Out To Eat
Allan Onik
Everyone in the diner was wearing their Halloween costumes. Tab was dressed as a zombie and sipped a large chocolate shake. Ada was dressed as a witch and ate a piece of lemon meringue pie. The makeup on her face was green and she wore a particularly large wart on her nose.
“You know,” Tab said in between slurps, “I hear in the Russian outskirts there are some that claim to be real witches. You should go meet your peers. Learn a few spells or something.”
Ada put down her fork. “You don’t actually believe in this crap, do you? Halloween is just for fun! Fairytales and no more. There’s no such thing as witches. Or psychics, demons, and spirits! Enjoy the holiday while it lasts and then come back to earth.”
“Why don’t you keep an open mind?” Tab asked, “Perhaps there are secrets that even the darkest hearts can’t keep.”
In the alley Victor dashed after the rat. He found it shaking behind a dumpster next to a large puddle. Slowly he crawled up behind it and snatched it. He broke its neck and brought the pulsing rodent to his fangs. When the blood was drained he dropped the carcass and entered the back door of the club.
The club was dark with a soft, red light. Trance music played amidst the costumed dancers. A girl dressed as a white rabbit walked up to Victor on the side of the dance floor. “You’re supposed to be wearing a costume,” She cried, “its Halloween!”
“I’m a vampire,” Victor said.
“You don’t look like a vampire,” she said, “where’s your cape? And I don’t see any fake blood dripping down your chin.”
“Modern vampires don’t dress like that. Do you think this is still the Victorian era?”
“Very funny,” she said, “follow me,” she dragged him by the hand to a small room with stronger red light and red cushy couches. They both sat down and a waitress with an axe stuck in her head came for the order.
“Two Bloody Marys,” the white rabbit said. The waitress wrote the order and left.
“I got to thinking,” Victor said, “How funny it is you came up to me this Halloween. I go out every night, and usually no one says hello.”
“What more could you expect from a bunny hungry for candy in a nightclub?”
“Let me ask you something, and I want you be completely honest with me. Do you think there’s any chance that vampires could exist for real? Not like in the movies, but walking the streets?”
“Like Dracula?” The bunny asked, “I’m not so sure. Tomorrow there’s gonna be a lot of people that feel fat, but no one missing unexpected blood.”
“That’s what most think. But sometimes our minds can trick us a bit. Try to trap an electron for instance, and with the right instrument it’s measurable. But once you aren’t looking at it anymore, it taps right back into a field of almost limitless cosmic potentiality, in a random generation of locality. So much so that it would baffle even Einstein! It’s as if unless we are perceiving something, it doesn’t exist.”
“Like God?” she asked.
“Or how about daemons?” Victor parried.
The bunny shifted in her seat a little bit. “I suppose this is when the meal gets taken? Am I supposed to scream like a whelp?”
“No one will hear you over the music.” He bared his fangs.
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Orb
Allan Onik
Boris stood beneath the abandoned railroad tracks and watched as a stretch limo pulled ten yards in front of him. The tracks were supported by graffiti strewn cement walls and dripped from a recent rain. He gripped a grey suitcase and wiped some sweat from his brow.
“Dr. Robinsky, glad you showed,” said the man who emerged from the limo. He wore a black suit and bronze, gold, and silver rings. The rings contained etched symbols, though Boris could not make them out.
“Zek, I have your weapons.” Boris put the suitcase on the ground and opened it. Inside were six grey pistols with cylindrical barrels. “They’re all here.”
Zek made a motion with his right hand. One of two large men standing behind him moved forward with a briefcase. The case was opened in front of Boris to show its contents of stacked 100 dollar bills and one square, black container. A woman also emerged from the limo. She wore a yellow, red, and blue dress and carried an onyx cane.
“All forty thousand plus the chip,” Zek said, “and I appreciate your business.”
The woman whispered in Zek’s ear.
“Kiala says your aura is faint. She says you are hiding something. You aren’t planning on breaking our deal? You know I’d find you.”
“Of course not,” Boris said, “we’re in this together.” He walked away.
Summers threw the file down on the desk. Doran eyed it. The name on the file read “Boris Robinsky.” Paper-clipped to it was a picture of a man wearing glasses and a tweed suit. “Is he a suspect in some sort of case you’ve opened?” Doran asked.
“He’s an Israeli-American scientist,” Summers said, “graduated in three years from MIT with a doctorate in molecular physics and biomechanical engineering. IQ 243. No kids, no wife. Age 57, parents deceased. Currently he’s a consultant for a weaponry enhancement division in the pentagon, servicing mainly black and covert ops. He resides in New York with occasional visits to Arlington.”
“And? Last I heard being a genius wasn’t illegal.”
Summers threw a second file on the desk. The name on the file read Zek Rallos. The picture clipped to it was a mug shot taken in a New York State penitentiary. “His name is Zek Rallos. He’s a Russian kingpin with ties to the Gambino family. Spent seven years in the pen for organizing the hits of three Bandito biker outlaws on competing drug turf. He travels with the aid of a clairvoyant he found in a Texas carnival.”
“I’d like to get my palm read,” Doran chided.
“A week ago last Sunday an intercept was found in the Pentagon databases. Some pistols were missing that were in reserve for an outing in Afghanistan by a company of Delta Force.”
“What kind of weapons are we talking about?” Doran asked.
“Classified laser pistols. X-29 model. And you can guess who designed them.”
“Robinsky? So why not arrest him now? Got anything on him?”
“Nothing substantial. And the longer we wait the greater chance we have of taking down Zek. These are serious weapons, not for use by civilians. Could blow the head off an elephant, or derail a subway car. And a man this smart has to have an eye kept on him. He’s one of the brightest in the country.”
“He’s gotten himself into trouble?”
“Men like him are often like children. Easily toyed with despite their capacities. He’s a manic-depressive that often stops taking his happy pills. Zek is taking advantage of him. He’s neck deep in a pool of shit. Go to the Big Apple and collect evidence—the Bureau demands it.”
Boris opened the mirror cabinet in his bathroom. He picked up a prescription bottle reading “Risperdal” and popped a tablet into his mouth, crunching it and swallowing it. He walked into his main living space. It was a small room with scattered wires, computers, and mechanical devices. He walked to a safe in its corner and imputed a code. Inside were stacks of 100-dollar bills and a black box. He took out the box and closed the safe. He walked to his desk with the box and cleared off a few empty and dented Pepsi cans and fast food wrappers. He placed the box amid some jumbled wires on the desk and opened it. Inside was a square, black chip roughly the size of a golf ball. He put on some white gloves and opened a drawer containing small, metal hand tools. He set to work.
The Old Man wore custom leather biker’s gear and silver hair in a ponytail. He carried a QSZ-92 pistol behind his Colors and was followed by two large bikers, each wearing spiked brass knuckles. Zek greeted them in his office.
“I appreciate you’re situation,” Zek said immediately, “but even if the Banditos send their Breed counterparts to me, it won’t change my stance. I control the Meth in this city. Why not go back to Detroit? New York is saturated as it is.”
The leader of the Breed motorcycle gang gritted his teeth. “We’ve been working without boundaries long before you settled here. You don’t have the men or the resources. I’ve got 50 men on Harleys surrounding this building. They act at the snap of my fingers.”
Zek’s office was located in an abandoned building in midtown. The only finished room was located in the facility’s basement, its entrance hidden under plywood. It contained an imported Persian rug, Italian leather chairs, and high priced paintings picked from art galleries across the city. Kiala wore a purple dress and sat in the room’s corner, playing with a stack of tarot cards. Two of Zek’s men stood behind him wearing Italian suits. “I knew you were coming today,” Zek said, “I also knew you would try to kill me.”
“Let’s be frank,” The Old Man said, “you, that bitch, and your hired meat are as good as toast. Throw your weapons on the desk. No negotiations.”
Zek pulled a Browning Baby pistol out of his jacket pocket and slowly placed it on the desk. The Old Man nodded to Zek’s men. “And them?”
The two men pulled X-29s out of the front of their belts and quickly unloaded beams. The beams were green and lasted only an instant. The bikers were reduced to ash. “Finish up the ones outside,” Zek said casually. The two hired guns walked their lineman-sized frames up the stairs that led to the outside of the abandoned skyscraper. Zek took a bottle of Hennessy cognac out of the top drawer of his desk and poured himself a glass. Kiala dropped a tarot card on the floor. It read “Death.”
When Boris turned the top half of the orb it clicked and glowed purple. “Finito,” he mumbled under his breath. He depressed the circle on its top and his apartment swirled, blurred, and burst with a lateral wave. He opened up his window and walked on air to the top of the next skyscraper. The sky was purple and swirling with bats. A bartender wearing a tuxedo puffed up from the graveled ground and handed Boris a Bud Light. “I’ve never seen you here, mister,” the bartender said. When he opened his mouth a purple light spewed out.
“Call it a hike,” Boris said, “temporary.” He chugged his beer and took in the 11th Dimension.
“How many fucking abandoned Harleys is it now? 50? 70?” The CSI investigator took some prints off the black bike.
“And always surrounded by this powder? Is it some type of drug?” A female investigator rubbed the powder between her fingers. It was black. Doran walked onto the scene from behind a shaded corner. The Harley was lying in between two restaurants in China Town.
“Its ultra cremated body matter,” Doran said. “Lovely huh?” Doran wore a black trench coat.
“Who the fuck are you?” a male investigator asked. He was wearing thick glasses.
“FBI.” Doran flashed his badge. “I’m taking this case. All the Harleys are mine for a week. Tell all your buddies to scram.”
Miami was empty except for flickering streetlights and beaches. It was night and Boris sat on South Beach drinking a pina colada. Jaunting from San Francisco, Las Vegas, and Paris had yielded similar results. The orb floated next to him in the air and he watched a hurricane spin in the atmosphere. The waves of the beach were hypnotic. “I should write a book,” Boris thought, “Pluses of the Sixth Dimension—no more assholes in Miami.”
When Kiala revealed “The Chariot” in her tarot card deck she winced and immediately ran out of her bedroom. In her kitchen her bodyguard was tied and gagged with a black eye. Blood dribbled from his mouth. Doran got off her family room couch and threw a bloodied baseball bat to the floor. He took a Heckler and Koch P7 pistol from an inside pocket of his trench coat and pointed it at her. “Little to late with the card?” Doran said. “Well too bad. Your cash cow is about to become a porterhouse steak, eaten by gangs of New York State’s finest penitentiaries.”
Kiala froze. Her red dress seemed to glow in the light.
“Put on these zip ties, and lay on your couch. I can’t have you interfering,” Doran said.
A large mirror behind Doran became a door, turned out, and two suited thugs with X-29s flanked Zek as he emerged. “Let her go, she’s a specimen—and it doesn’t take a psychic to know when the Bureau is breathing down your neck.”
Boris finished his last Hawaiian drink. The bar was empty, and the O’ahu waves crashed black. He looked at them; they seemed to move in slow motion. He sighed.
“Enough play,” he said. He reached out and touched the floating orb.
The light was bright in all directions, and the scientist felt an overwhelming sense of warmth and Love. A voice spoke to him. “Welcome, I’ve been waiting. You know, many in my circles consider you as good as Einstein, or Hawking. Just as I planned for you, you’ve done well. But now your playing is over. Come back to me and rest, but first finished what you started.” Boris braced.
The lunks pointed the X-29s. “Everyone has their time,” Zek said behind the two goons, “with the Feds in this business it’s like a ticking clock. But I’m going out with a bang. You’re coming with me.”
Kiala cringed. “Wait...” The laser pistols burst, leaving ash. Doran removed a gold plated PP7 pistol from the inside pocket of his suit coat and shot Zek in both knees. He fell to the ground whimpering, and the mystic began to cry.
“You’d think that bitch saw a ghost...” Doran muttered to himself. He walked outside and headed for his Lincoln Town Car. The night was just beginning.
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The Coin and the Pendulum
Allan Onik
The room was dark and Tab sat on the moldy mattress. He looked at the tendrils of light that flowed through a window above him, and rolled the coin between his fingers. “Just one shot...” he whispered in the darkness. He squeezed the bridge of his nose and sighed.
The man held out the coin to the boy. “You see this?” He said, “This is a 50 Reichspfennig. The Furur issued it to his soldiers during The War. Before the Allies released me from Auschwitz I looted it from a Nazi I strangled with my shoestring outside the Jewish barracks. The pillows in the barracks were stuffed with the hair from those who had already seen the gas chambers, and then their bodies to the ovens. I slept with nausea and hid the coin in my shoe.
One day I found myself in a strange chamber, tied to the floor. A clock with a scimitar pendulum was above me in the dark. I had no food or water, and had decided that this was some sort of deranged torture room. Every twelve hours the clock would chime and the blade would sweep. The device would lower at this point and I knew it was only a matter of time. Just a matter of time my dear boy...
I could feel the coin still stuck to my foot. It gave me hope in the darkest of hours, when I thought I might be lost to madness! And that’s when the vermin came. Rats the size of small cats that rubbed their mouths against my lips and sniffed and bit at my body. But alas! Over a course of days my strength had faded, but the reproachful creatures had eaten away at my tethers. I stood up from my bondage, only to notice a smiling, red, glowing demon in the corner of the pit. The vile beast spoke to me: “Run from your fears, and be consumed...” Its voice was deep and rich. I took the coin out of my shoe and thought of your aunt.
When the allies found me in the Nazi torture chamber for the killing of the officer they said the pain of the needles and fire had made me hallucinate beyond any normal human capacity. I haven’t told anyone until now. And I wanted to give the coin to you, so you could keep it safe—even when I’m gone.”
Tab kissed the coin and slipped it into his breast pocket. He picked up the .300 M91A2 rifle and walked to the window. The Mosul crowd was bustling, and he scanned. “Subject One spotted,” he whispered into the microphone. He squeezed the trigger. A shot rang out in the courtyard, followed by panic and hysteria. “Abu Bakr al-Baghdadi has been eliminated, initiating extraction phase...”
A voice spoke to him in his earpiece. “Affirmative. Eagle Delta is on its way.”
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An Aged Affair
Katie Moore
Thick in the cold, our
breath, smoke from stung lungs.
The air between our bodies,
humid soup, and the language
of our fingertips fleeting touching
would be spilling secrets, if
we weren’t such masters
practiced at keeping them.
I don’t need words out loud,
just the shape of my mouth
making phrases you lip read,
shapes that turn you on with only
suggestions,
Come to me tonight
when she falls asleep.
It can’t be helped. Our hands
are tied to each other.
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About Katie Moore
Katie Moore is the founder of a little literary magazine called The Legendary, a coffee shop manager, an improv actor, and a proud mother. She writes because her life depends on it. Katie comes from the untouched wilderness of Southern Maryland, makes her home in the concrete jungle of Memphis, Tennessee, and plans to someday retire to a certain mountain peak in Appalachia to raise goats and rescue pitbulls. Her hair is curly, her wit is sharp, and if you need to know more check out http://www.thegirlcircus.com..
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Separated
Katie Moore
My mask is cracked, gaps inching wider.
I am exposed, tense teeth and jaw.
These fault lines are lies told. No porcelain
cherub cheeks, no red bow lips and dimples
to find cover under.
It’s worse than naked.
I’ve donned the palest imitation
of a smile, can’t meet myself
in a mirror. My eyes swim in green guilt,
my eyes are dead swamps.
They keep their water.
There’s a game of pretending. We think
we must always be strong.
Nobody knows what that means.
Maybe, don’t cry in front of the children
or, try to keep common friends, don’t
play dirty, don’t fight, be friends.
Never let anyone know
how broke you are, never stop
whistling.
Just don’t expect anything.
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About Katie Moore
Katie Moore is the founder of a little literary magazine called The Legendary, a coffee shop manager, an improv actor, and a proud mother. She writes because her life depends on it. Katie comes from the untouched wilderness of Southern Maryland, makes her home in the concrete jungle of Memphis, Tennessee, and plans to someday retire to a certain mountain peak in Appalachia to raise goats and rescue pitbulls. Her hair is curly, her wit is sharp, and if you need to know more check out http://www.thegirlcircus.com..
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She Will
Andy Tu
This feeling, calling her from inside her ears—where did it come from? Run away, it told her. And never come back. Krystal tried to block it out as she drove her daughter, Lily, to school, where she was an English teacher. Or more accurately, where she babysat rich high schoolers.
She and John, the history teacher, had had sex the night before. He’d slept over in her apartment, as he often did, but had left before she’d even woken up. Lily was nine, but understood that he might become her new daddy someday, the same way their apartment had become their new home after Krystal and Rick got sick of each other. Maybe that’s what the problem was, getting sick of things. People, places. Before Rick, she’d studied abroad, traveled for a year with nothing but a backpack, taught in different states. Then she got knocked up and they tried the marriage thing. And now she was driving to this joke of a school every morning before the sun poked above the horizon and grocery shopping on Thursday afternoons because that was when the sales were; how her face singed with embarrassment when she’d bumped into a student in a checkout aisle with clipped coupons in her hands. The more she thought about the remaining days, and weeks, and months of her future, the more she wanted to cry as she walked into the front office and signed in with a smile drawn across her lips like those stick figures that Lily drew in Mrs. Rodriguez’s class. Sweet innocence, how Krystal missed it.
During third period that day, Krystal was texting a friend from high school when the door swung in. She straightened up in her chair and shot a look of urgency to her students, who were supposedly working on their group presentations— swiping their phones, chatting in groups, and taking selfies together. Luckily, it was only John, who asked to speak with her in the hallway in a voice that reminded her of Rick after he found out she was pregnant. As she followed John out in front of the 8th graders, she thought about how, when you grew up, you had to censor your feelings and actions, like the sex they’d had on the floor the night before next to her perfectly capable bed, the grunting, the way he kept pausing to last longer; the way he announced: that was excellent—emphasizing the “ex”—as he rolled off her. This was adulthood: feeling the stickiness of your shame rub against your skin in front of those too innocent to notice.
“I got it,” he said, referring to the promotion to principal. In a month the old woman at the top would finally, despite having developed the onset of Alzheimer’s years ago, relinquish her power after she’d recently been found asleep on a desk in an unused classroom, the door somehow locked from outside. John was not the most qualified, but he was the biggest, his voice the loudest, carrying itself across the staff meeting room and hallways. Krystal wondered what this would do to his ego. Would it make him think his penis was slightly larger? He did seem to overcompensate at meetings, where he’d stiffen his hands with authority when he spoke and repeat certain words for pronounced effect. That was the thing with large men, she supposed. Their penises looked so much smaller relative to their protruding guts and thighs, maybe it gave them a complex.
As Krystal smiled and put her hand on John’s shoulder, she felt something in her stomach unsettle. It was either that she hadn’t cooked the eggs through that morning (never enough time), or that her subconscious disgust for John and every masculine, egotistical part of him was finally sprouting from the roots of her mind.
Later that afternoon, Lily got into trouble for not letting another girl join in on a conversation during recess. When she saw the text from Mrs. Rodriguez, asking Krystal to speak to her daughter directly about this during lunchtime, Krystal rolled her eyes, cursing in whispers about the institution of the school and why the hell do they have to share everyone’s phone numbers?
“Why didn’t you just let Mia talk with you girls?” Krystal asked with as much feigned disapproval as she could.
Lily hid a slight smile, like she hadn’t done anything wrong. Krystal could not agree more, and considered taking her out to ice cream later when the bell released them from the barred, locked gates of their beloved school.
Lily explained: “Me and Jocelyn were talking about the sleepover on Saturday, and Mia’s not invited, so I don’t know why she wanted to listen to us talk, because it’s private.”
“Well,” said Krystal, feeling Mrs. Rodriquez’ nappy breath poke against the back of her throat like it was a red security laser, ready to set the alarm if triggered, “just because she’s not invited doesn’t mean she can’t hang out with you during recess.” How much longer would Krystal do what others expected? It was such a tiny thing, yet it felt like everything. Especially because her daughter was involved. What was she teaching her? How to follow rules and live fake?
“But,” Lily pleaded. “We were making plans on what to do. And it doesn’t make sense for Mia to listen if she’s not going to be a part of it!”
Mrs. Rodriquez and her rule that “everyone has to be included in the conversation”. It was so, so stupid. As stupid as Krystal felt telling Lily that she should have to let someone listen in on private plans. Was she required to report to the old lady that she and her protégé were staying up late on school nights mating with no desire for a child together? She turned around to Mrs. Rodriquez.
“I’ll talk to her about this at home.”
No. No. She wouldn’t. Disney cartoons would be the lesson for the afternoon. There was always a good message in those.
In the evening, after she’d just put Lily to bed, John showed up at her door without calling. He just expected it now, her apartment. Her body. It was her fault for not having said anything the first time he did this.
“You know I could have been out or something,” she said, confused as to why her arms were pulling the door open to let him in. “I’m not always home after school.”
“I’d wait,” He said. There was condensation in his voice. The promotion was getting to his head already. He proceeded to her bedroom with his hands in his pocket, and she followed him.
In her bed, she insisted she wanted to read her book. But he kept pushing his body closer to her side, staring into her avoiding eyes hungrily.
“I’m really tired,” she said.
“So tired you’re reading?” He said it accusingly, like a principal at a student who’d been sent to the office.
“Physically tired.”
He crawled on top of her. She had never said no before. She had never said anything. An assumed yes. And once again she found her throat unwilling to utter those words. Stop. No. Not today. Get off.
“You can just relax,” he said.
She lay under his weight as he bobbed up and down. A vessel that followed expectations. At school, following an outdated curriculum. Following misbehavioral procedures she didn’t believe in. She scrunched her face at the thought that this would be the rest of her life. John took it for pleasure.
A week later, John became the new principal. Despite everything, Krystal knew this had benefits: she no longer had to fear random observations or getting into trouble for letting her students screw around. She was now sleeping with the boss, and he seemed to see it like that too. Gradually, he stopped staying the nights; he’d still show up at the door for sex, like she was a prostitute, but now wanted space for his growing authority and ego.
This time, she came to his door, unexpected.
“It’s not working out.”
“Explain,” he said. Authoritatively, like he’d caught her cheating on a test.
“This whole thing. I’m leaving the school. We’re moving.”
He shook his head, then stiffened when he saw the grip of determination in her eyes.
“I don’t understand. This is so sudden.” His tone changed. He was an adult again, talking to another adult.
She wanted to tell him that teaching at that school was making her a lousy role model, that settling in this cycle and putting on that collared, ironed button-down every morning was suffocating her. She wanted to tell him that he was stuck in that big chair of his, that he’d never leave. That she wanted to travel the world and teach her daughter to live naked, freely, to say what she wanted and do what she believed in. She wanted to tell him that he could never understand because all he cared about was what people thought of him. Instead, she said nothing, and left.
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Man on top New Beach Embrace, art by David Russell
Retail
Ava Collopy
Ah retail... in the charity shop today helping out and wound up at the counter dealing with an annoying customer returning a jacket for store credit. She said it was $8-10, she couldn’t recall, and had no receipt. She tried jackets on at the counter instead of the fitting room, asked me sizes when she couldn’t find them as if I have special clothing size powers. Kept changing her mind and putting them in different piles, confusing me as to what she was and wasn’t getting. Pointed out minor wear on a few things (it’s a secondhand shop! And the prices are really low already!) Finally, got things totaled up, took $10 off to give her the benefit of the doubt, and reduced it slightly just because I was tired, sick, and wanted rid of her. Naturally she stood there and argued with me about $13 for 3-4 things.
She gave me $12 in change then kept saying she had no more, made a show of checking all her pockets, counting out her dimes and nickels, etc. Then said, would you give me this for $10? I said no, it’s $13. Then gave me $12. I said it’s $13. She argued, argued, then said ‘well take something back then’. So I did. I removed the cheapest item, the pants for $3. She said ‘really? You’re going to argue with me over $1?!’ etc. etc. Went on for several minutes, acted like I needed to be told how to do my job, acted like I was being rude. I suggested she was kind of harassing me and that I was tired and sick... she interrupted and said maybe I was having a bad day and if I was sick I shouldn’t come in, and ‘it’s a charity shop!’ she said. I said ‘yeah—it’s all for charity. We need the money as it’s for charity, and I’m a volunteer’.
Many people HAVE TO work when they’re sick besides.
She said ‘you’d do that after I asked about volunteering and I’m going to bring stuff down and I have no more change’... I don’t know if she has more change, what paper money she has, if she’ll come back to donate, and what she’d donate—over 50% of what I’ve gotten in donations in the shop in the past 6 mos. has been rubbish that had to be binned immediately. People literally bring us their garbage that they don’t seem to know how to get rid of. We have a regular bin—no skip/ dumpster—emptied every other week. We aren’t a garbage site. People are supposed to wait for employee approval but many rush to leave us their rubbish (or sneak it onto our bin when we’re not looking). Besides, she’d been completely irritating up until that point and none of us recognized her—she wasn’t a regular customer and had no receipt so we were doing a favor by letting her return an admittedly nice-looking jacket.
She argued and talked about all the things she bought on Monday, if we’d just check our records... so we did. No such sales on Monday. She said it must have been Tuesday... checked the book, no such sales Tuesday.
...She continued but I said no. I put the pants under the counter and said we could hold them for her—I’d put a note on them. Took the $10 in change and gave her back the other $2. I kept saying, I gave you the benefit of the doubt on $10 for the jacket, was nice on the price of the rest since you’re buying a few things on one go (and didn’t say all the pieces have been changed and upped since I was last in so it caught me off guard), this is charity. It’s $13. She kept saying I must be having a bad day. My day was fine actually. I told her I’m just fed up with customers asking for lower prices on already good prices. I’m just simply fed up with it and you’re already getting a great deal. She complained that we gave no receipts—I said we do, just ask for one. One of the other girls in the shop backed me up on it. The customer was still mad but took the items I’d bagged for her and left.
The two other women customers in the shop at the time all shared looks with us and chatted a bit that that woman was a real problem—not us. Jaysus! That is probably the worst customer I personally have had so far. Oh well, experience makes us stronger. She was plainly full of shit, and on top of that rude. We still don’t know if the jacket she brought in was bought at our store or not. Now we’re wondering if we should keep the return for exchange within 7 days policy or have to say all sales final.
So, for anyone who was wondering, THAT is the other 5-10% of customers that ruin things and make stricter policies for everyone else.
On a different day I went to volunteer and the front door of the shop was locked but besides that it looked open. There was a customer waiting outside. She followed me to my bicycle, asking what I was going to do, and if the shop was going to be opened. I told her I had no key and didn’t have the new manager’s number so there was nothing I could do. I left and came back and the shop was still closed. I called the shop number and couldn’t get through. The customer stayed right near, talking about how she needed to get ready for some party... I wasn’t listening. I didn’t have a key so I decided to just go home. She pointed out a dress to me through the window and insisted I hold it for her as soon as I got in. I said okay and was polite then left. I couldn’t believe she actually thought I cared. Of course I don’t care.
One customer got my phone number and rang me on a Sunday afternoon. The shop is always closed on Sundays. I told her it was my personal number but she insisted on talking to me anyway. I cut her off saying, you can’t call me on this number, and hung up.
... #assholecustomers
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Where There’s a Will...
Kimba Rose Williams
“I’m sorry, but it’s been driving me bloody crazy. Have I met you somewhere before?”
It takes Weston a moment before he realizes that the woman is talking to him. Not recognizing her voice, he turns towards her to tell her that, no, she hasn’t, only to stop short. Slowly, he says, “I... don’t know. You look awfully familiar. What’s your name?”
“I’m Nancy. Nancy Yates? And yours? I’m sure it’ll help me remember,” the woman – Nancy – replies, holding out her hand.
Weston shakes it whilst answering, “Weston Moss. And Nancy...? Sorry, not ringing any bells.”
“Same here. But I’m sure that I’ve seen you before. Where did you go to secondary school?”
“Cardiff. You?”
“Westchester. Bollocks. I take it you grew up there? Or did you perhaps move?” Nancy hopped from foot to foot, shivering and blowing on her ungloved hands to keep them warm.
“Born and raised, until I went to uni. Here, take these.” Weston pulls out a feminine pair of gloves and hands them to Nancy.
“Oh no, I couldn’t!” She says, even as she tentatively accepts them.
“Oh, don’t worry about it. My wife always forgets her gloves, so I’ve taken to carrying around an extra pair in each of my coats. It’s no bother, really.”
“I’m the same way,” Nancy replies with a laugh as she pulls the gloves on. “How long have you two been married?”
“Six years. Had our little Lucy right after.” Weston motions towards the front of the building where they’re standing, milling with other parents. “Seriously, what’s taking them so long? Class was supposed to be out twenty minutes ago, and it’s bloody freezing out here.”
“I think they were having some sort of arts and crafts, show and tell sort of thing today. It’s probably running late.” Nancy shrugs and shoves her now-gloved hands into her coat pockets.
Weston phone beeps, and he pulls it out to look at the screen. “Oh, good, my wife’s almost here. We’re going out for fish and chips after Lucy gets out.”
“Sounds fun. Y’know, fun little fact, my little boy doesn’t like chips.”
Weston grins. “Me neither! I always give mine to my wife or Lucy. Too oily.”
“Get out!” Nancy laughs. “He says the same thing!”
They laugh together companionable, before Weston has a thought. “You know, going back to my wife and our wedding... any chance you were there? God knows that my wife’s side of the family brought way too many plus-ones. Maybe you’re a friend of a friend... of a cousin’s cousin twice-removed’s roommate,” – Nancy laughs. Winking jokingly, he continues – “and we bumped into one another.”
Still snickering, Nancy shakes her head. “No, the only wedding I’ve been to in the last six years was my sister Margaret’s; which was a disaster. If you were there, you’d remember me – I was the one who fell into the punch bowl.”
Weston laughs while he shakes his head. “No, I definitely wasn’t there, although I wish that I was. Maybe it was at your wedding?”
Nancy’s lips twist in a sardonic smile. “That’s not possible, because I’m not married.”
Weston’s smile fades. “I’m sorry, I guess I...”
“Assumed? Because I’m standing outside of a primary school, waiting to pick up my son?”
“... Yes. I apologize.”
The fight abruptly leaves Nancy, and she smiles sheepishly. “No, I apologize. Sorry, I guess I might have a bit of a chip on my shoulder. I don’t get the best of reactions when people find out I’m a single mum.”
Weston shrugs. “My mum was single. She worked three jobs to provide for my two older sisters and me. I have nothing but respect for single mothers. If I’m not being too bold, what happened with the father?”
A strange look came over Nancy’s face. Before she could say anything, though, a voice called out, “Weston? There you are. Has the class still not let out?”
Weston turns and meets his wife with a kiss. He shakes his head and answers, “Not yet. Too much longer and I’m going in there to have some words with the teacher.” He turns towards Nancy. “Nancy, this is my wife, Laura. Laura, this is Nancy. We both recognize one another, but have no clue where from.”
“It’s great to meet you,” Laura says as she shakes Nancy’s hand. And was it just Weston’s imagination, or did Nancy look a bit pale? “But I don’t think I’ll be of any help. I’m sure that I’ve never seen you before in my life, sorry.”
“No problem,” Nancy whispers, voice choked, and now Weston is sure that something is off. But before he can enquire as to what is wrong, the doors open and the waiting parents are mobbed by their children.
“Mummy! Daddy!” Weston laughs as he scoops up his excited, chattering daughter, Lucy. “Guess what? I made a new friend today!”
“Really? And what’s her name?”
“Daddy! My friend’s a boy! His name’s Will. Hi, Will!”
“Hi, Lucy!” a child’s voice replies.
Weston turns to where his daughter is waving, and sees Nancy zipping up a young boy’s coat and straightening his scarf.
“Hello, Lucy’s daddy! I’m Will!” The little boy smiles a gap-toothed grin and waves his little mittened hand.
Weston freezes. Those eyes... they are the exact color of his mother’s. And Will’s hair... it has the same widow’s peak as Weston’s, even though it is the color of his sister’s. And those dimples... they’re the same ones that he’d passed on to Lucy.
Weston’s eyes shoot to Nancy’s, and he sees understanding, recognition, and fear in them. And Weston remembers.
He remembers meeting his future wife at Imperial College.
He remembers wanting to marry her as soon as he could, so he combined his graduation and bachelor’s party, so he could wed her the day after.
He remembers going to the Golden Lion’s pub, and drinking far, far too much.
He remembers meeting a freshman from King’s College London.
He remembers giving her a false name.
He remembers a drunken tryst in the back alley.
He remembers running back into the pub to worship the porcelain god, where his mates found him.
He remembers everything that he had allowed himself to forget.
He remembers <>Iher.
And from the shame and defiance on Nancy’s face, Weston can see that she remembers him, too.
Nancy stands up with her hand on Will’s shoulder. “Goodbye, Charles. Fancy meeting you again.” And with that, she turns and walks away, taking her son – their son – with her.
“Weston?” He barely hears his wife’s voice through the roaring in his ears. “Why did she call you by your middle name?”
“Because...” it’s the name I gave her, he doesn’t say. As he watches Nancy walk away, his wife’s glove on the hand that she has resting in his son’s hair, he thinks of his own mother.
He thinks of the countless hours that his mom worked, day in and day out. He thinks of the dream to create art she’d given up. Had Nancy, a pregnant college freshman, had to drop out? Had he cost her her dreams, as well? Should he go after her, apologize, try to make things right? Try to ease the burden he’d put on her shoulders?
But then Weston looks down at his oblivious, smiling daughter. He looks at the confused, beautiful face of his wife. He looks at the life he’s built, the life they’ve built together. He thinks of their family, and of the extra bedroom in their house they hoped to fill soon.
And Weston takes Laura’s hand, kisses Lucy’s chubby cheek, and smiles. “Let’s go out for some fish and chips.”
And he walks away.
The next day, Will isn’t in class. Nancy transferred him to another school. And even while his daughter mourns, all Weston can bring himself to feel... is relief.
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Kimba Rose Williams bio (2016)
Kimba Rose Williams currently studies Creative Writing in Orlando, Florida. She has dreamed of being an author since Kindergarten, and has aspirations of being a screenwriter and filmmaker. She adores all things Sherlock, has explored Middle Earth, and has a frankly ridiculous collection of quills and bottles of ink.
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A lost brother
Andria Weekes
I was stuck in my car for 2 days straight. Ben, my partner, and I were staking out a guy who’d been robbing convenience stores. According to outside information, this store was apparently the next one on his list. Ben was sick of waiting, I was sick of waiting, but what could we do? It was our jobs as detectives. 9 am rolled around and that’s when I received a call. Ben sighs, “Just take the call here.” I nodded my head, and looked at my phone, unknown number. I picked up anyway.
“I know what you did” the caller said, then immediately hung up the phone. What exactly did I do? I place my phone back in my pocket.
“So who was it?” Ben asked.
“No one.”
For the next couple of weeks nothing particularly major happened. I carried on with my days like I usually would have. Was the call just a prank? Did they possibly have the wrong number? Either way I had to get the thought of it out of my mind, it didn’t seem as though they would be calling again. How wrong was I.
The following month came around, and so did the caller. I’d remembered specifically when he called, it was the day I was promoted, September 9th. I was in the middle of having fun at my promotion party when my phone had vibrated in my pocket. Unknown number, just the same as the last time. I rushed to find a secluded place to answer the call.
“I know what you did,” He’d said.
“Who are you?”
The caller hung up. So it was me he was after, but why? I hadn’t done anything wrong.
I began taking note of when ever the caller called. Every month on the 9th, at 9 am he’d always call, saying the same thing every single time, then hanging up. I tried asking what he wanted, who he was, what was the thing that I did, but there was never an answer. This continued until April. The calls had suddenly stopped then, and I grew warry of what the caller was planning. Why did he suddenly stop? I’d only realized a little late. He was sending me a message. 9 was the key. He stopped at the 9th month he’d been calling. But what could 9 possible mean to me?
It wasn’t until my 29th birthday that I had finally understood. My birthday was September 18th, but I never celebrated it. There was an event that happened back when I was 9 years old. On my birthday back then I remembered a fire breaking loose in the orphanage I stayed in. It was my fault, I was messing around with one of my birthday candles and a fire started. Everyone had made it out, or at least that was what I thought. Growing up I guess I’d blocked the truth about that day, about what had really happened.
My phone rang, and I knew it was him. My hands shook as I saw the call was unknown, but I answered anyway. “I know what you –“
“Derek I’m so sorry,” I said, my eyes filled with tears. There was silence. “My baby brother, I’m so sorr-,”
“Shut it!” Derek said, but I pushed his anger aside.
“Derek please listen to me, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to forget you. I didn’t mean to leave you.”
“Stop it! That’s enough,” Derek said, “Who the hell do you think you are? You don’t get to cry, and you don’t get to say you’re sorry!”
“Derek, just listen to me okay? Please, I’m your brother.”
“You’re not my brother.” His shouting stopped, and Derek’s voice seemed more serious than angry. “The day you left me to die was the day you lost a brother, the day I lost a brother. You forgot me, erased me from your memories. How dare you call yourself my brother.”
“Derek I didn’t mean to.” The call disconnected, and I was left sobbing on the floor.
“Derek, my baby brother, I am so sorry,” I said, somehow hoping he would hear me. Hoping he would understand that I didn’t mean to. Hoping he would hear my cry, but why should he? I wasn’t there to hear his.
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mirror
Janet Kuypers
haiku 2/17/14
I look and see all
that you’ve affected. The world,
this house. The mirror.
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Skritch Skritch
Kimba Rose Williams
Theo held out his thumb as he heard another cruiser coming up behind him. It was really more habit at this point, as no one had stopped for him before. He didn’t blame them. After all, who trusts hitchhikers nowadays?
But to his surprise, the cruiser slowed down as it passed him and then stopped. Theo quickly ran to catch up, and leaned in the passenger window. Theo had to work to hide his initial reaction – seriously, someone needed to tell this prospector that the beard trend had died in the 27th century.
“Where ya headed, son?” the old man asked.
“Cardiscotia, it’s a suburb inside of New Singjing,” Theo answered.
The old man whistled. “Wow, that’s quite a distance to be walking. Thankfully, I’m headed that way for supplies. My outlet is right within the gates; you reckon you could make the rest of the way on your own?”
“Definitely, thanks so much!” Theo hopped into the cruiser, and they were off. “So, I’m Theo.”
“And you can call me Joey. So, what’s your story?”
“Well... you want the long or the short of it?”
“Oh, give me the long version. We’ve got quite a while to go yet; I doubt we’ll make it before they close the gates. We’ll probably have to camp outside of the city tonight.”
“Alright then. Well... I guess you could say that this journey is my last chance.”
Joey cocked his head. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Theo ran his fingers through his hair self-consciously. “I’d always been a ‘problem child’, y’know? I never got along well with my parents, and when I was seventeen I hacked my dad’s cruiser, a vintage Tesla GT9000,” – Joey whistled, impressed – “I know, right? Anyway, I ran away and lived a nice life off the money I made selling that cruiser. But ever since then my family hasn’t spoken a word to me. And that wouldn’t’ve been a big deal, except... well, my Uncle Quincy.”
“Now what about him?”
“He’s the only one who ever believed in me, see? Growing up, my sister was so perfect, and I was just a surprise that no one wanted. But my uncle, he was the only one who would remember my birthday, and who always told me that I was ‘destined for great things’. Y’know, all that crap that parents are supposed to tell you? He did. And somehow, it actually meant something. Anyway, he was really disappointed when he heard what I had done. And I was so... I dunno, ashamed? Scared of his reaction? I dunno, but I haven’t talked to him in years.”
Joey looked confused. “So what does he have to do with you going to New Singjing? He ain’t dying, is he?”
“Oh, no!” Theo laughed. “No, Uncle Quincy’s too spry to be dying any time soon. No, he called me up out of the blue the other day. I have no clue how he got my number. Anyway, he has this business where he sends explorers – he calls them his ‘Coterie’ – into other countries to collect and acquire rare artifacts for him. He normally has a Courier that brings them to his ‘Museum of Curiosities’, where he Curates them.”
Joey nods like he understands, before pausing and shaking his head. “Sorry, kid, but you’ve lost me. What on earth does this have to do with you?”
Theo laughs. “Well, my Uncle’s Courier recently, well... I dunno what happened. He probably just quit or something. Anyway, my Uncle said that this was my chance to do something with myself. He said that if I could transport this package” – here, he pats the backpack in his lap. It makes a dull metal sound – “safely to his Museum, then he would give me a job as his permanent Courier. I’m sure it’ll be rather dull, but I’ll get to travel and see Uncle, so I agreed right away.”
“Huh. Well that’s a nice little set up that you got there. But that didn’t sound like no package that I’ve ever heard.” Joey nodded towards the backpack, making sure to keep an eye firmly on the road, even though there was no one for miles.
“Ha, that’s because it isn’t,” Joey said as he unzipped his backpack and pulled it out. It truly was a thing of beauty. Shiny and silver, with glowing blue lines that crossed and bisected in beautiful, complex designs. There was no hinges or latches that Theo could see, so he assumed that it was some sort of fancy, oblong decoration or something.
Theo looked over to see Joey’s reaction, and didn’t like the look in Joey’s eye. Theo quickly put the package back into his backpack.
“Do you know what that is?! Your Uncle’s swindling you, boy! I know my metals, and that’s solid ohmium, I bet my beard on that. And I ain’t never seen markings like that before; that thing’s gotta be worth a fortune! Shoot, at least triple – no, quadruple – what you sold your father’s cruiser for! You could sell that thing and never have to work another day in your life!”
Theo laughed nervously. “Well, I’m sure that’s why it belongs in the Museum. It’s probably a rare cultural piece from Atlantis or something; I dunno.”
“Are ya daft, boy?! Are you really going to just hand that priceless treasure over to a barmy old coot who told you to hitchhike with it?!”
“Yes.” Theo was surprised by how sure, how firm his own voice sounded. “I am. I made a promise, and I’m going to keep it.”
Joey scoffed. “Whatever kid. Luck’s wasted on the young and stupid.”
The rest of the trip was spent in uncomfortable silence. They arrived outside of the locked walls of the city, set up camp, and went to bed, all without saying a word.
While Theo slept, he thought he heard a shuffling sound, then a hiss of released air, and finally a shout followed by a skritch skritch. Theo wondered what it was, but the unconscious mind is often more aware and wiser than the conscious one, and it told Theo to go back to sleep, which he did.
The next morning Theo awoke to find the campsite vacant but for himself. Joey’s sleeping bag was empty, and the cruiser was still parked, without its keys. And, oddly, there was a knife on the ground next to... the package? When had he taken that out? After shoving it back into his backpack, he called around for Joey; but received no answer.
Long after the gates had opened Theo looked, until finally he decided to check in the city. He stopped by the outlet store on his way in, but none of the employees had seen Joey. When he passed the police station Theo filled out a report, and decided to leave it at that. Joey was a stranger, after all; and there was only so much Theo could do.
He finally made it to the Museum of Curiosities, and handed his Uncle the package. His Uncle beamed, and stroked the ohmium. Was Theo imagining it, or did the blue lines pulse back?
“Do you know what this is, m’boy?” Uncle Quincy asked Theo.
“No, Uncle,” he answered.
“There’s an old legend, that says that the rightful owners of these Obelisks shall be blessed with protection and good fortune. But, to ensure that no one would try to steal them, within them sleeps a creature that will, shall we say... take care of all those with ill will or dishonest intentions. Ah well, it’s probably just an urban myth. Nevertheless, I’m proud of you, Theopolis.”
“Oh, c’mon Uncle! No one calls me that!”
But as Theo laughed and joked with his Uncle, he couldn’t help the cold shiver that tingled down his spine, as a half-remembered sound tickled the back of his mind:
Skritch skritch.
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Kimba Rose Williams bio (2016)
Kimba Rose Williams currently studies Creative Writing in Orlando, Florida. She has dreamed of being an author since Kindergarten, and has aspirations of being a screenwriter and filmmaker. She adores all things Sherlock, has explored Middle Earth, and has a frankly ridiculous collection of quills and bottles of ink.
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Cold Wind
Kazel Wood
When the cold wind blows on by and sends shivers down your spine stand strong and have faith in yourself.
“Caesar, we love you why can’t you be comfortable,” my mother says.
“Mother it’s not that I doubt your love,” I say, “it’s that I doubt myself.”
The cold wind blows into our house and makes me tremble. No matter how many coats I wear it still makes my hair stand on end. The cold wind can’t be stopped.
“Caesar, please just go to school,” my father says.
“I can’t I don’t feel well, I’m worried I’ll make everyone else sick,” I say.
The cold wind makes my stomach grumble and churn. It makes my head weigh a ton and my thoughts turn against me.
“Caesar, have confidence in yourself,” my brother says.
“Why?” I say.
“So that you can enjoy life more, don’t let everyone else control you.”
The cold breeze makes me have so little power. It grinds my will to dust. It shatters my self-esteem.
“Caesar, you are a smart lad, please just have faith in yourself,” my grandfather says.
“Grandfather, my grades disagree with that,” I say.
“Grades are a stupid way of showing intelligence.”
“But grandfather the school says you aren’t smart if you have bad grades.”
“Child when you have faith in your abilities and put work into your school your grades will rise. Remember child you are always smart in one way or another.”
The cold wind makes me shake and shiver. It causes me to cower and seek shelter. Would a wall keep it out?
“Derek, I’m worried about Caesar,” my mother says.
“He’ll be fine just give him time,” my father says.
“But he doesn’t have any close friends.”
“Honey, he will be alright.”
“If you say so.”
The cold wind whittles me down to my bare essence. The wall I built doesn’t stop the wind, it just stops people from getting in.
“Honey we should take him to a therapist,” my mother says.
“I agree,” my father says.
The cold wind is getting stronger every day. It might carry me away one day. It can sense my weakness. It howls and screams, almost sounding like its own form of laughter.
“Hello, Caesar, my name is Marcus,” the therapist says.
“Hello, Marcus,” I say, forcing a smile.
“Now, I hear you’ve been having some issues.”
“Well, I have some problems but none that I can’t handle.”
The cold wind pushes me closer and closer to the abyss below. It churns and growls. It knows it’s winning. I cannot stand strong. The wind is too powerful.
“Why haven’t you entered the abyss?” Marcus asks.
“I love my family too much,” I say.
“That’s good, now then why do you feel close to this abyss?”
“I feel close do to the wall I built.”
“Can you break the wall?”
The cold wind is scared, I can hear its moans and cries. It pushes me harder than ever. Trying to push me into the abyss.
I am so tempted to let it.
“Caesar, I am here for you, just tell me what is wrong,” Marcus says.
“I don’t know what’s wrong, I just can’t tell anymore,” I say.
“Well, then I can’t help you as much as I would want to.”
“Well, then I apologize for the inconvenience I have caused.”
“Caesar, you aren’t an inconvenience to me, you are a mystery to me.”
“A mystery?”
“You clearly love everyone you meet but are incapable of loving yourself. Why?”
“I don’t see what there is for me to love anymore.”
The cold wind has taken me and forced me into the abyss. I caught the edge. If I let go, the cold wind can’t reach me. I can feel the abyss and how it greets me with open arms, but if I let go I lose my family.
“Don’t do it, Caesar, please,” my mother says.
I can see her tears run down her face as she stares at me about to fall into the abyss.
“Caesar, I love you now please don’t do it,” my father says.
He holds my mother and brother. His warm hugs always protected me from the cold wind, but they were fleeting and temporary protection.
The cold wind pushes at my hands try to make me let go. Maybe I should just let go and get it over with.
“Caesar, please just come back to us we can help you get through this,” my brother says.
We used to have so much fun playing games and chasing each other. That was before the cold wind found me.
The cold wind is egging me on. It howls with laughter, seeing it is about to triumph. I see all these warm hands trying to pull me from the abyss. I see how they are all immune to the cold wind. How can they not feel the harshness of the wind?
“Caesar, I need you to help me solve the mystery,” Marcus says.
“What mystery?” I say, looking down from the building I’m on.
“The mystery of you.”
I see Marcus by my side in the abyss. He is holding onto me protecting me from the cold wind. The cold wind howls in anger.
“Okay, but what about everyone else,” I say
“Ignore them, they don’t choose how you live,” Marcus says.
With that, the cold wind dwindles into a light breeze. I rise from the abyss and meet my loved ones. I feel the warmth flow through me and I rejuvenate back to myself before the cold wind found me. I stand strong and begin to have faith in myself. As the cold wind leaves me seeking new prey. To them, I say when the cold wind blows on by and sends shivers down your spine stand strong and have faith in yourself.
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end
Janet Kuypers
haiku 2/15/14
a small child fears death —
they hide science books on sun
and earth’s future end
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