Look at Kenny!”
    Sure as shit, Kenny was climbing up the part of the bridge that was so much higher than the road level. From the level of the road down to the surface of the water was a drop that put your stomach firmly up into your throat. Take that jump and your scalp would surely tingle like a swarm of insects was crawling across it, and the anticipation of impact was like all life flashing before your eyes.
    Kenny had vowed for years that he would jump - just a jump from the road level into the swirling current of the pool below. Now he was on the top level, vying with the big boy, Gonano.
    “JUMP! JUMP! JUMP!” came the chant from the tarmac of the bridge.
    “He won’t jump.” hissed Slater. “He’s been saying that since forever.”
    “I’M NOT GOING TO JUMP OFF THIS BRIDGE!” Kenny shouted. The sun was going down and a ray bounced off a drop of water rolling down his side and stabbed me in my left eye, so I only saw what happened from my right side.
    “I’M GOING TO DIVE OFF THIS BRIDGE!”
    That pretty much quieted everyone down. The roar of the river came to the fore in a crescendo that caught the ears of all present. It filled the gorge and raged down the day and through the night. There’s a moment, when you hear something like that, when the whole world is tilted onto its side and you enter another dimension, a different reality. You might take pause, for the briefest moment, to wonder why you had not lived in that reality all the years of your life.
    You were too stupid and unperceptive and cowardly, and that’s all there is to it.
    Kenny dove.
    He almost looked graceful as he bent to the benevolence of the pool below, and then fell. It was like a violation of the laws of nature. I thought I saw the earth split and shafts of molten lava spew forth from the crack.
    We all leaned over and watched as he hit the surface of the river. We waited until we saw his head pop up in the riffles in the tail of the pool before we passed the high fives around.
    “KENNY!” we shouted.
    Kenny’s triumph was the triumph of all of us. None of us had the fearlessness of Gonano. None of us really wanted it. It was a fearlessness based on delusion, and we felt ourselves to be real people, not ideals...not gods sent down to earth.
    Kenny did not repeat his feat that day, or the next. Maybe he’s never repeated it. But a looseness had come over all of us, and we shared a weekend of real freedom.
    A subtle deflation had come over Gonano as we packed up to leave the next day.
    “Why the long face?” I asked. I could hear the crash of river water as it dove into and pelted off the blocks of granite.
    “I don’t know. I don’t think they should get the wrong message.”
    “What message is the right one?”
    “The power of faith.” he said.
    I looked at him, curious. I could see a subtle sadness in his eyes.
    He was a wonder. A force of nature, there was no doubt, however spent he seemed at that moment. The meek had inherited the earth.

    It was around noon when we left for the 6 hour drive south. All the gear had been packed away by the three guys who actually knew how to do it; then we’d piled into the van, in a reversal of the way we’d piled out. We clanked across the bridge, and turned right on the river road. I was riding shotgun. Fred was driving and he slid in a Jimi Hendrix cassette. I was a little surprised but pleased at the same time.
    “I’ve got every record Hendrix ever made.” he said, turning his head to me and grinning. He lit up and handed me a joint, which I accepted.
    All Along the Watch Tower pulsed from the cheesy speakers that were set up on opposite sides of the dashboard.
    I braced myself for the long pissless ride back home.

What Emil Said

    “Don’t you hate the way your thing gets all hard and sticks out? You can’t control it. Does it on its own. It just happens. All of a sudden you got this lump in your pants. Stays that way until you do sex with it,” said Derek.
    “You don’t get any sex,” replied his best friend, Tim.
    “You know what I mean,” said Derek, making a fist and moving back and forth.
    “I feel funny after I do it. Like I made a sin, ” admitted Tim.
    “Ask Father Larimer if it is.”
    “You crazy?”
    “Just kidding. You think he does it?”
    “Priests can’t be married.”
    “No, I mean . . . you know,” said Derek, again shaking his fist.
    “I think he does it in the confessional booth when he hears what people do.”
    “That’s creepy. You shouldn’t say things like that.”
    “I don’t know. Emil said Father rubbed his butt. Said his hand went right up his crack.”
    “If he does that to me, I’ll knock his block off.”
    “No you won’t.”
    “Yes I will.”
    “He’ll tell your mom, and she loves him. Thinks he’s some kind of saint.”
    “I’ll tell her what he did.”
    “She’ll believe Father. Not you.”
    “I think I’ll skip the lesson today,” announced Derek. “Just because we’re altar boys doesn’t mean we all want to be priests. All he does is read stuff about how priests are the representatives of God on Earth. And his breath smells like the sacramental wine. You can’t get away from it because he gets so close to your face.”
    “You afraid he’s going to try to do something.”
    “Huh? Like what?”
    “You know, try to do what he did to Emil.”
    “Maybe, but he better not try. I swear I’ll plow my fist at his fat head.”
    “Then you’ll be in big trouble. Punching a priest has to be worse than a mortal sin.”
    “What about him touching Emil’s rear end? That’s got to be a sin, too.”
    “Not as big as hitting a priest. God treats them special. Not like everyone else.”
    “Guess they can do anything they want and they won’t get punished for it. Let’s go.”
    “Huh? I thought you weren’t going to the rectory today.”
    “I’m not afraid of him. Besides there are two of us, so he wouldn’t try anything”

    Father Larimer was a round, bald-headed man in his late fifties who perspired no matter what the temperature was. Because of this he always clutched a rag to wipe his sweat-dappled forehead. Tim had seen sweat drop from his head into the gold chalice containing the Holy Eucharist. Does that ruin the hosts? he had wondered. Maybe they’re not the body of Christ anymore.
    When he rang the rectory bell, the housekeeper, Miss Gates, answered the door and greeted them with her usual sweet smile. She reminded Derek of his grandmother, and that helped ease his disquiet when he entered the old Victorian structure whose ample windows appeared dark and foreboding.
    “Hello boys. Father is waiting for you in his office. Go right in.”
    The priest’s door was open and he beckoned them from behind his large wooden desk.
    “Welcome, me lads. I’ve been waiting for you two. Close the door behind you. We have business to attend to. Sit there on the couch. I’ll join you there.”
    With that the priest swallowed the remains of a crystal wine glass and walked toward them. Both Derek and Tim obeyed his instructions and sat on the couch.
    “Spread out, boys. Let me sit between you.”
    His broad body landed heavily on the leather sofa causing Derek and Tim to bounce as if on a trampoline.
    “Let’s continue to discuss the role of the priest in God’s kingdom. You may find a calling to the family of Jesus at some point, so it is important you have a clear appreciation of what being a man of the cloth is like. It is my fervent hope, as well as your parents, I believe, that you seriously consider devoting your lives to God in the most meaningful and special way a human being can. Here, get closer as we look at some of the passages I wish to focus on today.”
    Before Derek or Tim had a chance to move, Father Larimer swung his thick arms around their shoulders and drew them to him.
    “Love! Love is the subject of today’s discussion,” said the sweaty holy man, taking time to gaze deeply at each boy’s face before proceeding.
    Both youngsters were repelled by the heavy odor of alcohol emanating from the priest’s wet mouth but neither revealed what he felt.
    “Do you know that the Bible is all about love? That was God’s greatest gift to the world he created. Look, in 1 Corinthians 6 it says, “Your body is a temple of the Divine Spirit in you. So glorify in your body. Love it.”
    As Father Larimore wiped his damp brow, Derek felt the sudden onslaught of an erection, and he placed his hand over his lap to conceal it. This caught Father’s attention.
    “Is there something going on, Derek? Something you’re embarrassed about? You don’t have to be. It’s a normal thing, especially for boys your age. Here, now, remove your hand. It’s nothing to be ashamed about.”
    Derek ignored Father Larimer’s request, which prompted the cleric to reach for his hand. At that moment, Miss. Gates tapped on the door and peeked in.
    “Father, there’s a Mrs. Willow here. She says she was supposed to get something from you.”
    “Oh, yes, the items of her deceased husband that I blessed. Stay put chaps, I’ll be back shortly.”
    As soon as the priest left the room, Tim went over to the bottle of wine on Larimore’s desk.
    “Hey, let’s take a swig. He won’t notice.”
    “No way. We’ll get in real trouble.”
    “You’re such a chicken,” taunted Tim, uncorking the bottle and taking a long drink that caused him to grimace.
    “I am not,” said Derek, joining Tim and taking a gulp of equal size. “Ugh, this tastes awful!”
    The two quickly returned to the couch and awaited the priest’s return, which came moments later. Both boys immediately felt the effects of the alcohol.
    “Okay, now where were we?” asked Larimer taking his place on the couch.
    As he nestled between them, he gave them a suspicious look.
    “I think the wine bottle has been moved a bit. Look, don’t you?”
    Both boys shook their heads no.
    “Well, I guess it grew legs while I was away,” he said with a knowing smile. Once again he gathered his acolytes to his sides. “Well, Derek, I see you’ve got things back under control.”
    The priest arched his eyebrow and nodded in the direction of the boy’s lap.
    “Yes, father,” replied Derek, relieved that his errant penis had deflated.
    “It’s all about God’s love, and it takes many shapes and forms . . . all beautiful. Do you two understand that?”
    “Yes, father,” replied Derek and Tim, feeling light-headed.
    “Come here, you two.”
    Father Larimer pulled their heads to his face and planted a kiss in their hair. He held the youngsters tightly for what seemed an eternity to them.
    “Okay, we have to call it a day. Something has come up,” he said, finally releasing the boys and rising from the couch. “But we’ll talk more about the importance of God’s love next meeting. Go now and don’t forget to say your prayers.”

    Derek and Tim left the rectory and began their walk home, still feeling somewhat buzzed by the wine.
    “Father’s not such a bad guy,” said Derek, weaving slightly.
    “I guess,” replied Tim, tentatively.
    “He didn’t try to do anything, right?
    “No . . . not really.”
    “You think Emil was lying about Father?”
    “Maybe. He says goofy things sometimes.”
    “I think Father Larimer just loves everybody,” said Derek, suddenly feeling slightly nauseous.

Falling from Trees

    BB guns reached their peak of popularity in the 1950s. They were nearly every boy’s ultimate dream gift in the years that followed the war. A Daisy Golden Eagle was the foremost object of desire by legions of youngsters, and Kelly Tuttle was among them. He had asked––pleaded––for one since he was seven, but it wasn’t until he turned twelve that his parents gave in to his request.
    “Happy birthday, son. Just remember, it’s not a toy,” said his father.
    “I know. I know,” replied Kelly, as he tore the wrapping paper from the air rifle.
    “It can cause serious injury, so you need to be very careful how you use it.”
    “I will, Dad. I will . . . promise.”
    “First time I see or hear of you doing something you shouldn’t with it, I’ll take it back,” warned Mr. Tuttle, sternly.
    Kelly could not wait to try out his shiny new Daisy. To him it looked exactly like the Winchesters cowboys used in the movies and on TV. He was delighted by its authentic appearance and imagined himself shooting menacing Indians from a galloping horse. After unwrapping several less exciting gifts, mostly clothes, he asked to be excused to go play outside.
    “Of course,” said his mother. “Have fun.”
    “Just remember what I said, Kelly,” added his father.
    Without a further word, he ran to his room to dress for his first outing with his cherished firearm.

    “Hi Yo Silver!” shouted Kelly, holding his Daisy rifle high above his head in the middle of his backyard.
    He carefully loaded BBs into the specifically marked compartment and took aim at a wide range of objects, first among them the dandelions that covered the field behind his house. He pretended they were a wild band of Apaches attacking him. After a while, he took pleasure in shooting at the new leaves that hung from the trees at the field’s edge––lions’ claws, he imagined. As he was unloading a string of BBs at a tall oak, he noticed he had struck a large blue jay. While it surprised him, it also thrilled him to have shot something alive, as he thought of it. The bird flapped about on the ground; one of its wings spread in deformity.
    Finish it off so it won’t suffer, thought Kelly, taking aim at the injured fowl and shooting it. Kelly experienced a feeling of excitement and satisfaction as he pushed the bird’s corpse with his foot. He also felt pride in having shot his first wild animal. Maybe they ate them back in the olden days. Kelly’s thoughts were interrupted by the sound of fluttering above his head. There on a limb were two more large blue jays. They must be new ones because they’re so fluffy, he reflected, staring up at them. Suddenly the urge to kill them took hold of him. He raised his gun and fired a volley of BBs at them. Both fell dead to the ground. Elated, he inspected their carcasses. He had never felt such a surge of pleasure, and he searched nearby trees for more potential prey. Within a few minutes, Kelly had shot three more young blue jays.
    Finding no other living targets for his Daisy, he started for home proud of his successful hunt.
    “You’re a sharpshooter,” muttered Kelly, boastfully. “You could shoot anything . . . anything.”
    As he left the site of his slaughter, he was unaware that his father had witnessed him shooting the last birds. Rather than confront his son on the spot, Mr. Tuttle decided on a course of action to teach him a lesson. He scooped up three of the bird carcasses, and while remaining at a safe distance, followed Kelly home. There he waited for his son to leave his bedroom. When he did, he placed one of the bloodied birds on his bed. Later when Kelly returned to his room, he was shocked to find the dead animal. He braced himself for trouble, believing that his father had found his handiwork. When he appeared for supper, he fully expected to encounter angry parents. He was surprised and relieved when nothing at all was said about his destructive outing with his Daisy. Instead, his parents mostly spoke between themselves, only occasionally acknowledging his presence with a word or two.
    After supper Kelly returned to his room and pondered how the dead bird got there. He was convinced his parents would have said something if they knew what he’d done. Satisfied that they clearly did not, he wrapped the carcass in an old shirt and slipped it out of the house, depositing it at the bottom of the trash barrel. How did it get in my room? he continued to ask himself, and the mystery kept him awake most of the night.

    Nothing about the shootings was said the next day, and Kelly went to school still wondering how his dead prey had appeared out of nowhere. Despite the inexplicable placement of the dead bird, Kelly felt little remorse over his deed. But he was spooked and genuinely perplexed by what had occurred afterwards. When he reached home, his mother greeted him cheerfully, asking him if he’d like a snack. Kelly declined the offer and went to his room eager to play with his BB gun. Better not shoot any more birds for a while, he told himself.  When he reached for his Daisy in the closet, his hand struck something unusual.
    “What the heck!” he shouted, when he realized it was another dead blue jay.
    What’s going on? Are the birds doing this? Are they getting even for my shooting them? Kelly reflected on this as he removed the second bird’s remains.
    “Hate you birds! Hate you!” he rumbled, preparing to get rid of his feathered victim before his parents discovered what had happened.
    Again, he placed the body in the trashcan, making certain to bury it out of sight. When he returned to his room, however, he found the third blue jay. No, he whimpered, not again. After finding still more dead birds in his room over the next two days, Kelly was convinced the new Daisy must be cursed. Thoroughly shaken by events, he realized to his surprise that he no longer even wanted it. He returned it to his father, saying he would rather have the pair of binoculars he had long fancied.

    “What do you mean you don’t want it?” asked his father, slyly.
    “I thought I did. But I don’t like it. I’d rather have the Gundlach field glasses, Dad. Can you exchange the gun for them? I only used it once.”
    “I guess,” frowned his father. “I still don’t know why you don’t want the rifle. You wanted it so much for so long.”
    “I know. It’s just that .... Well, ah, I guess I’d like the binoculars more.”
    “Okay, I’ll see if I can take the Daisy back.”
    “Thanks, Dad. Thanks.”
    Kelly then excused himself and went out to the porch and sat down looking out over the front yard. Someday I’ll get a real gun, he thought. As cars drove past, he shot at them with his index finger.

About Michael C. Keith

    Michael C. Keith is the author of several story collections. www.michaelckeith.com.

The Mechanic

    The window of Sherry Anne’s third-floor bedroom looked out on a wide concrete apron that stretched from the manicured grounds of the back yard to the garage. Hangar was more like it. The square footage of the garage was larger than the house she’d grown up in and boasted half a dozen retractable garage doors across the front. Her husband, Palmer, paced back and forth on the apron, gesticulating wildly while the Latino mechanic he’d hired six months ago stood quietly by. Sherry Anne couldn’t hear her husband’s words through the window but she could guess their nature by his obvious agitation; she’d suffered similar tirades all too often herself.
    Palmer Cory was a self-made multi-millionaire, transforming a small mail-order catalogue business into one of the country’s largest suppliers of educational materials. Theirs had been a fairy tale office romance—the peasant girl secretary swept off her feet by the charming and highly successful young prince. They’d been happy for a while; she’d been caught up in a world of riches she’d never dreamed of, and Palmer had himself a trophy wife. At least that’s how he’d referred to her with his friends and business colleagues.
    She’d been flattered in the beginning, but when the newness of it all had worn off she’d begun to feel simply another of Palmer’s possessions. Like one of his precious cars—one of the just over two dozen ridiculously expensive vehicles housed in the over-sized garage. He’d often bragged that he could drive a different car every day for two weeks. It was later on she’d followed him a few evenings and found out the same axiom applied to his female conquests.
    She’d been angry at first, and hurt, and had threatened divorce—only to be reminded of the prenuptial agreement she’d so willingly signed while the bloom was still on the rose. And, no matter what else she felt, she had to admit she’d come to enjoy the life Palmer’s wealth bought her. So, she’d stuck it out. Sometimes, though, she remembered the girl she once was, and wondered if it was truly worth it.
    She felt the air move and realized her husband was no longer berating the mechanic, but had entered the room behind her.
    “I’m going to the office,” he said, grabbing a garment bag and an overnight grip from the closet. “I’ll be staying in town tonight.”
    Of course you will, she thought, wondering which of the office girls was up in the rotation. It was Tuesday, so this might be the redhead from Accounting—or was that Wednesday? She looked out the window again. The mechanic was shirtless now, a red bandanna tied around his head, leaning into the engine compartment of a Jaguar XJ6.
    She turned back to her husband. “Did Renaldo do something wrong?”
    “Renaldo doesn’t do much right, if you ask me,” he said. “I’ve given him a week to shape up or he’s gone.”
    “He seems like such a nice young man,” she said. “He told me he sends money to his family every week.”
    “What the hell difference does that make if he can’t remember which car to have ready for me? Every car wash in Chattanooga is full of wetbacks. You’d think detailing is the one thing you could depend on them for.” Palmer stopped at the bedroom door. “I’ve got business in Atlanta Wednesday night and Thursday. Pack a bag for me, will you? I’ll stop off and pick it up sometime tomorrow afternoon.” Then he disappeared into the hallway.
    Sherry Anne heard his footsteps as he descended the stairs, heard the front door close, and then walked down the hall to the upstairs study. The view from the study was unmatched. Beyond the circular parking oval, hundred-year-old oaks marched triumphantly along either side of the long driveway to the road. As a little girl, she’d once come to Signal Mountain with her family. They’d picnicked on a rocky knoll and watched the Tennessee River winding lazily around Moccasin Bend. She never imagined she’d one day be living there among the city’s elite.
    A car engine rumbled below, and Palmer’s yellow Lamborghini sped away from the house and down the drive. The Lamborghini—or his choosing any other of the low-slung racing cars he owned—meant he’d be taking the “W” road, the original road carved up the mountain, built long before the more civilized Signal Mountain Boulevard. Almost no one used the “W” road anymore. It was too narrow, with sharp cutbacks, rock face on one side, and sheer drop-offs on the other. But to Palmer, the road was just another challenge, one more thing to conquer.
    Sherry Anne had ridden the road with him earlier in their marriage. She was no stranger to fast cars and aggressive driving, but she’d thought him reckless and overconfident, and she’d been afraid. With their growing estrangement, however, she’d felt a curious elation when Palmer chose one of the racing cars over the larger, more luxurious models he used on the Boulevard. Often, when he went down the “W”, she found herself picturing his car and body crumpled at the base of a mountain ravine.
    She wandered back to the bedroom window. Renaldo was still bent over the Jaguar, a thin patina of sweat glistening across his back. It really was wonderful, the way he sent money to his family in Mexico. She watched him for a few more minutes, then made her way downstairs to the den and poured herself a glass of Chardonnay.
    An hour later, she stepped off the back veranda, a second Chardonnay in one hand, a beer in the other. Renaldo had finished with the Jaguar and had the hood open on a beautifully restored Austin-Healy 3000. He looked up as she approached, picked up his shirt from a nearby shelf, and slipped it over his shoulders.
    “Good afternoon, Missus Cory.”
    She smiled. “It’s so hot this afternoon. I thought you might like a beer.”
    He wiped his hands on a rag and nodded. “That would be very nice. Thank you.” He tipped the beer and took a long swallow.
    Sherry Anne sipped the wine. “I’m sorry Palmer yelled at you this afternoon.”
    Renaldo shrugged. “I am used to it.” Then he grinned, showing even rows of white teeth. “He pays me enough that I don’t mind the yelling so much.”
    That, she knew, was a matter of perception. Palmer had paid his former mechanic twice as much as Renaldo. But not enough to make up for her husband’s constant verbal abuse; the man had quit without notice two weeks before Renaldo was hired.
    “I’m servicing the Healy for the Mister’s trip to Atlanta tomorrow,” Renaldo said.
    Sherry Anne moved closer and looked down into the car’s gleaming engine compartment. Palmer was as fastidious about the engines as he was the cars’ exteriors. “How’d you hook up with Palmer, anyway?”
    The young man drained the last of his beer and pointed across the garage to an older model gull-wing Mercedes coupe, one of Palmer’s latest acquisitions. “Mister Cory bought the Mercedes online from the shop where I was working in San Antonio. The shop owner, he gives me three hundred dollars and a bus ticket to drive the car cross country and deliver to Mister Cory. Fortunately for me, Mister Cory needs a mechanic. I am a mechanic. He calls for a reference, and I am hired.” Renaldo frowned and looked away. “I don’t know for how long, though. I am a good mechanic but Mister Cory now seems unhappy with my work.”
    “He’s not happy with much of anything for long, except his cars.” Sherry Anne caressed the long sleek fender of the Austin-Healy. “Palmer mentioned something earlier about letting you go.” She looked up at him. “I’d hate for that to happen. But you’d probably have no problem finding another job, right? I mean, even without a reference? You do have your green card, don’t you?”
    Renaldo stared at her silently, his lips drawn in a tight thin line. After a moment, he said, “My family depends on me. If I am fired they will have nothing.”
    “We can’t let that happen, can we, Renaldo? I know how much your family means to you.” She picked up his empty beer can. “Let me get you another beer. Then we can talk.”

    A shaft of afternoon sunlight bathed the bedroom in a soft yellow glow. Sparkling dust motes drifted languidly across Sherry Anne’s field of vision. It was funny, she thought: two weeks ago she’d been snared in a web of her own making—bound to a loveless marriage, but unwilling to part with the trappings of opulence she’d grown accustomed to. Now she was both wealthy and free.
    Palmer’s funeral was well attended, lots of pomp, with eulogies from many of the city’s dignitaries, all extolling her late husband’s virtues as a businessman and civic leader. She’d held up very well, everyone said.
    It was closed casket; there hadn’t been much left after the fire. The Healy was a total loss, of course, and that was a shame. She’d really liked that car. Then again, there were plenty of others. She could take her pick.
    Renaldo hadn’t been a pushover. He was aghast in the beginning, then fearful, then more than a little hesitant. But Sherry Anne was persistent and persuasive, and in the end he had succumbed. It helped that she’d agreed to double his wages and gifted him the gull-wing Mercedes. It seemed only fair, after all; he’d driven the car all the way from Texas. She remembered the intense look on Renaldo’s face when he showed her the brake line he’d recovered from an old MGB at the junkyard. She could barely see the flaw, thought it must have been akin to an aneurysm—just ready to pop under pressure.
    At the moment, Renaldo’s face was beautiful in repose, his breathing slow and deep. And why not, she thought. He might know about servicing cars, but she knew something about servicing, too. She reached over and ran her forefinger down through the hairs on his chest. He smiled in his sleep and shifted slightly in her bed.
    Her father had been a dirt-track stock car racer during Sherry Anne’s youth. Nothing like NASCAR, it was small potatoes in comparison, but he’d loved it almost as much as he’d loved her. She’d been a regular at Boyd’s Stock Car Track every Saturday night of the season, leaving the stands with a heavy layer of red clay dust covering her from head to toe. Her father had had a good mechanic, too, and he’d once told her something she’d never forgotten.
    It’s a rare thing, he’d said, to come across a good mechanic. When you finally find one, you got to treat him right.

At Little Chicago Lake

    Excerpt from Lily’s Odyssey, a novel, published with permission by All Things That Matter Press; its first chapter a Short List Finalist for the Eric Hoffer Award for Best New Writing

    It must have been the tables for the luncheon that brought back memories of tables filled with people on Little Chicago Lake: I smelled the hot tar of summer, the satisfying plop of belly smackers off the dock. The lake had gotten its name because it was people from Chicago who’d built summer homes when the Manitowoc & Nicolet Railroad skirted the lake in the late 1800’s.
     Each pine picnic table held people resembling each other not so much in looks but in some other indefinable way. They would look, nod and shake their heads to those at other tables and avoid looking while talking about them, smile as Uncle Walt described them as “gussied up blockheads” or “muttonheads,” carefully checking each other’s tone for reinforcement they were within the boundaries of their code. I recalled Uncle Walt’s benevolent expression as he nodded and greeted people passing their table. I kept the same smile when people told me, “Your uncle’s such a great guy,” knowing even if they knew the truth about him, it wouldn’t change his status of a successful man and son of another self-made man who’d become mayor. I’d heard many people say: “Walter Alger’s the salt of the earth and if someone speaks ill of him they’ll have to answer to me.” He’d usually walked around the park with his cigar in the corner of his mouth to be sure he hadn’t missed greeting anyone before leaving.
    I remembered a conversation at the picnic about a woman who’d been raped: “I heard her husband was seeing that Granger woman,” said Aunt Hester.
    Uncle Walt chuckled, “Couldn’t keep him at home, heh? God, having a wife raped like that sure as hell must make him feel like crap.” Aunt Hester handed him another Old Milwaukee from the cooler after Uncle Walt motioned for one. “Women have it all but are they satisfied? Hell no.” He motioned to the bench he was sitting on, “Christamighty! If you lined up all the satisfied women you ever ran across, they wouldn’t fill up half this damn bench.”

About Carol Smallwood

    Carol Smallwood co-edited Women on Poetry: Writing, Revising, Publishing and Teaching (McFarland, 2012) on the list of “Best Books for Writers” by Poets & Writers Magazine; Women Writing on Family: Tips on Writing, Teaching and Publishing (Key Publishing House, 2012); Compartments: Poems on Nature, Femininity, and Other Realms (Anaphora Literary Press, 2011) received a Pushcart nomination. Carol has founded, supports humane societies.

Please Come Home, All Is Forgiven

    I really shouldn’t complain too much. It was an easy life. I slept most of the time, sometimes straight through the day if nobody bothered me. I was fed whenever I was hungry, and my only duties were to strut around and purr once in a while and act grateful.
    I always liked to prowl at night, imagining I was a big jungle cat or maybe a wolverine, ready to pounce on my prey and sink my fangs into its soft flesh. But then I’d find that my prey was only a sleepy bird or an unwary gopher, and I’d be so disgusted that sometimes I just let it go.
    My main complaint was that I didn’t get any respect—not from my humans, not from our resident Scottie, and certainly not from that stupid Labrador next door, who always chased me up a tree whenever he got loose. Patronized or terrorized, nothing in between. That’s a hell of a way to treat someone who’s descended from Siamese royalty—well, at least on my mother’s side.
    One night last month, I climbed onto the roof and challenged the moon to a death-fight. Of course, it ignored me. I spent the rest of the night pacing around the roof, yowling my frustration.
    Three nights later, the rising moon was nearly full and blood-red. I stood on the peak of the roof and stared at the moon until its beams entered my body, coursing through my face and limbs like an electric shock. I felt great tufts of hair growing from my ears, and my paws became enormous pads. A surge of power ran through my body. I walked softly to the edge of the roof and saw Scottie in the back yard. In a single leap, I landed on his back and sank my fangs into his neck before he could make a sound. I dragged the body into the woods and ate my fill, leaving the rest for scavengers. I knew I should feel some remorse for killing Scottie; after all, we had grown up together. But he had become increasingly aloof, unwilling to acknowledge my existence. Never again would he ignore me.
    It was easy to slip back into my old body and resume my usual schedule of activities. However, I couldn’t bring myself to toady up to my humans; and when the big one tried to pet me, I hissed and clawed his hand. He cursed and tried to strike me, but I leaped to the top of the bookcase and stayed there all that day and night. Scottie’s disappearance remained a mystery; his body was never found.
    Last night, a full moon again called me to the roof. This time, the radiation made every hair on my body stand on end and crackle, and I could see that I was enveloped by a blue glow. I became a huge predator with a lithe, striped body, and I knew my name: Tiger. I leaped to the ground and over the fence into our neighbor’s yard, where their stupid Labrador was fast asleep. I seized him by the neck and shook the life out of him, then cleared the back fence in a single bound and carried the body deep into the woods. This time, I did not eat any of the meat, rather intending to leave the body for whatever jackals might be about.
    Actually, I felt nauseated, and I lay down alongside my kill and tried to sleep. I wanted desperately to get back into my old body, but my ears kept throbbing with a beat that said “Kill! Kill! Kill!” I had become the ultimate predator, and there was no turning back.
    I finally dropped off to sleep, waking only when the sun’s rays shone into the woods. I tried to arise but found that my body was wedged in between two trees. Gone was the lithe, striped body, replaced by something brown, lumpy, and scaly. I pushed the trees aside, stood up on my hind legs, and found that my head was on a level with the treetops. Balancing myself by my tail, I strode through the woods and across the field separating our house from the village. Somehow, I knew my name: Tyrannosaurus rex. My mission: to destroy the human race, just as they destroyed my ancestors.
    I raged up and down the village streets, killing whatever humans and animals I could find in the open. When no more were to be seen, I clawed my way into some of the flimsy structures and wiped out whatever life was inside. Then I prowled the streets again, all morning. Occasionally, I could hear popping noises and feel something tickling my skin, but nothing appeared in the open to challenge me.
    Tiring of the game, I left the village and strode down a path between two ribbons of concrete. There were no signs of life along the path, but some sort of flying reptile followed me, shooting darts that stung but failed to penetrate my hide.
    Finally, a large green creature moved into my path. A worthy adversary at last! Not nearly as tall as I, it hauled its fearsome bulk along the ground like a giant snail. My mighty roar shook the trees as I challenged it to close with me for a battle to the death. But the creature responded to my challenge with its own roar and a burst of flame from its mouth. It seemed impossible: I knew that dragons were mythical beasts. Then another roar, and the flame tore a hole in my chest.
    As I lay dying, my lifeblood oozing onto the ground, I heard the voice of my littlest human calling, “Kitty, please come home.”

Disbelief

    Being unable to move, to speak, or to show any expression, it bothered Phil that no one knew exactly how foul tempered he really was. Everyone assumed that inside of his static, mute exterior lived a saint. That is, if they believed he had any personality at all. But, Phil wasn’t a saint. And he wasn’t inclined to be one.
    If he could make a face, he would make an angry face all of the time. If he could speak, form words, what he would say to people would be unprintable in a family oriented publication. If he could move even one arm and hand, he would slap anyone who came within reach.
    Born with a normal, and possibly above average mind, Phil had felt the this way for as long back as he could remember. During his formative years, one of Phil’s first nurses used to say stupid, condescending things to him, such as, “Oh, he is so special. He is a wonderful, special little boy.” Phil had thought that she was the ‘special’ one. One of the first physical movements he struggled to attempt as a child, without success, was to give her the finger.
    Adding to Phil’s frustration, misery, and to the downfall of his perspective, was that he and his mother were poor, living on assistance and receiving small disability payments for him. Therefore, they were never able to afford one of those cutting edge communication devices that you see in movies of the week on television, the kind that allowed a paralyzed, non-speaking person to communicate electronically by moving their eyes. Phil could move his eyes.
    He got a surprise, though, during one of his daily, silent ruminations on how much he hated everything and everybody. The old dial telephone in their mobile home trailer rang and Phil‘s mother answered it. Phil couldn’t hear the conversation in the next room, but he could see his mother smiling. After a few minutes, she hung up and excitedly raced to Phil’s side. “Phil, Phil! The state is going to pay for one of those electronic communication devices! A brand new one! The social worker finally talked them into it!” she exclaimed. Phil almost liked his mother, at times. She talked to him like he was there, though probably crediting him with the intellect of a fetus.
    It took the device two weeks to be ordered and delivered. A couple of days into the waiting period, Phil had to admit to himself that he was growing cautiously optimistic. When the device arrived, along with a technician/trainer from the company, Phil nearly jumped for joy in his head.
    The technician/trainer spoke only to Phil’s mother, glancing over at Phil sporadically. Phil had the impression that it was up to his mother to train him how to use the device, like training a dog to bark on command by waving a biscuit in front of its nose. Phil swallowed the insult. At least, at last, he might be able to get his reaction to such encounters and many other things off of his chest.
    After an insufferable two hours listening to Phil’s mother and the technician/ trainer talk back and forth, and watching the man demonstrate the device to Phil’s mother again and again, the device was hooked to Phil’s wheelchair and other apparatus was attached to Phil’s head to allow him to operate it by moving his eyes. Having taken in the endless demonstration, Phil began to use it immediately, to his mother’s and the man’s utter surprise.
    The air was thick with anticipation. Out of sight of his mother and the man, Phil moved his eyes frenetically, stringing together words on the device’s screen. Finally, a sentence complete, Phil triggered the voice function with his eyes, the sentence heard in an electronic voice. “Thank you for the talking box, mom, sir...but now you both can take your smiling faces and go straight to hell,” the voice droned. Both of their jaws, and the tools in the man’s hands, dropped.
    Phil thought, frankly, that he been more than polite in his choice of words, especially after all these years of silent suffering.

Aidan

    Curled up in bed, a woman turns on her laptop computer. Booting up she clicks on her email program and keys in lacydex@sox.com.
    October 9. 2:30 AM Mountain Standard Time. Good Morning Chantal! You have 1 new message.
    PasteBook Message            Aidan Wilson            Today            2:00 AM
    She clicks on this message.
    Hello Chantal,
    I am penning book IV to my series, The Lighthouse Crimes, and would like to know if a woman’s hands are large enough to strangle a man during an attempt to kidnap her. After all, women do have smaller hands than men. And her strength is not a factor. Please weigh in. Looking forward to hearing from you.
    Aidan
    Hummmm. Thinking. Thinking. Clicks black lacquered nails on the laptop. Is he for real? Could be a scam.
    Clicks on the Internet. Taps in P a s t e B o o k. Logs in.
    Username: HotBaby    Password *******
    Chantal keys in A i d a n    W i l s o n
    Aidan’s PasteBook page comes up.
    She studies his photo. Brown, sun bleached hair, shoulder length. Brown eyes. Light stubble, rugged, outdoorsy tan. Nice!
    Residence: Endearment, CO. Hometown: Bratterwick, WI.
    Bio: Self-employed author, writer, and photographer.
    Status: It’s complicated.
    Born: January 6, 1962
    Friends: 275
    Sports: Hockey
    Music: Rock and Roll, Heavy Metal
    Book Photos: The Lighthouse Crimes, Barry Marshall Mysteries, Book I, II, and III.
    Write a comment:
    Hey Aidan,
    Intrigued by your message.
    I live in Robinbillyville, about an hour from Endearment. It’s a hick town. You’ve probably never heard of it. Would you like to meet? My answer to your question is way too involved to write it here.
    Looking forward to hearing from you.
    Chantal

***

    The next day.
    Chantal is sitting on her couch. She presses the computer’s on button.
    Booting up.
    She clicks on her email program and keys in lacydex@sox.com. Password: ******
    October 9. 11:00 AM Mountain Standard Time. Good Morning Chantel! You have 1 new message.
    PasteBook Message            Aidan Wilson            Today            10:00 AM
    She clicks on the message.
    Hi Chantal,
    So glad to hear from you! You’re so right about Robinbillyville. I’ve lived in Endearment for only 3 years. Would you like to meet on Wednesday in downtown Endearment @ 8 for a late dinner and drinks? If yes, do you know where The Pigs ‘N Knuckles is on Bluebird & Peacock? It’s across the street from the Iron bull and bison statues. You know what I look like; send some me pics of you. I could not find any on your SpaceBook page.
    Aidan
    Write a comment:
    Hey Aidan,
    Sounds great! See you tomorrow. No pics of me. Be surprised.
    Chantal
    She pushes send and powers off. Ummm. Sounds like fun. What to wear. And my hair.
    Chantal hurries over to her closet. Rummaging through, she moans while caressing her slippery silk and lace bustiers, teddies, and camisoles. She holds her nose against each garment, delighting in the musky, sweaty scent of each guy’s manhood. <>ISo hard to choose.

    The next day. Evening.
    Chantal arrives at the Pigs ‘N Knuckles.
    Patrons notice Chantal and whisper to their dining partners. All eyes are on her.
    “How many in your party?” the hostess asks.
    Chantal looks around the restaurant for her date. There he is. She smiles and waves to him.
    He grins. Sweat leaks out of every crevice in his body.
    Without turning to the woman Chantal says, “I found him.” She sashays over to Aidan’s table.
    He stands and hurries around the table top. With hands hot and drenched in perspiration, he pulls out the chair for her.
    “A man with manners. I like it.” She sits down.
    Aidan stumbles and drops into his seat as if he completed an Iron Man Triathlon. He pulls a handkerchief from his pocket and mops his hands.
    A waiter comes to the table. “May I take your drink orders?” As he watches Chantal’s huge breasts strain to escape from her lacy camisole, the server smacks protruding lips.
    “I’ll have a Manhattan,” she says.
    “Sir?” The pencil slips through the waiter’s moist fingers. He bends to pick it up.
    “Uh...the same?” Aidan chirps. Flushed with heat, a bulge forms in the crotch of his beige Khakis.
    Standing, the waiter clears his throat and leaves.
    Chantal says, “I’ve been thinking about the e-mail you sent me.”
    Aidan stares at her.
    “Just because women have smaller bones and muscles then men, does not mean that we can’t fight back.”
    The waiter appears and serves the drinks.
    “Today, many women take Martial Arts instruction and self-defense classes...Aidan? Here I am rattling on and have not given you a chance to talk.”
    He grabs his drink and gulps it down.
    Facing Chantal, the waiter says, “Are you ready to order?” A droplet snakes its way down from the top of his head and drips in the server’s eye.
    She licks wet, Vampire Red painted lips. “I’d like to finish my drink. Aidan, you can order.”
    “Ummm.... I’m...not...” he responds. “Let’s get out of here. I live a few blocks from here.” He covers his crotch with a napkin.
    “Down, boy.” She winks at him showing turquoise eye shadow.
    “I...I... Did I say something wrong? Maybe I...”
    “Chill. We have all night.” With a black and red lacquered nail, Chantel toys with the lipstick stain she left on the glass.

    Aidan’s apartment. Late evening.
    After hours of titillating sex, Chantal sleeps in her lover’s king size bed.
    Standing over Chantal, Aidan’s lips turn into the grin of a satisfaction. Crossing to his closet, he opens it with tender, elongated, fingers. He reaches for the special velvet and sapphire encrusted box belonging to his beloved mother.
    As tears moisten his droopy eyes, he pulls out long strips of fine, satin material. Trembling, he thinks about the endless hours he spent bound up with his mom.

    Same evening. One hour later.
    A muffled voice struggles to be heard from behind the electrical tape wrapped around the mouth and head. Wrists fight against plastic ties to free themselves. Legs, locked in chains, beat against the floor. The chair makes rocking sounds. It moves a miniscule inch.
    “Don’t worry, sweetheart. You’re safe with me.” Chantal sits on the soft, suede, deer pelt spread out before the fireplace. She thrusts a few marshmallows onto a double-pronged fork and roasts them in the crackling fiames. “Don’t you remember me? Many years ago, you were married to my older sister. You rejected me. Now, you have to pay!”
    His weary eyes pop out, like a patient receiving Electric Shock Therapy.
    She picks up a propane lighter from the fireplace, turns it on.
    Tears pour from Aidan’s eyes. He throws his head back.
     “Uh, Uh, sugar,” Chantal sings in a creepy melody. She singes Aidan’s chin with the torch.
    Swoosh!
    Face glowing in a riot of yellow, orange, and blue flames, his skin melts away.
    A skull emerges.

Animals

    The car swept sharply around a corner and the four young men inside braced tight against their seats until it was over. They didn’t relax, however, for a foul pulse ruminated amongst them. Doom hung over their heads and clouded their minds as they raced down the highway into town. Maybe it was the music they had been listening to: lyrics filled with violence and anger, more than just general teen angst. Perhaps they had a bad day at school on this particular Friday, or the fact they were all into weightlifting and felt strong and proud and wanted to display it. One of them broke the silence and yelled “I want to beat the shit out of someone!”
    The other three agreed with grunts. Someone said “Hell yeah!” Primal urges were taking over, and as the car raced faster down the road at an excessive speed, the boys tumbled toward trouble that could forever impact their lives.
    The music blared as they psyched themselves up for the fight. They didn’t care who it was with and would settle on just about anyone that wasn’t in their tight-knit group of four. Their rage gathered strength as they played the event up in their heads: fists plunging hard into soft flesh, bones crashing against bones, the sweet taste of blood and the ecstasy of some innocent’s cries for help. They demanded to display their dominance over someone.
    Anyone.
    The daytime sky was failing fast when they hit a straightaway near a subdivision on their way into town. In no time they found a victim: up ahead on the right side of the road, they spotted a jogger, replete with light blue running shorts and bulky headphones. As they neared, they could tell he was older, but was in good shape, and would be a worthy opponent. “That’s him,” the driver said, as if the unlucky runner were somehow already targeted and not random.
    “Let’s get him!”
    “Let’s do it!” another agreed, banging his hands eagerly on the plastic door panel.
    The car flew past the runner about a quarter-mile and turned into the subdivision to turn around.
    “Let’s get one more look at him,” someone suggested.
    “Yeah, then turn around one more time and we can sneak up on him from the back. He’ll never see us coming.”
    The driver plunged the pedal down and drove past the jogger, who was completely oblivious to the four young men that were destined to beat him to a bloody pulp. But the road held two narrow lanes with small shoulders on either side, not conducive to a quick turn-around. They drove on almost a mile, where the road widened, and the driver flipped the car around and hit the gas.
    As they approached the subdivision yet again, the jogger was nowhere to be seen. “Where the hell is he?” someone shouted, and all four aggressively scouted through the windows.
    “Circling back around took too long,” one boy said.
    “Turn in the subdivision!”
    The neighborhood held a series of modest brick homes with perfect lawns, neatly trimmed landscapes and late-model cars in the driveways. There were a number of residents out and about in their yards, cutting grass or watering flowers. A woman pushed a stroller and led a dog by a leash, giving the boys a casual wave as they drove by. They spotted the jogger up the street, but no one said anything.
    When they neared, the man turned his head to the left and looked out of his peripheral vision and spotted the car. He turned back, but then it registered in his mind that he’d seen the car twice already, once when it passed him, and again after it had turned around. He stopped running and turned toward the car.
    “Oh shit,” the driver said, hitting the brakes and stopping just before they reached the jogger, who was now staring at them through the windshield with a look of concern. The man then crossed the road in front of them and jogged up to the window.
    “Just go,” someone whispered.
    “Be cool,” the driver said as he turned down the music and rolled down his window.
    “You boys lost?” the jogger asked with suspicion.
    “Yessir,” the driver replied. “Just looking for a friend’s house.”
    “What’s the street name? I live in this neighborhood and know all the streets.”
    “I don’t know,” the driver lied. “Our friend just gave us directions. Looks like they were bad directions.”
    “Oh, okay,” the jogger chuckled. “You boys have a safe night,” he said, and turned around to resume his jog.
    “Let’s get out of here,” someone said, and the boys drove away.
    The music was still down as they left the subdivision and continued their drive into town. They were silent, gone was the violent storm that had built up inside of them. They were no longer consumed with the notion of inflicting violence on an innocent person.
    Finally, one of them said “That was stupid.” The others agreed.
    “I don’t know why we got that way,” one said. “Doesn’t make sense.”
    “What the hell got into us?”
    “Let’s just forget it and go have some fun.”
    None of them would ever make sense of why they acted the way they did. Of course, they never spoke about it to anyone, either, not even amongst themselves. They were too embarrassed and sickened at having been more animal than human, which, in the end, made them more of the latter and less of the former.

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 quarterly by Scars Publications and Design, 829 Brian Court, Gurnee, IL 60031-3155 USA; attn: Janet Kuypers. Contact us via snail-mail or e-mail (ccandd96@scars.tv) for subscription rates or prices for annual collection books. To contributors: No racist, sexist or blatantly homophobic material. No originals; if mailed, include SASE & bio. Work sent on disks or through e-mail preferred. Previously published work accepted. Authors always retain rights to their own work. All magazine rights reserved. Reproduction of Children, Churches and Daddies without publisher permission is forbidden. Children, Churches and Daddies copyright Copyright © 1993 through 2013 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.