Ornament
Frederick Pollack
If I say it’s a meter long
and half as wide, smooth but irregularly
shaped, unbreakable,
turquoise, flecked with gold and violet
deeply within, that it’s beautiful
and that, despite however many years,
it gleams, I only translate
sight into language, which itself
is dark, and offer an approximation
to one who is himself approximate.
If I say the archaeologists,
after an hour or so, follow
procedure, log and draw
the object in its grid, take photos with
a man for scale, it doesn’t
express the lack of expertise and loss
of paradigm they feel, the sudden
pity for the ordinary
surrounding bones, the crude shards
of pottery, the dry earth.
Physicists, with professional restraint,
foresee unlimited power.
Corporations, though not yet clearly, see profit.
The image of the supernew
among the heedless dead attracts a poet.
Meanwhile the masses variously pray,
repeat what their advisors say,
and at the bottom of their grudging souls
find in a peopled universe
only a larger “They.”
By Christmas here and there the thought occurs
that mystery on any scale
is simply that, no biggie;
that life is inherently
messy and anomalies abound.
Which doesn’t mean a thinker should desist
from nagging at it:
a better game than positing divine
plans in which divinities sneak around
like cowbirds, laying in someone else’s nest.
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The School
Frederick Pollack
It is an oral teaching.
The veteran who thought he was in line
for a prosthesis but isn’t
has a laptop and an account;
but the consensus is that the Web
is just that, a place where tiny mummies
briefly linger, and that the Cloud
will disperse. The pensioner who
no longer has a pension has a notebook,
and many pencils, but his hand shakes.
The teacher who lives in her car
and showers at the shelter intends to take over
transcribing, but who has
time with so much grading?
The mystics
avoid drugs, except for a big man
in a big coat, who needs his oxycontin
because he is in pain,
and does unspoken things for it. The mystics
agree that phenomena
have no transcendent complement, no echo in
another world. But they reject pragmatism:
the idea of doing something
about things is (they hold) an hysterical
refusal to see them; it assumes health,
money, backing ... When they meet,
they exchange griefs,
pains, dreams, without sentiment;
and these things (they believe) will by this witness
become real, eternal. They meet
in the unswept plaza
of a boarded commercial tower. Their bad
breath steams; words come
in shivering bursts. The teacher imagines
finishing her chronicle, depositing it
perhaps in the building before them, now a shrine.
Someday the glacier will return to edit.
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Commitment
Emily Strauss
Musk oxen, Siberian Saiga antelope
and skeletal Polar bears sicken and die
due to arctic rains, the current absence
of snow and ice dooms them as the earth
thaws, new grasses grow on steppe land
and still the sun will not rise in winter
nor set in summer. We promised them
perennial snows in darkness, tiny flora
to scrape from bare rocks staving hunger
in summer, thousands of miles of frozen
land for antelope to graze and distant ice
floes for bears to hunt on but not this—
bacteria bloom in the heat, poisoning blood
when antelope gather for calving, seals rise
too far out at sea for bears to reach them
now, black oil leaks from scarred pipelines.
We didn’t promise them such destruction
yet it has come— our broken vows scattered
among moss campion and new rock, Kyoto,
a city and ideal not enough to save the arctic.
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About Emily Strauss
Emily Strauss has an M.A. in English, but is self-taught in poetry, which she has written since college. Over 400 of her poems appear in a wide variety of online venues and in anthologies, in the U.S. and abroad. She is a Best of the Net and twice a Pushcart nominee. The natural world of the American West is generally her framework; she also considers the narratives of people and places around her. She is a retired teacher living in Oregon.
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90’s Vibe
Travis Green
Back in the 90’s, I remember the fun we used
to have in the summer time, cruising down the
spiraling streets of sweet escape, the stark sun
pouring down its intense sunbeams onto
our skin, the overcrowded pedestrians scurrying
through the streets into parking lots, shopping malls,
flashy restaurants, some standing at the carwash,
water-soaking their vehicles to a finishing polished glow,
others sitting at the bus stop conversing on some random topic,
while Biggie’s, music, One More Chance, escaped
from the radio into the air, our hands lost in gravity
at the smooth, synchronized beats, our heads bopping
and bouncing with steady motion, the bright, sparkling
flash in our teeth, as we passed through the cityscape,
drifting into dreams of freedom, the sky above us staring
at the captivating canvas, and the smile written in our faces,
while a group of guys standing on the corner of streets, smoking
cigarettes one after another, and young, petite girls sneaked a peek
at us, rocking in slow motion to the reverberating sounds
rumbling through our vehicle, girl’s hips swinging nonstop, like
they were uncontrollable, like they were on a wave of uncharted
territories traveling the gaudy scene to a world of glistening paradise.
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Friday Night Football
Travis Green
My friends and I sat on the bleachers outside,
watching the football game from a distance,
crunching on buttery popcorn, drinking Budweiser,
the adrenaline pumping in our bodies, ecstatic
energy sweeping through crowds of people, heavy
drums pounding in the Friday night glow, curvaceous
cheerleaders chanting, clapping, swaying their hips
in perfect formation to the sound of beats filling
the air lost deep in the endless waves of excitement,
as huge muscled men on the defense came dashing down
the emerald green field, twisting and turning, dodging
the oncoming opponents, as one of the men on the offense
yelled out, Hut, hut, hike! He threw the football ferociously
in the air, like a mad man smashing broken glass, landing it
in one of the guys long hands on his team, while he sprinted
across the field with the ball clung to him, wild waving
at screaming fans, ducking merciless men in his sight,
then finally diving towards the finish line, as one of the
commentators shouted out, Touchdown! The roaring scores
of people leapt to their feet in celebration, boogying
in their bedecked outfits, loud rocking and rolling around
in the cool breeze, as my friends, and I, smiled at their victorious victory.
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Someday I Will Move Up to Cleveland, Ohio
Travis Green
Someday, I will leave the South,
the boondocks where I have lived all my life,
and move up to Cleveland, Ohio,
the home of the Cleveland’s and start a new adventure,
walking down the deep shade of the polished cityscape,
channeling captivating scenery into poetic words,
filled with perfect photographic depictions,
as fluttering fireflies light up the nighttime sky,
twirling through the spectacular streets of glorious fancies,
lost in the moonlit glow, watercolors painting the background
a dazzling array of colors oozing onto the surface of my soul.
I’ll fall in love with this majestic mountain of dreams,
leaving the past behind to step foot on the many attractive sites of Ohio,
escaping into a new dimension filled with wonder and nightlife extravagance,
drumbeating vibrating through the vivacious streets,
trombones sounding off down the jazzy landscape,
pianos playing hypnotizing melodies all down the rocking roads,
as large crowds of partygoers came marching
onto the scene, groove boogying, heads spinning,
feet stomping to the funky sounds of bopping beats,
street lamps dancing in the cool breeze,
while sparks of fireworks line the shimmering skyline,
igniting flames of flashing lights inside the windows to my soul,
my eyes falling deeper and deeper beyond this canvas
of exploding discoveries, dancing through the summer streets of love,
like two birds whistling sweet enchanting harmonies
to one another on a sandy beach. I was connected to this detailed
landscape bursting with extreme excitement,
standing on the edge of the sidewalk,
breathing in the sweet salvation filling the air,
watching the vivid view melt into my mouth,
like milky ice-cold cream touching the tip of my tongue,
as I look up at the constellation of stars in sync with my destiny.
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Working Days
Travis Green
Back when I worked at my first job, Piggly Wiggly,
I used to stock shelves and bag grocery, staring at
the endless items sliding down the cash register, as
I grabbed each one, placing them into the bag, my restless
eyes fading every approaching hour, counting the time
ticking on the clock, wondering if I could accelerate it
to me working on my masterpiece, dabbing in the thick
gooey paint with my long, thin brush, watching the glossy
paint, as it made spectacular colors in the nighttime sparkle,
much like exploding fireworks lighting up the starry sky,
illuminating the fire inside my soul, flashing lights guiding me
to my new escape, but I was far from freedom, pushing carts after carts,
strolling back and forth with grocery bags in my hands, stacking them
into different vehicles, my life declining, unbalanced, broken languages,
everything disconnected, while the evening faded into nightly duties,
cleaning and mopping, scanning aisles and fronting items, sweeping
the scattered leaves from trees across the pavement, stuck in a prison,
surrounded by disappointment. I drifted, post cleanup at Carolina Mudcats
at nights after a game, had me in a whirl wind speeding off course
into alternate wrecked worlds, empty beating rhythms, trailing up and down
bleachers and sidewalks, picking up filthy trash, like I was a dirty old man
confined to these meaningless duties, forced to carry on the same
everyday life until something better came along. And at Walmart, I worked
in remodeling, spraying wet shiny paint on cash registers, its surface a sleek
finishing glow, hauling debris after debris into overcrowded dumpsters,
sweaty hands and a soggy face was all that was left of me at the end of a long
day’s work, familiar voices echoing in the back of my head – these are the working
days that will never fade away.
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Smile
L’Dia Cantu
Oh, that smile.
To the side and oh so shy.
Behind those frames,
those beautiful eyes – do smile.
Who are you, where did you come from and why?
Frozen in this moment,
inside your eyes, inside a smile.
Come find me,
and I’m sure we’ll be a while.
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L’Dia Cantu Bio
In a world of online dating and swiping left or right, L’Dia Cantu is an old soul with a young spirit who highlights the good old ways of meeting people in person, reflecting on the instances of catching that first glance across a crowded room, the moments of butterflies, and the sparks of electricity that fly upon connecting with someone who gets it. A romantic at heart, these are the moments L’Dia Cantu has lived, and the ones L’Dia Cantu remembers.
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The Boat
L’Dia Cantu
The boat rocked gently with the slow waves of the water floating in a glowing cloud of sunset. The sunshine itself made our eyes a rich amber. Warm summer bodies drifted still across the lighting, shadows from the water reflecting on our faces. There was a rich hum amidst the crowd, with everyone talking at once. Laughter and smoke filled the air, energies passing through one another like happy ghosts. Spirit upon spirit, everyone vibrating with excitement to see one another on such a beautiful summer evening.
She looked around her and saw smiles everywhere, people moving closer to each other, connecting. She felt pure bliss. But there was something more in the air that she couldn’t quite put her finger on – until she turned her sights to the warm body sitting next to her.
And there he was – sitting with so little space as a hair between them – looking not at her eyes, but at her skin, nearly touching his. He wasn’t touching her at all, but she knew instantly what she felt. They both looked down at their hands for a moment and together they lifted their gaze to one another, the sun casting a fiery glow around their widening pupils, despite the sunlight. Lazily they looked at each other, heavy eyes sided by the sun, smiling a coy smile, but of thirsty intent. Want.
A feeling sank into her stomach, as if hearing perfect harmony and its vibration over her body. His eyes weren’t piercing or coming on too strongly – they were inviting her to melt into him. She felt no doubt from him of how he felt and what he wanted. Her. He wanted her, and she knew it. And her body responded, “Yes”.
For a moment she closed her eyes, only to dream the image of their warm, limp bodies wrapped around each other – the taste of each other on their lips, eating each others skin with every movement, back and forth; a dance.
As she opened her eyes after only a moment, they were filled with the sweet gold form the sun, painting her skin like honey. The sun, her true element. She felt beautiful in his eyes – she didn’t need his words. Just that gaze. The look he couldn’t help but have on her. His arm would brush against hers, each hair standing on end, as if their bodies were being gently electrified. His hand would touch hers and he looked up at her again with his caramel stare. Even his voice sounded lower, as if every word were an attempt to smoothly lure her into his draw. They knew what they were doing to each other... and of what was soon to come...
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L’Dia Cantu Bio
In a world of online dating and swiping left or right, L’Dia Cantu is an old soul with a young spirit who highlights the good old ways of meeting people in person, reflecting on the instances of catching that first glance across a crowded room, the moments of butterflies, and the sparks of electricity that fly upon connecting with someone who gets it. A romantic at heart, these are the moments L’Dia Cantu has lived, and the ones L’Dia Cantu remembers.
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Spitfire
William Ogden Haynes
The young man didn’t have a lot of money but wanted a sports car, an Aston Martin like
James Bond drove in the movies, but that was far out of reach. So he bought a used 1964 Triumph Spitfire.
He should have known something was amiss when the owner said it came
with a rope and a bicycle pump. But he chalked it up to the charm and vagaries of owning
a British sports car. The rope was to tie the passenger and driver door together across
the cockpit in case the latches failed. The owner said that was safer than reaching for the
passenger door in case it opened during a sharp turn. The fuel tank was rusting, so the
pump was used when filling up with gas to attach to the fuel line and force the particles
of rust back into the tank so it wouldn’t clog. He soon learned that the car would periodically
and without warning jump out of gear. So he carried several cans of fluid in the trunk to top
up the transmission. The car sometimes ran rough because one spark plug was prone to
fouling with oil leaking from weepy seals. Fuses blew at random times. One day he felt a
vibration under his feet on the drivers side floor and when he lifted the carpet he found that a piece
of marine plywood was the only thing separating his feet from the road. The car had a convertible top
that snapped onto a tubular folding aluminum frame. The metal snaps were
carefully sewn into the canvas so they were about a quarter of an inch shy of the round fittings
on the car body to which they were supposed to attach. If it rained he could count on half an hour
of standing outside trying to install it. By then, the interior was soaked and the carpet mildewed.
Once the top was up, the defroster was useless and his breath steamed up the windscreen to the point
he had to use a squeegee to see the road. Yet, he made a special effort to appear as if he was comfortable
and having fun when cars passed him as he goosed the Spitfire to its full 72
horsepower driving along the country roads. He would smile and try to look carefree, even
though the Spitfire had all the crash protection of a motorcycle. His head was at the bumper
level of most cars so at stoplights he was shrouded in exhaust fumes. You might wonder
why a young man would keep such a high maintenance vehicle, why he would put up with
the breakdowns, the delicate tuning and the lack of reliability. When asked about this years
later, he always said, owning the Spitfire was good practice for dealing with his first wife.
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About William Ogden Haynes
William Ogden Haynes is a poet and author of short fiction from Alabama who was born in Michigan. He has published six collections of poetry (Points of Interest; Uncommon Pursuits, Remnants, Stories in Stained Glass, Carvings and Going South) and one book of short stories (Youthful Indiscretions) all available on Amazon.com. Over a hundred and fifty of his poems and short stories have appeared in literary journals and his work is frequently anthologized. http://www.williamogdenhaynes.com
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Trapped Between Two Circles of Hell
William Ogden Haynes
Once again, he awakens in the psychiatric ward still in his threadbare,
whiskey-stained I Love New York T-shirt, the laceless eyes of his
running shoes staring at him from across the room. As he stands up,
his jeans fall down to the floor with no belt to keep them in place. It
is a unit empty of promise for a man whose sanity routinely disintegrates
like crisp autumn leaves. His family and friends have been given up
to distance or estrangement. He often thinks that he has gone to hell.
Other patients in the common area are talking to themselves while
watching television, obviously worse off than himself. Starting an
interaction here is dangerous, like beginning to defuse a bomb, not
knowing if severing the red wire or the blue will result in catastrophe.
So, he talks to no one except the jaded, expressionless staff, who view
him with suspicion but patronize him by answering back. He’ll be here
for only a short time, until the meds kick in and he is deemed not
to be a threat to himself or others. Then he’ll be buzzed through the
security doors to the street, clutching his belt, shoelaces and wallet.
And in the other hand will be paperwork that gives him a prescription,
the warning signs of suicide, addresses of homeless shelters and the
phone number for a crisis hotline. Nothing and no one awaits him out
there. In the summer he huddles in parks and alleyways under the
damp cloak of humidity. And in the winter when the wind cuts like
a razor, he migrates between soup kitchens and shelters until the day
he causes trouble, gets beat up or arrested. And then he returns to the
hospital to be pulled back from the abyss before his discharge in a
week or two. And so, the circle continues until one day, he will
disappear, moving on to jail, another town or death. He’s not certain
how Dante’s nine circles of hell operate, but in his delusion, he’s sure
that the first two levels must be life on the streets and commitment to
the psychiatric ward. As one who has shuttled back and forth between
these same two levels of perdition for so many years, a new circle of
hell would be most welcome. He imagines that levels eight and nine
are reserved for electroconvulsive shock therapy and frontal lobotomy.
Perhaps circle three involves a strait jacket, and that would be fine
since he has always admired Harry Houdini, although he would
have to learn to dislocate his shoulder to make the escape artist proud.
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About William Ogden Haynes
William Ogden Haynes is a poet and author of short fiction from Alabama who was born in Michigan. He has published six collections of poetry (Points of Interest; Uncommon Pursuits, Remnants, Stories in Stained Glass, Carvings and Going South) and one book of short stories (Youthful Indiscretions) all available on Amazon.com. Over a hundred and fifty of his poems and short stories have appeared in literary journals and his work is frequently anthologized. http://www.williamogdenhaynes.com
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Thoughts While Pissing
John F. McMullen
Unzip and Start
Maybe I can think
of a poem
Or at least a title
Damn – finished already
Zip and flush
No new poem
Maybe next time
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bio
John F. McMullen, “johnmac the bard” is the Poet Laureate of the Town of Yorktown, NY, the author of over 2,500 columns and articles and seven books, five of which are collections of poetry, and is the host of a weekly Internet Radio Show (with hundreds of shows to date). Links to the recordings of all radio shows as well as information on Poet Laureate activities and an event calendar are available at .
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Storm
Ashley Layco
“I guess tonight’s the night.”
Takeshi stood in front of the stove, staring at the pictures that surrounded him. The pictures of his parents, family, and other loved ones. However, the cold air in the room creeped into the picture frames and froze the glass, making it nearly impossible to see the warm faces underneath.
Takeshi sighed and looked down at the stove. Placed on it was a pan with a few pieces of coal on it. He grabs a coal and lifts it up to his face to inspect it. They were smooth...for now. In a few seconds, they would heat up and lose their solid structure, turning into the smoke that would allow Takeshi himself to be released from his solid prison and into the world beyond. He reaches for the knob, heart racing with excitement until...
Knock knock knock
He sighs and walks to the door. He opens it and looks around. Nobody. Irritated, Takeshi goes to close the door, but a glint of light near his feet prompts him to look down. When he does, his eyes widen in surprise. Sitting on his steps was a box, taped together with duct tape. Takeshi reaches down to carry it in and is surprised at how heavy it is. He opens it, revealing its contents: a vintage camera. He runs his hands along it, feeling the smooth leather casing. He grabs it, causing the room around him to turn white.
“Hey, what’s going on?” Takeshi says, “Answer me!”
“Welcome to Yamamoto and friends, LLC!” a voice says, “You have been selected to go on a trip to a randomized planet to take pictures! Good luck and have fun!”
“Wait, what?” he says before the room starts to disappear, the white walls slowly morphing, turning more and more blue. Eventually, blue clouds his senses. When it does, he starts to fall...fall...fall...
Eventually he stops. Looking down, he realizes he is floating.
“Hmm...I don’t think that’s normal,” he says out loud.
“No, no it’s not,” a voice says.
Takeshi turns around to see an old man limping towards him. He was a bald man, save for a few wisps of hair. He held a light blue cane that matched his deep, blue eyes.
“Welcome to Neptune,” the man said, “This here planet is the farthest from the sun, really cold and really, really windy! But enough of that, get to taking those pictures!”
Takeshi raises the camera to his face and begins to take pictures. Of the deep ocean blues, the cloudy whites, and everything in between. The wind whipped up around him, causing the beads around the old man’s cane to jingle in the wind. In the distance, thunder struck. But Takeshi continued to take pictures. To document this wonderful place in the galaxy. This wonderful storm. However, as he continued to take pictures, he felt a nudge. And then another, and another.
“What the hell is nudging me?” Takeshi says, looking up from the camera.
The man smiled. “It seems that the camera wants you to see something. You should see where it takes you,” he says.
Takeshi sighs, and lets the camera nudge him away. Away from the light blues, and whites and to the greys and darkest blacks. From a wonderful storm to a disastrous one. To a storm that rattled your bones and froze your heart.
“Interesting,” the man says, “The Great Dark Spot of Neptune. As an anticyclone, it only looks evil and vile, but look closely.”
Takeshi squints his eyes. He saw the thunderstorms and rain around him, so very scary and dark. But as he looked closer and closer towards him, he saw that the storms subsided, to be replaced with calm silence. As he focused on the happenings closest to him, the clap of thunder from the distance became quieter and quieter.
The old man smiled. “It’s not as bad as you thought, was it not?”
Takeshi nods. “I guess so.”
The man smiles. “Exactly. Remember that for when you feel lost in the world, for when you feel like ending it all. The storm within you is only as strong as you let it be.”
Takeshi smiles. “Thanks,” he says.
The man pats Takeshi on the shoulder. “Well then, I think that’s enough photos for today, so please hand me the camera and we will be mailing your check in 5-7 business days.”
Takeshi hands the man the camera and the world around him starts to fade. The grey wispy clouds took form, turning into the various bookcases in his apartment. Eventually, Takeshi was put back on solid ground in his kitchen. He looked up at the pictures above his stove. The frost that once covered the picture frames were gone, and Takeshi could now see the faces underneath. His mother and father...he hadn’t contacted them for ages. He hoped that they were okay, that work wasn’t taking too much of their time. He saw his brothers, his confidants and best friends. He also hadn’t contacted them for a while. He hoped that high school was going well for them. It was then that he had a strong urge to call them all. To hear their voice, get an update on them and know that they were ok. To arrange a time with them to meet up and talk about all the things in their life that he had missed. Eventually, he walks away from the kitchen to the phone, and dials a number. After a short dial tone, Takeshi’s mother answers the phone.
“Hi, mom,” Takeshi says, “How are you?”
The coal was left forgotten.
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Biography (2018)
Ashley Layco is a student from Mililani, HI. She is currently enrolled at Full Sail University, majoring in Creative Writing for Entertainment. In her free time, she likes hiking, reading and watching TV shows like Steven Universe and How to Get Away With Murder.
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Mustard Frames
Gabriella M. Shlyakh
I had a mosquito problem. So I decided to replant a spider by the door. With some potting soil, and a tiny lace doily for her web, I positioned the pot by a sunbeam from the kitchen window.
After a couple days, the spider went to work on her new home, anchoring three points of thread to the small tomato stakes I’d left in the pot.
I couldn’t help but stay and watch.
Cradling the yellowed house phone in the crook of my shoulder, I dialed into work.
“I don’t understand, you’re having your house fumigated?” Lyle, the store manager, drawled on the phone.
“Yeah, like I said, pest problem from downstairs. I’ve called the Super about it, but he hasn’t come back from Portland yet. It’s just for today. I’m going to let him in and he’ll spray.”
Only partially a lie—Super really was still in Portland, and the mosquitos had been his doing, after he’d left all the garbages pails out in the rain. Filled up with water, I couldn’t drag them over with my bad foot.
“We could use your help tomorrow morning to prep for the holiday displays, these new kids don’t know where anything is.”
I slapped my itching arm and found it coming away with blood, wishing the spider would just get to work already.
Lyle had begun to list off duties for tomorrow, but my imagination wandered. I wondered if the spider would eat all of the bugs whole, or if she would cocoon them, sucking out their liquified innards.
A pretty fitting end to all the district bigwigs who did acrobatics to avoid paying us employees full time with benefits. I supposed that running the store for one day without me was punishment enough.
“Ok,” he finally sighed on the other end of the line, “I guess I’ll see you tomorrow.”
But I didn’t. I watched the sunsets of early Autumn gleam golden off the web, instead. I gaped at the pinks and soft purples that were woven in, like the faint dark of veins under skin. Every morning, the colors got even more subtle, somehow gentler.
When I pulled at a piece of the web, I realized that it wasn’t just a trick of the light, the silk gleamed back like mother of pearl, throwing back whatever color it took in. I held the thread up to the light from the window, and it cast back a peachy red, from the inside of my fingers. It would make an incredible fabric, if spun correctly.
I looked back at the spider, poised over the tightrope wires of her outer web, already tidily going over the empty spot.
After three days spent rooted to my chair watching her work, I wondered if this web could really be something big. Maybe I’d write to a magazine about my experience. The headline, which would be in bold, would say:
“Unwitting Engineer: How One Woman Turned Spider Silk Into Fashion.”
I got up and started to gather up bits of silk, hanging them gently over my arm. I stooped over and plucked off the strands I liked most, rolling them up with my fingers. Within a day, the strand was replaced with another, even more beautiful one. The spider gorged herself on our small mosquito invaders and her bottom half grew to twice its size. She sat and sun bathed during the day, and in the evenings she spun her incredible web.
I dozed off in the chair sometimes. You couldn’t help these things, being my age. When I did doze off, though, I always saw myself weaving silk. The kind I remember attached to tablets in the Ancient Orient exhibits I visited as a child. Strong silk, but one that would slide between the blades of shears like a whisper.
The buzz of the phone in my pocket woke me abruptly before the shears snapped shut. I took it out of my pocket and put it into the dark cave of the oven, where it could rattle around and make all the noise it wanted.
Putting on another pot of coffee, I decided that I would make a jacket, like the one I had in the 80s, with lots of embroidery emblazoned over the back. I’d do that, too. I could teach myself how. All I’d have to do was make this thing spin a little faster.
On the sixth day, I woke up in my chair and found my prayers answered. Overnight, the web had become pregnant with a shiny ball of silk.
Clasping my hands to restrain my joy, I looked at the all the colors wrapped around the sides. My heart leapt, standing there, picturing the subtly changing color of the sleeves, the extra fabric at the waist—the plastic zipper I would attach.
From the corner of my eye, I could see the spider slink off into her hole between the door and the molding. She looked almost worn out from all the effort.
My cell buzzed in the oven, it sounded like a bee caught in a soda can. I groaned, leaning down to open the oven door. It was my manager who’d sent another message.
Beth—This is the seventh time I’ve reached out after more than a week of no call, no show. We were holding onto you after the foot surgery because of your years at our company, but I can’t condone keeping you any longer after missing a week of shifts. Hope you are well.
—Lyle
I turned to stare out the window, daydreaming. I imagined myself pictured inside the mustard frames of a glossy issue of National Geographic. I’d wear my coat, and I’d have my arms crossed, back facing the camera. I’d want to get a good shot of the giant dragon painstakingly stitched into the back.
They’d be so impressed with me, my story, that the magazine would make the offer right then and there. Imagine a woman at my age, being hired on the spot. They’d fly me all around the globe and I’d get exhausted and world-weary. I’d get that vogue look of complete ennui that all the folks that stared off the covers of People had. I’d memorized their faces well. Their faces slid past me on the conveyor belt at work. I practiced them in the mirror every night.
On the eighth day, when parts of the web matched the color of the bags under my eyes, something happened. Lyle sent another message.
Beth—
At your earliest convenience, please clear your lockers in the back. We’ve got two trainees coming in that we need to make room for. Hope you are ok.
—Lyle
(PS: Hoping you’ll let us keep the coffee maker.)
I was distracted checking my phone.
When I looked back, a black mass of tiny things cracked the beautiful ball of silk right down the middle. They swarmed out over the web and devoured their weak mother, and then the web.
I screamed at them, batting at them with my broom. The screaming did no good, so I just started blubbering instead. I sunk to the ground, sobbing, the handle of the oven door pressing into the flesh of my back.
The web was a wreck, and I didn’t even have enough thread to make a pinky ring.
All the hours of dreaming, a complete waste. I’d never imagine something like it ever again. By the time I’d grabbed the bug spray, they were all gone. Taking a breath, I stopped myself from spraying down every nook and cranny of the kitchen.
It wouldn’t help to kill the babies. I’d have to be proactive.
I’d learn to teach them, and then I’d train their babies, too. I’d have all of them at it, hundreds of them. It would be hard work, I know, but I could make them work.
I sat down in the chair with the broom on my lap, and I waited for the first web.
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About Gabriella Shlyakh
Gabriella Shlyakh is a writer born in New York City to Ukrainian immigrants. As a lifelong in-betweener, she is an aficionado of all things both genuine and strange, characters that defy simple categorization. After graduating from a City University of New York, she took on the task of running prose workshops, and curating the work of other writers she admired in The Edgewater Reading Series. She is the recent recipient of the 2018 Can Serrat residency in Montserrat, Spain.
For the last year and a half, she has been working on her debut novel Creeps, Anonymous, which is a meditation on mindfulness, grief and acceptance.
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Feet
Mike Schneider
“Put it down right here,” Mrs. Stutzman said, pointing to the floor in front of her. Like the majority of residents, she was barefoot, her feet swollen to half again their normal size, looking like two risen loaves of bread about to go in the oven, and pink as sunburn. Getting a podiatry intern’s close up view of geriatric foot problems is the main drawback of this gig, delivering “senior boxes” to the Sherwood Apartments every month for the local food pantry. It’s a volunteer job, takes two hours and fulfills a requirement for one of my advanced soc courses.
Sherwood has 54 rent-assisted units for low income seniors. The boxes weigh 25 pounds. I set them inside because many recipients can’t handle that much weight.
I can’t handle that many feet.
They’re kind of corny looking things, already bordering on ugly when young. I can tell you with authority, they do not age gracefully.
Mr. Castlebaum is another. Worst case of toenail fungus anyone would ever not want to see. Like these little piggies rolled in dog shit. Four on one foot, other foot’s fine. Go figure.
It may be that I’m spoiled. My dorm roommate/girlfriend, Karen, is a foot and nail polish model for print ads and counter displays. I guess she’s been doing it since high school, hooked up with an ad agency in Kansas City. A studio here in Lawrence shoots the pics.
“I have narrow feet, a perfect arc at the end, and to highlight the polish my toes point slightly downward. They tickle women’s fancy in the pages of Vogue, InStyle and other magazines, plus on make-up counters at stores like Macy’s and Bloomingdale’s,” she said. “With what I’ve saved, and am currently earning, it’s pretty much putting me through college.”
My last two deliveries turned out to be the worst of the day. Mr. Blankenship, a new resident, also barefoot, had an unattended bunion on his left foot that was so far advanced it had pushed his big toe under the next two. He said he’s no longer able to wear shoes, only slippers.
But Mrs. Jackson was the most pitiful, and by far the most unnerving, ever. Her feet were wrapped in white gauze bandages that had been on long enough to be a dirty gray and were way too tight. Her toes had all turned black. I called an ambulance for her, then unwrapped them. The rest of the left foot was unaffected but the black extended halfway back on the right one.
When the paramedics arrived and caught sight, one immediately took me aside.
“It’s gangrene, I’m afraid your grandmother’s feet will have to be partially amputated.”
I wished Mrs. Jackson well, said goodbye, then ran like a deer back to Karen and safety. I walked in as she was brushing on polish.
“Revlon Plum Seduction,” she said, wiggling her toes at me. “You like?”
“Totally, would be a gross understatement. Give me a little time to collect myself and I’ll prove it’s a befitting name.”
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Day Gone By
Te’Livyvonne Starks
My feet are heavy, my face red from the freezing rain that falls intensely around me. I can’t help but wonder if this will be my last day of living. No, I mustn’t think like that- push forward, be strong. I am miniscule in this huge world, I never knew how insignificant I was to the universe until I was lost in it. I walked for what seemed like hours, in a daze, my body shaking me with shivers as an attempt to get warm. What little heat that came from the sun is slowly fading as it sets behind a distant horizon. When I left for this morning for my interview, I had no idea how badly the day would be for me.
The 4-hour walk seemed like nothing, as I thought about the great benefits I had before me. I made it to the interview with 30 minutes to spare and achieved the job almost too easily. I decided to treat myself to lunch where I met a handsome, wealthy man. We talked for hours, though it only felt like minutes as I stared into his hazel eyes. When I decided it was time to go, I exchanged numbers with the man and left the restaurant. Shocked at how low the sun was, I quickly headed into the direction of home. One wrong turn, and suddenly I am in the worst position possible. Lost in a cold rainstorm, with a dead cellphone and no civilization.
Where is everyone? Will I make it before freezing to death? I try to look at my surroundings, where did I miss my turn? Should I turn back? Make a left, a right? My steps get slower as time goes on, until I feel my eyes drooping bit by bit. I’m slipping. I sit down, unable to continue the unbearable walk. I curl up into a ball and wait for the sweet release of death. I am just about to close my eyes for the last time until I notice two lights heading towards me. Is this my life flashing before my eyes? Is this Heaven’s light? I reach out weakly and suddenly I feel warmer. Wait, I squint my eyes to see better and -Thank God- it’s headlights! I suddenly jump up with more energy than my body could afford to handle, run to the middle of the street, and stick my hand out frantically as a black pickup truck stops just inches from me.
“Hop in.” The man says. Grateful, I quickly climb inside and fasten my seat belt. I slouch into the comfortable tan seats as the trucks heater touches my skin. I am finally safe, I think to myself. God, I wish I would’ve known how drastically wrong I would be. He puts the truck into drive, and the sudden rattle shakes me violently. I study the man, he’s tall, almost too tall, slightly attractive, and he smells of pine and – iron? No, not iron- blood. My eyes widen as I notice his shirt, the light blue shirt soaked completely in blood at the torso. I avert my eyes and pretend not to notice, at that moment he says, “So, what’s your name pretty lady? And why are you all alone on a day like this?” I steady my breathing, afraid for my life as I give him my answer. “My name is Hope.”, I reply sweetly. There are no more words for a while, just the soft click of the doors locking and the road speeding beneath us.
“I never asked you Miss Hope, but where are you headed?”, he asks. I remember that I never gave him a destination as I relished in the heat of the truck and the throbbing of my resting feet. I reply, “Um, Delula. Do you know how to get there?” He just shakes his head in answer and continues the drive. I picture my beautiful baby girl running to me as I open the front door, my husband with flour in his hair as he tries to make dinner. I laugh a little to myself, and the thought is enough to take the edge off of my conscious telling me, you will not see tomorrow. All I hear is my name being called, and then a sharp pain in my stomach. I look down as my blood rushes out onto his tan seats and soaks his light blue shirt. “Goodbye Mommy.”, my daughter says to me for one last time.
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Heroes Save The World
Mark Joseph Kevlock
“The first meeting of Good Guys, Incorporated is called to order.”
“Why don’t we have any girls in the group?” Vincent said.
Four friends sat at a round table in a summer attic. They didn’t know that they were about to change the world.
Kevin Marcus possessed the useful tool of being able to see into the future.
“What a mess,” he said.
None of his friends believed in this ability. Kevin held them together as a group through sheer force of will.
“I need to stomp some bad guys,” JoJo Kupps said. Kupps was the Hulk on their team.
“We’re not here to fight bad people,” Marcus explained. “We’re here to fight bad ideas.”
August Myron cleared his throat and used his forefinger to push his spectacles back in place. “Maybe,” he said, “this whole thing is a bad idea.”
Kevin stood up and went to the window. He saw the city of the future. A monorail ran through it. And corruption did, as well.
“Vincent, I’m appointing you Chief Attendant of Smiles.”
Leonardo da Vincent tipped his chair back farther than he should have.
“What’s that mean?” he asked like he only half-cared.
“Your job is to make people happy,” Marcus said.
“Can I start with the girls?” Vincent grinned.
Kevin Marcus grinned, too.
“Heroes save the world,” he said. “We each contain the seed of infinite possibilities.”
“I need a bathroom break,” Kupps said.
No one tried to stop him.
While he was gone Myron said, “I don’t think he’s coming back.”
“He’s coming back,” Marcus said. “He wants to straighten out the world as badly as the rest of us.”
“Why’s it our job?” Vincent half-cared.
“Because we’re the four who can actually do it.”
The toilet flushed and the hulk returned.
Myron spoke just to break the tension. “What happens in the future?” he asked.
Kevin Marcus sat back down at the head of the table.
“Everything,” he said.
***
Good Guys, Incorporated occupied the top twenty floors of Kevin Marcus’s downtown skyscraper. The meeting being held there brought forth leaders from every nation.
“The world will know peace in our time,” Marcus told them. “I’ve seen to that.”
Marcus’s Caring Coalitions covered 90% of the planet with their Reach Out In Kindness initiatives.
August Myron sat at his right hand, organizer and counsel.
JoJo Kupps made sure no one laughed, as each outrageous concept topped all those previously put forth.
Leonardo da Vincent served as Chief Attendant of Smiles.
“Today,” Marcus said, “we learn a truth older than all human invention. Simply put: there is no such thing as evil. Mankind made it up. And now Mankind will unmake it!”
The leaders knew by now to expect action, not words, from Marcus and his team. Every question the world asked, Kevin Marcus answered. No example of supposed evil went unchallenged, unexplained. He showed the human motivation behind all atrocities, and he kept on showing it until everyone understood.
“Another fear conquered,” Myron analyzed the global statistics pouring in. “Another step toward Humanity believing in itself.”
Kupps charged in, like he always did.
“Dictators, comic book creators, and clergy are providing the heaviest resistance,” Kupps reported, “to the disintegration of the concept.”
“I would say, ‘evil is out of a job’,” Marcus grinned, “but since it never existed in the first place....”
Vincent strolled in, gliding as if he had an escalator under him at all times.
“How many people aren’t smiling?”
Marcus made the standard inquiry of his friend.
“Too few to count,” Vincent said, taking pride in his work.
Kevin Marcus went to the window and looked out. A monorail ran through the city. And that was all.
***
“Maybe we should just go watch TV,” Vincent said.
The attic grew hotter by mid-afternoon.
“Let’s start planning the world that we want,” Marcus told them, “just the four of us.”
“Kids can’t change anything,” Vincent maintained.
“The hell we can’t,” Kupps almost upset the table before them.
Marcus waited upon Myron’s reaction. He depended upon this particular genius a bit more than that of the other two. Myron would be the first to see into the future with him.
“I wish that people would treat each other better,” August Myron said. “That’s the world that I see.”
Once the conversation began it never ended.
Four friends sat at a round table and changed the world.
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Mark Joseph Kevlock bio:
Mark Joseph Kevlock (used to spell it: Kiewlak) has been a published author for more than two decades. In 2018 his fiction has appeared in 365 Tomorrows, Into The Void, Freedom Fiction, Black Petals, and Friday Flash Fiction. Three of his stories were selected as semi-finalists in the recent American Short(er) Fiction Contest. He has also written for DC Comics.
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Olivier Schopfer bio
Olivier Schopfer lives in Geneva, Switzerland. He likes to capture the moment in haiku and photography. His poetry has appeared in numerous online and print journals and anthologies, and his artwork is featured in After the Pause, Die Angst Magazine, Anti-Heroin Chic, The Bitchin’ Kitsch, Former People: A Journal of Bangs and Whimpers, Gnarled Oak, Otoliths, Peacock Journal, Sonic Boom, Streetcake Magazine, Up the Staircase Quarterly and Window Cat Press. He also writes articles in French about etymology and everyday expressions at: olivierschopferracontelesmots.blog.24heures.ch/.
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An Emergency Landing in your Hair
Mgr. art. Pavol Janik, PhD. (magister artis et philosophiae doctor)
Translated into English by Smiljana Piksiades
Planes got it into their heads
that they were better than ships,
but pride comes before a fall.
The sadness of victory
is unbearable.
In the darkness of your hair
glitter the tiny wrecks
of airships
and to the bottom of your eyes
sink sparkling mysteries.
Speechlessly
- like the smile on your lips
I’m awaiting my opportunity.
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Circling
Mgr. art. Pavol Janik, PhD. (magister artis et philosophiae doctor)
Translated into English by Smiljana Piksiades
Evenly and fast
always going round
it dreams about itself.
The old unbearable fan.
Its head makes the circles
of a drunkard’s breath.
It imagines it is a propeller.
It circles.
It observes.
It sees and hears.
It knows more than the others.
Through its racket
regardless it takes the words
of the speeches of the café tribunes.
For so long it has belonged to the technical museum,
but not till now has it entered literature.
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Wiser for your Death
Mgr. art. Pavol Janik, PhD. (magister artis et philosophiae doctor)
Translated into English by Smiljana Piksiades
(for Miroslav Valek)
Roots grow into the earth like coffins,
Opera singers
sound-painterly gargle on the stage,
a storm drives waves to the shores of a puddle.
All at the first moment
of the forgetting of the discovery of America.
At the bottom of their souls
everybody repairs their own Titanic.
The night sky spills itself on the ground
like sparkling snow.
And the dead remain with us
dumb as reproaches.
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A Nun’s Arse
James Mulhern
Aunt Helena and Aunt Bianca entered the front door, the brisk air of October following them. Both held bags from Filene’s Basement in downtown Boston, a favorite for those in search of bargains. They were laughing about something.
“What’s so funny?” Nonna asked.
“We just saw Mrs. Muldoon,” Aunt Helena said. “Poor thing was drunk as a skunk. She was walking the street aimlessly. Said she was looking for her husband Jim. We had to lead her home and get her settled.” She hung their coats in the closet. “Then she told us that the Happy Garden Chinese Restaurant was sending pork fried rice and egg rolls to her house every night. She swears she never ordered the food. Mary said, ‘I don’t speak Chinese. How in the hell could I order from those chinks?’ ‘Can’t understand anything they say to me, yet I get chink food delivered every day about 5 p.m.’ ”
“She must be having blackouts and forgetting that she ordered. Or she’s imagining that they are delivering the food. Mary has squash rot,” Nonna said.
“What’s ‘squash rot’ ?” I asked.
“Means your brain is rotted from too much alcohol, Molly,” Helena said. “When she drinks, Mary gets delusional and hallucinates.”
Helena and Bianca plopped into the cushy velvet green chairs, placing their bags beside them. Aunt Bianca assumed her usual disposition, staring into space, frowning and saying nothing. Her red hair was a mess and her lipstick smeared. She looked like a sad Bozo the clown.
“What happened to Mrs. Muldoon’s husband?” I asked.
Nonna said, “Long before you were born, Mr. Muldoon died from a massive heart attack. Poor Mary was fixing dinner in the kitchen. When she called him to the table, he didn’t answer. She went into the living room, where he would listen to the radio and read the paper, and found him dead in his chair, his paper scattered at his feet. She hasn’t been the same since. Just drinks away her sorrows.”
“Oh,” I answered. I couldn’t comprehend what it would be like to find someone dead, especially a husband or a family member.
“Well, let’s take a look at what you bought? Did you get that pretty dress you wanted, Bianca?” Nonna asked.
“No, some bitch must have found it in the pile where I hid it.”
I excused myself, saying I had homework. Then I went to Nonna’s bedroom where I would hang out until it was time to walk home to my parents, who were busy closing the restaurant until after 10:30 pm. Most of my evenings were spent with Nonna. She and my aunts watched Tom Brokaw on NBC News while I retreated to the bedroom and read.
Nonna thought it would be charitable of us to visit Mrs. Muldoon. I didn’t like Mrs. Muldoon. On a Saturday evening, when I was bussing tables in the restaurant, I accidentally spilled marinara sauce on an ugly blue puff-sleeve dress that she was wearing. She called me a “clumsy oaf,” and complained to my parents. I didn’t argue with Nonna about visiting her, though. Nonna was not someone to disagree with.
We walked precariously up the steps of Mrs. Muldoon’s front porch on a late afternoon in December, “Mrs. Muldoon will slip and fall on this snow.” About two inches had fallen that morning. “Grab that shovel against the house and let’s clear a path from her door down to the street.”
It didn’t take us long; the snow was light and airy. I shoveled while Nonna gave commands. As we were stomping our feet and about to ring the doorbell, the door opened. “Aren’t you going to clean the curb, too?” Mrs. Muldoon said to me. “I like to walk on the street you know. The slobs next door never clear the sidewalk.” She must have been watching us from her living room window the whole time.
“Of course she will,” Nonna said, and then to me, “Molly, just finish up that little bit while I go inside with Mrs. Muldoon. Then come in.” Mrs. Muldoon held the door as Nonna entered.
“You’ll do a good job, won’t ya?” Mrs. Muldoon said with a fake smile. “Not make a mess of it like you do sometimes at the restaurant.”
Nonna chuckled, and when Mrs. Muldoon turned, mouthed, “She’s drunk. Ignore her.” She pinched her nose and grimaced.
As the door shut, I gave Mrs. Muldoon the finger. Even though she didn’t see my gesture, it gave me pleasure. I shoveled the curb, making sure to leave just a bit of snow on the curb, hoping she might slip.
I found the two of them standing in the archway that led to the living room. Nonna was oohing and aahing over a silver aluminum Christmas tree with a color wheel.
“I love those red and green balls, and the see-through ones, too.” Nonna said. “Isn’t it pretty, Molly?”
“It’s gorgeous.” I wasn’t that impressed.
“Well the damn thing ought to be. Paid a pretty penny for it. At Sears, ya know. The girl in the store, a pudgy midget, said it was a specialty item.”
“Oh, a specialty,” Nonna said, winking at me. “Well it’s beautiful, Mary. Now why don’t we go into the kitchen and enjoy some coffee while we eat the cookies I brought you.”
“I don’t know why they call it a specialty item. They’ve been around for years,” I said.
“Well it’s special to me,” Mrs. Muldoon snapped. “Where are the cookies, Agnella? I could use something sweet to get rid of the bad taste in my mouth,” she said, looking at me. We walked into the kitchen
“I wrapped a few up and put them in here.” Nonna patted her black leather handbag.
“Well I would think you could give me more than a few. What are you? Cheap?”
Nonna laughed. “Mary, you got the diabetes to worry about.”
“Was she really a midget?” I interjected.
Mrs. Muldoon looked irritated.
“She’s asking about the salesgirl in the department store,” Nonna said.
“I know what’s she’s asking, Agnella. Yes, Molly. Or a dwarf. I don’t know what ya call them nowadays. But nice enough, she was. And quite knowledgeable. She told me the tree was made in some town in Wisconsin. Would be an heirloom in the future. I said to her, ‘I don’t care about any heirlooms, dear, and I don’t care about the future. I haven’t got a soul to leave it to.’ And don’t ya know, the midget said to me, ‘I’m sorry.’ I said, ‘About what, darling?’ And then she said, ‘That you haven’t got any children.’ I laughed and told her not to worry. Children could be a pain in the arse. Isn’t that right, Molly?”
Mrs. Muldoon almost slipped on the red-brick linoleum floor, but Nonna was able to grab her arm and steady her into a chair. The kitchen smelled like a pine tree. Nonna explained to me later that the smell was from all the gin that Mrs. Muldoon drank.
Nonna brewed coffee in the percolator, after opening cabinets and rummaging through the disorganized mess of her cupboards. Mrs. Muldoon was silent, her eyes dreamy, looking out the window above the sink.
“Mary, where’s the sugar?” Nonna opened the bread box.
“Hey, it’s not in there. Look on top of the refrigerator.”
“Crazy place to put it,” Nonna said, taking the yellow sugar bowl and placing it on the table.
“It’s starting to snow again,” I said, following Mrs. Muldoon’s eyes. “Guess you’ll have to find someone to shovel for you later on.”
“It is, and isn’t it pretty. Do they still make snowflake cutouts in school, Molly? I used to love Christmas time when I was a tot.”
“Mrs. Muldoon, I’m a senior in high school. We don’t do things like that. They make snowflakes in elementary school.”
“What a shame.” Mrs. Muldoon said. “People at every age should make snowflakes. That’s a joy of Christmas. Don’t you agree, Agnella?”
Nonna was pouring the coffee and arranging the anisette cookies on a plate. “Yes, Mary. Snowflakes should be appreciated at every age.” She opened the refrigerator and sniffed the small carton of cream. Her nose crinkled. “Mary, the cream’s gone bad.” She poured it down the sink and ran hot water. “We’ll just have to have our coffee black.”
“Let’s have a gin and tonic instead,” Mrs. Muldoon said. “Molly, too. She’s a senior in high school now,” she said, over-enunciating and smirking. “Too old for snowflakes” She laughed.
“We’re having coffee. No alcohol. Wouldn’t go with the cookies,” Nonna said.
“Snowflakes form in the Earth’s atmosphere when cold water droplets freeze onto dust particles. Depending on temperature and air humidity, the ice crystals create myriad shapes. No two are alike,” I said. “I think that’s more wondrous than anything we could create with a scissors and white paper. I prefer the realness of nature.”
Mrs. Muldoon laughed. “Aren’t you a whippersnapper. And all those big words: myriad and wondrous.” She humphed.
Nonna set the coffee and small plate of cookies in the table center. “Molly’s very smart. She got a perfect score on her SAT verbal and almost a perfect score on her math. She’s in the 99th percentile. Her IQ is 148.”
“Whatever that means,” Mrs. Muldoon said. “What else do they teach you? Do they teach you to count your blessings? Do they teach you your catechisms? Do they teach you the Ten Commandments, the Our Father, and Hail Mary? Now those are valuable lessons.” She picked up rosary beads and some laminated novenas that were on the table. “Faith is most important, Molly.” She shook the beads. “I pray every night for the Holy Father’s intention that the Catholic church reign forever.”
“Yes, of course they teach us those things, Mrs. Muldoon. I attend Immaculate Conception. The sisters have to explain all that to us. But I’m not sure I believe in any of it.”
“What do you mean?” Mrs. Muldoon said. “So sacrilegious. And at this time of year.” She tsk-tsked. “Now there’s a big word for you.” She laughed and sipped her coffee, then glared at me. “You are not smarter than God, Molly.” She placed her cup down firmly. A bit of the coffee spilled over the rim.
“I think that Molly is saying she’s a free thinker,” Nonna said.
“A free thinker? What a bunch of malarkey. I don’t even know what it means.”
“It means she makes up her own mind about what she believes and doesn’t necessarily listen to what people tell her. She’s an independent young woman.”
Mrs. Muldoon guffawed.
“Let’s change the subject,” Nonna said. “No need to be arguing. It’s not the holiday spirit.”
“I suppose you’re right, Agnella,” Mrs. Muldoon said, raising herself from the chair. “I’ve got to use the little girl’s room anyway.” Nonna helped her stand.
“I’m okay, Agnella. Stop being such a mother hen.”
Nonna laughed. When Mrs. Muldoon left the kitchen, Nonna whispered to me, “Go into the living room and get me a few of those see-through balls on the tree. Hurry up.”
I did just that, bringing her two translucent balls and one red one. “I like the red one,” I whispered. Nonna wrapped them in napkins and stuffed them in her bag, which she clasped shut just as we heard the toilet flush down the hall.
When Mrs. Muldoon returned, she said, “I was just thinking about Vivian Vance. It’s sad that she died. Oh, how she used to make me laugh.”
“Who’s Vivian Vance?” I said.
“Ethel Mertz. You know. From I Love Lucy. Now that was a funny show. And Lucille Ball. What a riot!” Nonna added.
“God bless the people who make us laugh,” Mrs. Muldoon said.
“I’ll second that,” Nonna said.
“I wonder what a dead body looks like. I’d love to see one,” I said.
“What an odd thing to desire.” Mrs. Muldoon pursed her lips.
“And although it’s sad that Vivian Vance died, I don’t see why her death is any more tragic than the death of anyone else,” I answered. “She’s no more valuable then the rest of us. Do you know there’s approximately 153,400 deaths per day, or a little more than 100 per minute? Just think of how many people died while we’ve been sitting here. We are all specks of dust floating in an enormous universe.”
“Your granddaughter is getting too big for her britches. Imagine? ‘Specks of dust.’ I don’t even know what she’s talking about half the time. Wanting to see a dead body, too? Where does she come up with these things? Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!” She took a sip of coffee, then murmured “specks of dust, specks of dust” and looked out the window. The black bark of a tree cut through a gray square of sky.
Nonna looked out the window as well. “Don’t mind her, Mary. She’s just a thinker.”
“I could tell her a few things to think about.” Her things sounded like “tings,” and her think sounded like “tink.” I was going to correct her but Nonna said, “We should get going. The snow is falling. And Molly’s got homework to do. Don’t you, Molly?”
“Yes, Nonna. And I want to add some more ornaments to our Christmas tree so it can be just as beautiful as Mrs. Muldoon’s.”
“Yes, yes,” Nonna said, rising from her seat. “It’s a beautiful tree.”
Mrs. Muldoon escorted us to the door, commenting some more about my poor attitude, and then as we walked home, Nonna said, “Such a shame. An old woman with all her money. Drinking herself to death.” She stopped suddenly and turned to me. “You’ve got to learn to hold your tongue. You’ll never get anywhere in this world if you don’t know when to keep your mouth shut. Learn not to be so fresh.”
When we hung the ornaments on our tree, Nonna said, “She won’t notice them missing. And it’s a shame not to have them appreciated. You think they’re lovely, don’t you, Molly?”
“Yes, Nonna.”
Later, as I lay on Nonna’s bed doing homework, I picked up the phone and called the local Chinese restaurant.
“This is Mrs. Muldoon,” I said, “Send me over an order of pork fried rice, egg rolls, and add some beef broccoli this time. And you’ll hurry it up, won’t you? I’m so hungry I could eat a nun’s arse through a convent gate.”
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Bio
James Mulhern has published fiction in many literary journals and has received accolades. Three stories were selected for different anthologies of best short fiction. In 2013, he was chosen as a finalist for the Tuscany Prize in Catholic Fiction. In 2015, Mr. Mulhern was awarded a fully paid writing fellowship to Oxford University in the United Kingdom. That same year, a story was longlisted for the Fish Short Story Prize. In 2017, he was nominated for a Pushcart Prize. He has received other awards. His writing (novel and short story collection) earned favorable critiques from Kirkus Reviews.
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Bread and Bombs
Drew Marchall
The march began at First Avenue, in front of the United Nations building. Then we would hang a right, and travel down Forty Second Street. Another right down Broadway, then on to Central Park West. The rally would end at the Great Lawn; the 55-acre geographical center of Central Park, located between 79th to 85th streets.
This parade and rally was organized by a coalition of peace groups opposed to nuclear arms. They came together as The June 12 Rally Committee. The United Nations second special session on disarmament began last week. Many world leaders were in New York City to address this issue. President Reagan would be here, later in the week.
My best friend had asked me to accompany him. Ben would march with the Viet Nam Veterans against Nuclear Arms contingent. He had been a medic and did two tours of duty in Viet Nam. Ben was ten years my senior. When I turned eighteen, I had to register for the draft. Several weeks later the war was over and troops were coming home. I wound up receiving a 3A deferment. Deferment because of hardship to dependents.
Ben was an old hand at this. He was active in the Civil Rights and Anti-War movement. This was my first protest event. From what I’ve seen so far, people from all stripes were in attendance. News reports stated that a quarter of a million people were expected and I was one of them. This event was history in the making.
As we passed Grand Central Station, I noticed a group of women, to my immediate right. A large sign caught my attention.
JEWISH DYKES FOR
NUCLEAR DISARMAMENT
I thought this quite amusing. When I tapped Ben on the shoulder and brought this to his attention, he appeared agitated. Directly across the street I saw another sign being waved around.
ARCHITECHS FOR
NUCLEAR DISARMAMAMENT
I pointed to that sign and told my marching buddy to check it out. He became visibly upset. He told me that this was divisive and symbolic of our splintering into separate, self-serving camps. He felt the rise of the women’s and gay rights groups springing up when they did, destroyed the unity and shared consciousness of the antiwar and civil rights movements.
I understood what Ben meant, but was too caught up in the excitement of the moment to give his statement much thought.
As we made our way down Central Park West, I spotted a man sitting by the window of his third story apartment. He smiled and waved at the crowd. Suddenly I heard booing emanating from my section. Underneath this guy’s window was a huge banner.
ANTI NUKES
ARE COMMUNIST DUPES!
I smiled and waved back. Two teenage girls in front of me cursed at the man while giving him the finger. A childish act, I said to myself.
We dispersed as we reached the Great Lawn. A concert was in progress. Music was booming from a huge stage over the heads of the thousands camped in front of me.
Linda Ronstadt was performing. I could hear her but was too far from the stage to see Linda singing.
We were awash in a sea of humanity. About twenty minutes later Ben and I tried to make our way through the demonstrators. We were heading downtown for a meal. The crowd was now estimated at half a million. We had proved our point. This was a thrilling experience for me.
On an impulse, we decided to take in the last showing that night of Barbarella. Jane Fonda stars in a science fiction cult film, from nineteen sixty eight. She was at that time, just a short period away from becoming a radical activist and maturing as an actress.
In the morning, the front pages of all the newspapers were filled with the details of this occurrence. The demonstration was larger than anyone anticipated, drawing close to one million. The organizers announced it was the biggest gathering in the nation’s history. The N.Y.P.D had five thousand officers on overtime duty. Many celebrities had addressed the crowds. Motorist had been warned to stay away from Manhattan. Businesses complained that they had lost millions of dollars.
Looking back on this happening, thirty six years later, I don’t believe much of any worth had been accomplished. We raised consciousness and fired the spotlight on the topic, that’s about it. It appears, in this new century, every country has these weapons now and they are not shy about threatening to use them. Does the theory of Mutually Assured Destruction carry any weight these days? I’m reading reports now that say we can conduct a limited nuclear war, that doesn’t destroy the planet.
Ben’s prediction of our unraveling and embracing identity politics has come true.
Tonight I will watch the Special Edition DVD of director Stanley Kubrick’s “Dr. Strangelove, Or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love The Bomb.” The classic satire on the end of the world.
Might as well go out laughing.
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The Hearing we Didn’t Hear
Patty Ayers
Two weeks ago, my boyfriend Gil became the custodial parent of his two children, Aaron and Brittany. Teenagers, sixteen and fourteen respectively, and half-siblings to the boy left behind, ten-year-old Peter.
The teens had been Peter’s caretakers since he was a toddler. Their mother wasn’t interested in the children, only in wine. A lot of wine. She didn’t cook, didn’t hug, didn’t help with homework, nothing. All she did was give them money. The only good thing was that the money she gave was plentiful. Too plentiful, and random, like she gave it no thought.
Their so-called mother had been eager to let the older kids go. Desperate, they had threatened to spill the beans to the grandparents – the rich set, not the hard-working, middle-class set who had spent years fighting to see them.
At their wit’s end, the kids called their dad in the middle of the night, begging for rescue. Gil drove the ten miles to their mansion-like home in West Rockville to bring them to our humble townhouse. Though relieved to get away and willing to be poor to do so, they didn’t realize how much their half-brother Peter would suffer in their absence.
###
Peter slid his mother’s phone from her grip as she lay passed out at nine o’clock in the evening. He called his brother Aaron who was watching The Celebrity Apprentice at our house. Peter cried, racking in sobs at times, and admitted their mom had been drunk since they left. He had managed to take care of himself, he said, but now the food was gone and he didn’t have money to buy more. All four of us emptied our pockets and Gil took Aaron to meet the boy in his backyard to pass the cash.
The first thing the next day, Gil called our jack-leg lawyer, our friend with dusty hair in his ears, and asked him to make a petition to give us custody of Peter. It was a long shot, he said. After all, we weren’t related to Peter, weren’t married to each other, but the extenuating circumstances might sway the judge. A court courier served the papers to their drunken mother the following day around noon.
An hour later, their rich mother’s lawyer, on full-time retainer, went to work. Unbeknownst to us, he filed papers not only refuting our claims for custody but also requesting a closed hearing in the judge’s chambers. Closed to us, the petitioners. The judge allowed it; I guess based on the high-priced lawyer’s glowing reputation in our city.
The next day, we drove to the courthouse an hour early, on an errand our dusty-eared lawyer suggested. To the Justice of the Peace to get married, to avoid the mother’s probable objection of our marital status. Rather, the lack of a marital status.
“Do you love me, baby?” I asked Gil.
“Like a rock.”
“Enough to marry me today?”
“Enough to marry you any day.” Two floors up, we locked into a kiss. The elevator doors opened to six witnesses of our pre-marital hanky-panky. I blushed, but Gil announced, “We’re getting married in five minutes!”
There was no reason to avoid marriage; we had been living together for five years. We hadn’t made it official because neither of us wanted a third notch in our belts.
Per county law, the Justice of the Peace couldn’t charge a fee. But the elderly man in an ill-fitting suit obviously encouraged tips. There was a jar displayed in the so-called chapel, labeled “I love you, too!”
At the end of a bare-bones ceremony... two “I Do’s,” three signatures, and “you may kiss the bride”... the deed was done. Yet it was the most romantic wedding of my three, because my new husband was my true soulmate. Or so I thought.
We scampered downstairs to the courtroom entrance, only to find the hearing was over. In explanation, our lawyer spouted legal terms I didn’t understand until his last sentence. “Basically, you got screwed,” he said.
“How much did she pay you, you son of a bitch?” My hands shook in anger and I was out of breath, rushing from the courtroom. I stopped to lean against a pillar to hear his answer, but he mumbled vague denials. Peter’s father had been bribed. Though they had been divorced for seven years and pledged enemies, he testified for his child’s alcoholic mother, and his testimony was the nail in the coffin for our case.
He testified that she was an excellent parent. No, she was not a ‘round-the-clock drunk. No, she didn’t allow the boy to sleep with her. No, she didn’t have a penchant for neglect or emotional abuse. In fact, we must be crazy to think she was anything but a model citizen, a philanthropist, a character in a Norman Rockwell painting.
I was furious and blamed our cut-rate lawyer, and then I blamed Gil, thinking his heart wasn’t into getting custody in the first place. Searching for a place to lay the blame, I looked for fault in anything and everything to cover my disappointment and helplessness.
With a more-accepting attitude, Gil suggested, “Lunch with the kids? Tell them the bad news and the good news?”
“Get them out of school?”
“They’re not paying attention, anyway.”
“True. They know where we are.”
###
Brittany was the first to arrive in the school office. She rushed in, ignoring us and looking for Peter. “Well?” she asked. A look at our faces told the story. Brittany plopped in a chair and burst into tears. Aaron arrived moments later and didn’t need an answer, either. He saw Brittany and I both crying.
I wanted to trash their mother and her wormy tactics, but I soothed Brittany instead. I clucked, “It’s okay, darlin’” and rubbed her hair but the fourteen-year-old shrugged me off. Gil remained silent, even after I elbowed him to speak. Two minutes later, I made a decision and broke the silence. “We’ll try again, kids. We rushed it and got blindsided. Next time we’ll do homework. Peter will become part of our family.”
Brittany and Aaron looked at me with blank faces. Gil caught my eye and shook his head as if to shut me up. My blood pressure rose, feeling the effects of underlying anger. To change the subject, I said, “Let’s go to lunch, guys. This is not the place to talk.”
The kids paraded out, looking at their shoes. Brittany brushed past me in a huff, but Aaron accepted Gil’s side-arm hug. There were tears in both their eyes. “What now, Dad?” Aaron said, “She has the money, the power, and that fat lawyer. You’re just... a regular guy. You can’t fight her money.”
I was proud to hear Gil’s answer. “Love conquers all, son.”
A week later, a hand-addressed letter arrived in the mail. The handwriting was barely legible, written with a shaking hand. The note inside was just as messy.
If you try to get custody of Peter again, and I hope you do, my services are available. Like before, I’ll need a limo ride to the courthouse but this time I need $3,000 in cash.
Best wishes,
Peter Rawlins, Senior
(Peter’s father)
When Gil read the letter, his face dropped with a clunk and tears came to the burly man’s eyes. “Well, I guess love conquers everything except money and evil.”
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Magic
Khalilah Okeke
My heart
the melted waters of the Kahtnu,
carving through the mountains
that bar me in.
My husband
traveled by boat to come and catch it
A flowing glow of cerulean-blue in
the never-ending night.
He thought it might be magic
My heart
a slippery fish in his hand.
My eyes
are salt lakes in the middle of an
Australian desert.
My husband
journeyed by camel to come collect them
Crimson pools of stillness —the
color of cherry blossoms blooming
—then white again.
He thought it might be magic
My eyes
dusky ponds of sunset in his
hands.
My face
The Moon’s reflection on a Caribbean
Sea. The water filled with spice and
heat—an ocean brimming in music.
He swam out to hold me
My portrait
evanescent on the rippling of waves
—a drifting dream—rain slipping
through fingers
He knew it was magic.
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Hype Support
Zac Harris
We fight for each other during the seasons.
We forget about hate when reports of dead black men subsides,
I guess racism isn’t alive
I guess Americans only support when it’s popular.
It’s become Black lives matter for now, while the same statement doesn’t need to be made if your skin is a lighter shade.
Strength in that bold print grows thinner but what about the pain in memories.
The silence at dinners become filled with sobbing of brothers and sisters.
Mothers and fathers planning funerals for their babies while police decide who’s at fault before they drop a gun in his palm.
They slap a blue line on the back of their car.
Combating a cause that didn’t need to meet resistance.
We’re not saying all lives don’t matter but this shit is disgusting.
I’ll let you keep thinking America’s great but I hope you open your eyes one day.
Because I’m trying to give our kids a world where love is all we show but as long as the cycle continues fear is all they’ll know.
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The Secret Weapon
Richard Lind
It was quiet at 5am when Delvina Cuthroat woke and began to prepare herself a new day at Kerr High School. Delvina put her veiny feet onto the wooden floor of her small apartment; she shivered and then sneezed. A cold was coming on she could feel it and for one moment a bit of joy crept into her soul. She didn’t believe in calling in sick. She hadn’t called in in three years.
It wasn’t that she hated her job. On the contrary, she loved it, but not this year. It was just that unruly bunch of Drop Out Prevention monsters she had been stuck with for the year. They were the worst scums the school had to offer. The program was designed to take ‘wayward’ children and turn them into learning machines. Delvina had fallen for the idea like a fish going after a worm. Vice-Principal Scone had asked her to take the class.
“You would be so good for those kids! Imagine, an honor’s teacher bringing herself to educate them! The other teachers will be so proud!” Scone had set the hook beautifully. Now, she was teaching the dregs of society in her class seventh period.
Delvina ambled slowly over to the telephone trying not to let the pangs of guilt wash over her. She regretted leaving a poor defenseless substitute teacher in the hands of those hooligans. She almost put down the receiver but as she did, the hotline picked, and she left her message...
...By 6am Vice-Principal Scone received her message on the hotline, looked at her class roster for seventh period, and ran his hands over his face. They were the worst in the school. He had hated giving her this bunch in the first place, but he had needed someone to handle it and Delvina was an experienced veteran. He had hoped that she would be able to turn them around. No such luck. So far in the first two weeks there had been four fights, one arrest, and one drug charge.
Scone had gone into the classroom and tried to calm them after sending Mrs. Cuthroat from the room in tears during the first week of school. They had greeted him with paperballs and middle fingers. Kerr High School was a tough school and Delvina’s crew was the toughest of the lot. Since then, he had given up.
Scone wondered if it was time. He flipped through the substitute file and saw the name, he shook his head and flipped past it to John Carson, an ex-marine drill sergeant. No, he thought, not tough enough. They’d have Carson for breakfast. He flipped back to the first name and sighed.
The previous Vice-Principal had left the number with him ‘just in case.’ Now it was ‘just in case.’ There was a big dollar sign attached to the name and he knew it would have to come from the private funding that the school had for just these situations.
Ten thousand dollars a day was a lot of money. What choice did he have? He dialed Mark Jackson’s number quickly and waited for the telephone to pick up.
Mark Jackson heard the telephone ring. He waited almost every day in his small unobtrusive kitchen for a telephone call drinking tea.
He received calls at least three times a month. Jackson had gotten assignments everywhere in the U.S. and Canada for his unique talents. Sometimes the calls came a week in advance, at other times a few minutes. They always paid his fee.
“Mr. Jackson?” The voice on the line said low into the receiver.
“This is he,” Jackson replied in his clipped elegant voice.
“I am Vice Principal Scone from Kerr High School,” Scone said and then stopped for a moment. What was he doing? He knew he had no choice, so he went on, “it seems that we have a substitute position for you today. Would you be able to make it?”
“Certainly.”
“G-good. I was wondering if you knew where Kerr is located and if you could make it by 7:15?”
“It would be my pleasure,” he replied.
“The first five classes of the day are honors level students. They are no problem.
I repeat no problem. They are some of our best and brightest. It’s the last class of the day.
They are the problem.”
“I understand Mr. Scone. You do understand my terms?”
“I do,” Scone replied.
“No questions?” Jackson said with a bit of mirth in his voice.
“No,” Scone said.
“I will see you soon,” Jackson said and hung up.
A few moments later, Mark Jackson was driving down Main Street. Kerr had been the worst school in the area for many years. He pulled up to the old building. Windows were broken on the second floor and the words; ‘Kill Whitey!’ mixed nicely with ‘All Tar babies die!’ on the front steps of the building. Grime stood out on the walls despite the massive coloration of names, dates, and vulgarities dancing across the surface.
Jackson stepped out of his car and walked toward the mess with nary a flinch. He stepped inside. Kerr’s halls were alive with the sounds of clamoring teens conversing around lockers or avoiding the early morning crush of students. Jackson cruised passed the hair pics, iPods, and huge clothing, no one saying a word to him. He reached the end of the hallway and went left.
A large barred window with a very small blue-haired old woman smiling at Jackson from the other side of her knitting stopped him.
He reached for the doorknob to her right. It did not budge.
“I’ll have to beep you in,” she said.
A buzz sounded, and Jackson turned the knob and went in.
The world here was much quieter.
“Is Mr. Scone in?” He asked.
“Down the hall and the first door on the right,” she said and went back to her knitting.
“Thank you,” Jackson nodded. He gave her a slight bow and went down the hall.
He stopped at a large Oak door that read, “Vice-Principal Scone’ in gold letters on it.
Jackson knocked, and the door opened.
“Mr. Jackson?” Scone said with disbelief in his voice. He stared down at the wire-thin man with almost feminine features. The bow tie around Jackson’s neck and his 1950s brown suit made him look as threatening as Barney from Andy Griffith.
“Hello Mr. Scone.”
“H-hello. I assumed that- “
“Never assume Mr. Scone,” Jackson said putting out a perfectly manicured hand.
Scone shook his hand and then went back behind his desk, which as always was neat and proper. He stared at the little man. This couldn’t be right. Maybe this was a hoax. He didn’t know but he would have to answer for a 10,000 dollar a day sub.
“Mr. Jackson. These kids are rough, as we discussed over the phone. Are you sure that you-”
“Mr. Scone. Will you need my services or not?”
Scone didn’t say anything.
“I assure you that this little problem of yours will be taken care of by the end of the day. The world is a rough place and I have yet to fail in my endeavors. I have unusual methods. You do understand this?” Jackson said with a pleasant smile.
“Yes,” Scone replied.
Just then, the bell rang.
“I should get to class now. I trust that the custodian has opened the door. I will not be seeing you again, Mr. Scone. Please have a wonderful day.”
“Yes,” Scone said nodding. As the door to his office closed, Scone’s hands began to tremble. He ran them through his thinning hair. Everything was in place. It was now up to Mr. Jackson. Scone wondered. Well it’d be handled by the end of the day and that was all that mattered. He went about his business trying not to think of what was going to happen, good or bad. It was out of his hands.
“Welcome students,” Jackson said from behind the podium in Room 4A. The students were very respectful. He could read intelligence on their faces. They would all be successful despite the world they lived in and despite the education; they were being given. His lesson plans for the day included a reading along with various and sundry types of drudgery students were made to work on when a substitute was around. Mark Jackson completed the first of his classes with a practiced ease. The kids did nothing to arouse him. He sat in his room during lunch and then waited for seventh period to begin.
The bell rang and after a few moments, he heard the first group of thugs enter.
Three came in, all testosterone-laden males with black Oakland Raiders jackets on and very large pants dangling down past their buttocks. They strutted in, saw Jackson, and grabbed themselves as they laughed. All three of them plopped down propping their feet on other desks. Girls bopped with weaves, long nails, and short skirts.
Thirty kids in all screaming and hollering. None of them paid Jackson the slightest heed. The room was designed to hold twenty-five. A few students looked at him and laughed then sat back ignoring him.
The tardy bell rang.
“My name is Mr. Jackson,” he said walking over to the chalkboard. He began to write his name and then felt a piece of paper hit him in the back of the head. He turned around and calmly asked, “Who threw the paper?”
“I did,” a large black kid said and stood up. He was well over six-feet tall and weighed in about 250 pounds.
“Excellent shot,” Jackson replied and then turned around to finish writing his name. Another ball struck him on the head. He turned and pointed to the young man who had not seated himself.
“What’s your name?” He asked.
“Jack,” the young man said smiling. He had a straw in his mouth and the baseball cap he wore was just a bit askew to the right.
“Jack?” Jackson inquired.
“It’s Russian under me off,” he said laughing and getting high fives from everyone around him.
“Jack Meoff,” Jackson said finally.
“Yeah,” the boy said motioning with his hand at Jackson.
“Excellent Mr. Meoff,” Jackson replied straightening his bow tie. He turned around and went back to finishing his name on the board.
“Fuck you,” the boy said as loud as he could.
“That’s not appropriate. I would like you to pick up the two pieces of paper that you threw and every other paper on this floor,” Jackson ordered calmly.
The boy shook his head strutting in the front of the classroom. He stood a few inches from Jackson and fired a wicked grin at him.
“What if I don’t want to?”
“You will do as I say,” Jackson said his voice easy yet commanding.
“Or what? Motherfucker!” The boy said putting his arms out to the side.
“Do you really want to know?” Jackson said putting down his chalk.
Let’s go!” The boy said stepping back and getting ready to come after Jackson.
Everyone in the room was silent anticipating the pounding that the boy was going to give him.
He swung, and Jackson caught the blow with his left hand. Jackson’s eyes went blood red. The boy looked around wildly as Jackson’s jaw distended. Huge rows of razor sharp teeth circled the inside of his mouth. The boy tried to pull away, but a long slimy purple and black tongue snaked out of Jackson’s mouth and wrapped itself around the boy pinning him. He pulled the boy off his feet and then yanked him into his mouth as he squirmed. Jackson then swallowed.
The class was dead silent as Jackson wiped his lips and looked at them smiling.
They practiced the rest of the hour saying, “yes sir, no sir and yes ma’am, and no ma’am.”
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The Apple Tree
Allan Onik
Isaac stared out the window at the apple tree. His wife walked up beside him. “Why are you always pondering? So disconnected. Like an ignoramus.”
“Thanks a lot,” he said. The two walked out into the yard. It was sunny and breezy, fresh country air. The leaves of the tree were a dark green with yellow flowers and the apples red delicious. “I’d think of Einstein when I stare at this tree. Bohr, Churchill, Hemingway, Steinbeck, Dylan, Orr, Wilson, or Roosevelt. They had a creativity that could not be taught, for which no rules or limits could be devised. Like a canvas of the stars on a clear night. Or the recipe for a rainbow.”
“Now you’re getting all loopy on me again,” she said. “Why not talk English?”
An apple fell into Isaac’s hand. He took a bite. “There are no words to describe the taste of the cosmos. It’s genius.”
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Lightfoot
Allan Onik
The man sat in the psychiatrist’s office. A black and white dream doll sat on a ledge in the corner of the room. The shrink wore gold framed glasses.
“I had a dream last night doc,” the patient said.
“Tell me about it.”
“I was standing outside. I know I was near some trees. Maybe a building I’m not sure. And there was someone else with me. A loved one. But who exactly I’m not sure of that either. But what happened next, I remember very clearly. I began to float. I floated as high as the trees. Then a little farther down after the peaks. But do you know what was strange about the dream. Well, not strange really—but exhilarating? I felt as if I was in control in the dream just as if I was awake. Like I would walk in the real world, but even though I was under I was able to master gravity with ultimate control. A strange sensation not anything like I was watching a TV or something.”
“Yes. Well, what’s different about your dream is that many dreams that involve flying have the dreamer flying like a bird or a plane. But you were simply floating—and controlling it,” the shrink took a sip of some coffee, “Do you think this could have anything to do with your recent accident? This unusual dream?”
“Of course. You know what the dream made me feel like? It made me feel like part of me is outside my body. Like there’s some aspect outside these tired bones. I felt that way when I was lying in the grass after the car hit me as well. Just two years ago when I was jogging. I’d like to go home now doc. I want to go to bed.”
The quadriplegic used his teeth to move the joystick that controlled his wheelchair and left the doctor behind him.
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Crash
John L. Stanizzi
When the crotch-rocket t-boned the Toyota crossing 44, they said the bike was doing 150, ripped through the car, left the driver dead on the road, the biker severed, and you said one second you heard the bike scream by, and the next second you heard a sound like poof. |
Bio
John L. Stanizzi is author of the full-length collections – Ecstasy Among Ghosts, Sleepwalking, Dance Against the Wall, After the Bell, Hallelujah Time!, and High Tide – Ebb Tide. His poems have appeared in Prairie Schooner, American Life in Poetry, The New York Quarterly, Paterson Literary Review, The Cortland Review, Rattle, Tar River Poetry, Rust & Moth, Connecticut River Review, Potomac Review, and many others. He’s been translated into Italian and appeared in El Ghibli, in the Journal of Italian Translations Bonafinni, and Poetarium Silva. His translator is Angela D’Ambra. His new collection, CHANTS, a memoir in sonnets, will be out in 2018 with Cervena Barva Press. His full-length collection, Sundowning, has just been completed and is looking for a home. John has read and venues all over New England, including the Mystic Arts Café, and the Sunken Garden Poetry Festival, the Mystic Arts Gallery, Hartford Stages, and many others. A former New England Poet of the Year, John teaches literature at Manchester Community College in Manchester, CT and he lives with his wife, Carol, in Coventry.
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Spondylolisthesis Christmas
John L. Stanizzi
The pain in my back is more exquisite than the brightest Christmas lights on the gaudiest house in town. My legs are numb to the soles of my feet. Can’t put my stockings on without agony, regardless of the care taken. Ruined Christmas for everyone.
For breakfast? Oxy and vodka.
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Bio
John L. Stanizzi is author of the full-length collections – Ecstasy Among Ghosts, Sleepwalking, Dance Against the Wall, After the Bell, Hallelujah Time!, and High Tide – Ebb Tide. His poems have appeared in Prairie Schooner, American Life in Poetry, The New York Quarterly, Paterson Literary Review, The Cortland Review, Rattle, Tar River Poetry, Rust & Moth, Connecticut River Review, Potomac Review, and many others. He’s been translated into Italian and appeared in El Ghibli, in the Journal of Italian Translations Bonafinni, and Poetarium Silva. His translator is Angela D’Ambra. His new collection, CHANTS, a memoir in sonnets, will be out in 2018 with Cervena Barva Press. His full-length collection, Sundowning, has just been completed and is looking for a home. John has read and venues all over New England, including the Mystic Arts Café, and the Sunken Garden Poetry Festival, the Mystic Arts Gallery, Hartford Stages, and many others. A former New England Poet of the Year, John teaches literature at Manchester Community College in Manchester, CT and he lives with his wife, Carol, in Coventry.
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Signals
Tim Dadswell
In an East London market square, experiencing a lull in trade, Terry Leigh propelled himself back and forth like a spring-mounted cuckoo in a cartoon clock.
“Bananas! Six for a pound! They’ll put a twinkle in your eye and hair on your chest! Remember your five a day!”
When the time came to pack up, Terry had sold most of his stock.
As he left, a seagull raiding party, intoxicated by a cocktail of stale food aromas, took possession of the square.
On his way home, a persistent rattle made Terry worry about his van. Though vital for dawn trips to the wholesale market, he feared it wouldn’t pass another inspection.
He parked in a battered garage behind a block of flats on the Shaftmore Estate. Through strings of chewing gum clouds, a curdled sun was setting between twin gasometers. On a rooftop, a lone magpie was demanding an audience.
In the graffiti-spattered lift lobby, he pressed the lift button. The doors opened, revealing a man in a grey lounge suit, standing over a dishevelled youth. From the corner of the youth’s mouth, a rivulet of frothy drool was illuminated by the strip lighting.
“What’s wrong?” asked Terry.
“He collapsed.”
“Make way, I know first aid.” Terry tried to find a pulse. “I think he’s dead!”
“No, I can’t have this. The press will have a field day.”
“Why?”
“Don’t you know who I am?”
“Oh yeah, now you mention it, Mayor Bungay, isn’t it? I’m Terry Leigh.”
Terry extended a hand, which the Mayor ignored. “Can’t you say you found him?”
“Eh? Whaddya take me for?”
“I’ll give you twenty quid,” offered Bungay, eyes blazing.
Terry groaned and fumbled for his phone.
The Mayor fled.
Terry ran outside, in time to read the number plate of a polished black Lexus as it sped away. In the misty twilight, his phone’s camera captured nothing but vague streaks.
As he waited for the emergency services, he wondered who the Mayor had been visiting. Was it Fleur Scattergood, the drug-dealing lap dancer? Or Denise Doolittle, the willowy brunette with a stream of callers?
Later that evening, Terry found himself inside a police station. After two hours, he was wishing he wasn’t public-spirited. Among the drunks, addicts and assorted ne’er-do-wells, he felt guilty for no reason.
As he sat on a bench, waiting for permission to leave, the desk sergeant — double chin, airbag midriff — eyed him with suspicion. A bubble of bile percolated up to the officer’s tongue.
“It wasn’t me, m’lud,” he mocked, “I found the Mayor with the body, then he ran away. I’m surprised you didn’t claim it was Prince Charles. You could’ve clocked the Mayor and his car anywhere. Got a beef with him, have you? We’ll soon find out what you did. Make sure you don’t leave town.”
“Okay, boss. You know, you strike me as someone who’s not eating his greens. You should drop by my stall sometime.”
#
On the following Thursday, Terry had deployed plastic sheeting to protect his stall from the rain. His uncle’s recent offer to co-manage a Southend convenience store seemed increasingly tempting.
Towards two o’clock, his most loyal customer, Mrs Pittaway, arrived.
“Hi Tel, I’m in two minds again. I can’t decide between bananas and grapes. You must think I’m schizophrenic.”
“I like that in a woman. Two for the price of one.”
Mrs P giggled.
Maintaining a strained smile, Terry allowed her to investigate his produce, before she settled on grapes.
That evening, Terry arrived back at his block, one of six towering over a concrete landscape. His takings were down, so he resolved to work extra hard in the coming days, to make up the shortfall.
Amongst the collection of old wrecks parked outside, was a black Lexus. In the swirling wind, the entrance door banged. Recognising a voice, he stood on the corner.
The Mayor was in conversation with another man. Terry watched the desk sergeant squeezing with difficulty into the Mayor’s front passenger seat. This time he took clear photos, while wondering what activity had occupied them both.
Terry’s stomach growled like a hyena lost in the Sahara. A huge plate of chicken curry and rice came to mind.
Once home in his rented flat, furnished with a few second-hand sticks, there was a message on his answer machine from his ex-fiancée, Cheryl.
“Hi Tel, it’s Chezzie. Thanks for forwarding my post. Hopefully that’s the last of it. Rob’s taking me to Tenerife next week. I can’t wait. Hope you’re havin’ fun too. Look after yourself. Bye.”
He sighed as he remembered their last trip together, a day in Margate, when his van had broken down and they’d had to wait for a tow.
#
The next day, Terry took a phone call from the police.
“Good evening, Mr Leigh. Sorry to trouble you at home. I’m calling to update you on the investigation. I’m pleased to tell you we found no evidence to link you to the deceased man. The autopsy showed that his death was drug-related. We’ve found nothing to connect the Mayor to the incident but will keep your statement on file. I would like to take this opportunity to thank you for your cooperation.”
The male voice reminded Terry of a newsreader, someone unlikely to be from his manor. Not wanting to risk his luck, he wasn’t going to quibble.
He skimmed through the local paper. On page two was an article about Bungay’s intention to stand for election to the London Assembly, after his term as Mayor ended.
Twice Terry read a quote: “I’ve always maintained excellent relations with the Met. Together, we have reduced crime in the borough by fifteen per cent. If elected to the Assembly, I will continue to work on your behalf to raise standards and hold the police to account.”
Terry spluttered in disbelief, jumped up, went out into the hall and scaled the back stairs.
On the next floor, he rang a doorbell taped with a homemade label: Denise.
“Tel! This is a nice surprise. I wasn’t expecting to see you.”
“Den, can I have a word?”
“Sure, come in.”
Terry noticed the back of Denise’s white bathrobe was embroidered with the name, Merrymont Hotels. Her comfy carpet slippers resembled the feet of a Bengal tiger. He remembered the moment they first met. Fully made up, in her glad rags, he’d assumed she was a model or an actress. Now he knew the truth, he thought no less of her.
The air in her living room carried a blend of perfume, air-freshener and aftershave base notes. A length of clip-on hair extensions was draped over the back of an armchair.
Terry was distracted by a wicker storage basket on a low shelf, which held red feathers, a set of handcuffs and a pair of clamps, the purpose of which baffled him.
“Er, Den, can you look at these photos?”
“Okay. I recognise that car. It belongs to one of my clients.”
“Would that be the Mayor, by any chance?”
“How did you? Ah, you’ve seen him outside. Looks dodgy, doesn’t he?”
“Does he bring a friend with him?”
“Yes, sometimes. A big fella. He likes to watch.”
Terry groaned, told Denise his story and showed her the article.
“I wanna tell the press. The voters have a right to know what sort of bloke Bungay is. Can I mention you?”
“Well, I s’pose I owe you one. I’ve not forgotten that time you came to my rescue, when that bloke was hasslin’ me. Anyway, I don’t like the Mayor. He’s too rough. As it goes, I’m gonna be makin’ a few changes. I’m buying a little bungalow in Clacton, near my mum. She hasn’t been the same since she caught a bug, cleanin’ out a birdcage. And I’m startin’ a webcam service.”
Terry sneezed twice.
“Are you getting a cold, babe?” Denise transferred a man-size box of tissues from the sideboard to the coffee-table.
Terry took one and relaxed on the sofa.
Denise had an idea. “You know, it’s not good to give the press everything up front. I reckon we should tease ‘em with a few juicy details. See what they offer us. Whaddya think?”
“I think we should talk more often. If I listen to you, I could end up a tax exile.”
Denise threw back her head and laughed.
Over at her docking station, she selected her chill-out playlist, poured two glasses of wine, and lit a scented candle in a blue tin labelled coastal breeze.
Terry no longer saw her flat, but a brand-new van, parked behind the railings on a seafront esplanade. Two gulps of wine helped him understand what else Denise had in mind.
|
Week’s End
Anne Mikusinski
At this hour
The house is
Quiet
No television hawkers urging me to
Call now
No voices on the phone telling me to
Calm down
Only silence
Save the snores
From the Black Dog
At my feet
He dozes
Finding oblivion
While I can’t
Too hollowed out from his day’s efforts
I yawn
From boredom or despair
Or both
And search for something
To fill the holes
Until
A wordless melody
Smoothes them over
And eases me to sleep.
|
“The competition between the sexes
has led to an evolutionary sexual arms race”1
Grace Ware
His skin’s glass in the bed,
A single pane.
I can’t hold the slant his body makes.
I can’t love the sharpest parts.
They give a gift of blood,
Killing without pain,
I die.
A swift, o-lip,
a sting,
and I am wet plaster,
aluminum doors kicked open in a storm
1 taken from the Wikipedia article on Acilius sulcatus
|
Consider Giving
John Zedolik
That rummy’s odor jags
like a large-size trombone
paper clip untwisted and heated
to red on the stove, shoved up my nose:
old cigarettes in hand-me-out clothes.
At least it’s easier to take
than b.o.—like rotting meat
on a sweating workday.
But don’t give him any change
—or a light. See, he’s got a fresh
pack of cancer sticks and—geeze—
a paper bag with some economical, liquid
heaven in it, I’m sure, and you don’t
have to go socializing with him either.
He’s just happy you put him over the top—
nothin’ else. He’d talk to a horse’s ass
if it dropped some silver into his mitts.
And what could be less charitable
on his begging part?
|
No Encore Necessary
John Zedolik
Why does the seventy-year-old
singer of a certainly once-great
rock band have to unbutton his
shirt all the way—beyond even
his belt—and bare his hairless
torso that looks like a plump
white sausage waiting for the grill?
Why not just sing for the thrill
of your accolades and long life
that reach a generation or more
further than some of your dissolute
once-peers whose middles are by now
only rotting leather due to their sin?
I suppose the presentation of your skin
to the wide audience highlights your still
breathing self. But I trust your pipes
and lungs even under opaque cloth.
Just sing the famous songs, command
the stage with a satisfied gait. You
proved it forty years ago. Trust us—
your declining flesh has no need to restate.
|
This Team
John Zedolik
I sport a suit of solid navy blue,
but since I’m not a corporate man,
it must mean another viewing.
An interval of five years at least puts
me out of practice with these matching
pieces of cloth that declare themselves
a uniform to me—the proper, approved attire
for the burial team—which can consist
of as many members as friends and kin.
|
Dissociative Eulogy
Layla Lenhardt
I went looking for you through the sprawling cemeteries
of southeast Pa and when I stumbled upon the fresh mound,
conical burnt-sienna, I felt you under the soles
of my feet like a blister and shuttered. The floral blanket
under which you rest made me uneasy,
because you are the prettiest bouquet
of bones. Your teeth sleep
perfectly in your skull where your soul left them.
I feel the smooth ridges
of my own teeth with my tongue. But
they are not mine. They do not feel like mine.
|
Layla Lenhardt bio
Layla Lenhardt is founder and Editor-in-Chief of 1932 Quarterly. Her recent poetry has been featured in Brine, Third Wednesday, Belle Ombre, and Rag Queen Periodical to name a few. She currently lives in Indianapolis with her partner and three cats.
|
Jawns
Layla Lenhardt
The last time I loved you was on a subway
train from Philly to Hoboken. Your silence sat with me
like a bedside visitor, while the tenor of the train car
sang through suction tunnels, kissing
an acrid taste into my mouth. I spilled so
many promises between the cobblestones
of Rittenhouse Square that I nearly convinced
every cell sucking corner of my mouth that
I wanted to stay. But endings are palpable.
You can see it in people. You can see it in the whites of their eyes.
|
Layla Lenhardt bio
Layla Lenhardt is founder and Editor-in-Chief of 1932 Quarterly. Her recent poetry has been featured in Brine, Third Wednesday, Belle Ombre, and Rag Queen Periodical to name a few. She currently lives in Indianapolis with her partner and three cats.
|
When They Made Me Leave London
Layla Lenhardt
Josh, your voice melted like chocolate
in the back seat of a hot car, and we were
rummaging through drawers in a flat on
the Thames. I could feel you in the goosebumps
at the nape of my neck. We’d sit on the rooftop
with our found treasure and sign our names
with our cigarette smoke. You said our names
sat next to each other like we’ve been pouring
from the same pot for years. I was twenty –
two when they took me away, thrusting a half
decade’s ban on me like prison clothes. I found myself
on foreign soil, the wrong side of the Atlantic lapping
at my feet. The loneliness breaking over me like a rainstorm.
|
Layla Lenhardt bio
Layla Lenhardt is founder and Editor-in-Chief of 1932 Quarterly. Her recent poetry has been featured in Brine, Third Wednesday, Belle Ombre, and Rag Queen Periodical to name a few. She currently lives in Indianapolis with her partner and three cats.
|
The Junkie’s Reward
Ben Brown
Kethra was startled awake to a loud thumping noise outside. She sat up quickly, the ratty couch beneath her creaking in protest. Her mind swam through a fog as she stood, her balance nearly giving out on her. She crossed over to the front door of her house. She never had been able to call it a home. Her feet padded across the decaying carpet and to the front door, which she creaked open slowly, to ensure it wouldn’t come off its hinges this time.
Outside, the hot muggy air hit her. She gazed about, finding no one. Looking down on the uneven cinderblocks that served as steps into her house, there was a package. It struck her as odd immediately, as it wasn’t the typical flimsy cardboard package so common here in the undercity, used by dealers and addicts like her. Instead the box was made of a sturdy, thick plastic. The material alone would be worth a good deal here. She quickly picked it up and stole inside, away from the eyes of her thieving neighbors.
Taking it to her main room, she sat on the ground, holding it in her lap. Her hands ran over the symmetrical logo printed on the side of the box. She had known already, but that logo made it all real. Kethra’s heart dropped in her chest, as she realized she knew the contents of the box. It was what was left of her soul.
She held back sobs as she lifted the lid off the package, her shaking hands lifting a printed letter. She felt combined rage, and need for another hit, consume her as she read the all too perfect words.
Mrs. Kethra Mornside. The letter began. We again express our deepest gratitude to you for your cooperation and generous donation. Her teeth ground as she read the lying, yet simultaneously condemning words. It is at this point, after the complete expenditure of your donation, that we consider your debt, paid in full. You have become a free woman once again. We also wish to congratulate you on your emancipation, and as such have sent you a gift, that which was left over from your donation.
“No.” she whispered to herself, her nails scraping against the ground, leaving bloody streaks in the stained rug. The pain in her hand couldn’t mask the agony in her chest.
Use your gift, and your freedom, as you wish. Both are worth more than ten times what you originally owed us. Once again, thank you, and congratulations. She dropped the letter, letting it float to the ground. She couldn’t do it. She didn’t have the strength to see what was in the box. But if she didn’t, wouldn’t that just prove how awful she was?
No, that had been proven when she first made the decision that got her here. Though she had enough product in her veins to kill her, and her mind had been wrapped in oblivion when she made the choice, that was no excuse.
Her entire body trembling, she reached into the box, and felt a cool, glassy object. She slowly lifted it, and as it entered her vision, she screamed.
It was a mask, made from a smooth gray crystal that refracted what dim light entered the sorry house. It captured in perfect detail, every wrinkle, every feature, every dimple, the face of her daughter.
“Mirri, Mirri I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” She said, falling onto her side, sobs wracking her body throughout the night, as she clutched the mask to her chest.
|
Shackles
John Kaprielian
We forge our own shackles
slipped on at an early age
while our feet are small and lithe
and like bird bands
they are soon
impossible to slip off
If that is not enough
we buy straightjackets
and tie ourselves in
sometimes blinders too
to keep us hobbling down the path
undistracted
Life goes on
some days we don’t even notice
the fetters
ignore the chafing for years
once the callouses form
atrophy sets in
we plod one tiny step at a time...
But some mornings
lying awake
first light sneaking in
around drawn window shades
sometimes
on quiet mornings
when all is still
the sores from the leg-irons start to burn
string cuts into wrists
arms bound tightly ache and throb
In those moments I wonder
what it would be like
to cast it all aside
these bindings of my own making
crafted of fear and insecurity
what would it be like to
throw them off
unfold my withered limbs
let them fill with blood like
an insect’s wings
just out of chrysalis
Where might they take me
if I remove my blinders
and take great joyous strides
into the wilderness
of the unknown?
|
John Kaprielian bio
John Kaprielian is a Russian linguist by training and has been employed as a photo editor for three decades. He has been writing poetry for over thirty-five years; in 2012 he challenged himself to write a poem a day for a year and in 2013 published the 366 poems in a single volume, 366 Poems: My Year in Verse, available on Amazon. He has also had poems published on The Five-Two Poetry Blog and in the anthology “Live at the Freight House Cafe.” His poetry ranges in subject matter from the natural world to current events and politics to introspective and philosophical themes. He lives in Putnam County, New York with his wife and son and assorted pets.
|
Washining Swamp
John Kaprielian
We pushpole through the shallows
searching the shores for the
entrance to a memory.
The bullhead lilies stare and scowl
as we pass,
their pads whispering “Shhhhh”
against the canoe
as we find the opening
and enter
the sanctuary.
The paths ahead are
weed-choked and shallow
crisscrossed and and confused
like my recollections
but still
barely
passable
We glide
silently
through black water
that wriggles with fry and tadpoles
A jagged stick stuck in the mud
cocks its head
transmogrifying into a heron
Time has no place here
I am every age
and yet to be
the fetid muck calls to me
primordial ooze
tugging at my DNA
as if to say
“you are home”
|
John Kaprielian bio
John Kaprielian is a Russian linguist by training and has been employed as a photo editor for three decades. He has been writing poetry for over thirty-five years; in 2012 he challenged himself to write a poem a day for a year and in 2013 published the 366 poems in a single volume, 366 Poems: My Year in Verse, available on Amazon. He has also had poems published on The Five-Two Poetry Blog and in the anthology “Live at the Freight House Cafe.” His poetry ranges in subject matter from the natural world to current events and politics to introspective and philosophical themes. He lives in Putnam County, New York with his wife and son and assorted pets.
|
The Prison Din
Sara Codair
He sat in his dinosaur pajamas, slurping milk through a lime green straw, determined to drain every drop of bubbly fluid from the unicorn cup. The clocked ticked – a reminder of every second lost. The baseboards clicked like they were filled with an army of alien insects.
She clutched her knife. Peeled carrots rested on the cutting board. How would it feel to chop her fingers instead the carrots? Would blood squirt everywhere if she cut off his head? It would silence his racket, but he was happy. Why ruin his joy when she could kill herself? He could slurp forever and she’d never hear it.
The clock ticked. The baseboards clicked. He slurped.
She chopped the carrots into little discs.
The phone rang. She answered.
“Marcy? It’s Lenny. How are you doing?”
“Lenny? I used to have a friend with that name,” said Marcy. A grin tugged on her cheek, but the guilt-laden silence she hoped her comment would evoke never came.
“I’ve been traveling. Life has been a total zoo, but I’m in town. Do you want to grab lunch?” Lenny’s voice was as peppy as ever, like life was an eternal audition for a cheer squad he’d never make.
“I don’t have anything better to.” Marcy didn’t both hiding the drab in her voice. “There’s a place near me called Lucy’s. The burgers are edible”
“Can I pick you up at 12?”
Snorting, Marcy looked at the clock:10:45. “The sooner the better. I’m at 16 Frankly.”
“See you soon.”
She couldn’t bring herself to tell him about the third wheel.
A swarm of flies invaded her chest, frantically beating their wings to help her bear the load that sat there. She threw the carrots into the processor, fed the monster, and gave him a bath so he’d smell like lavender instead of puke. She locked him in his playpen while she showered, worrying he’d soil himself while she scrubbed her skin raw.
Feeling somewhat human, Marcy watched Lenny’s car pull up. It was sleek and black with an out of state plate. She hoped it would accept the car seat; her rusty SUV hadn’t run in three months. Lenny was as sleek as the car with tight fitting dress pants and a lilac shirt. He pushed a pair of designer sunglasses onto his slicked back hair and knocked.
Marcy ran across the room, opened the door and gaped, forgetting how she was supposed to greet an estranged friend.
“Your leggings are fabulous!”
She smiled as they hugged, confident there was no regurgitated baby food on her shirt. “What brings you back to this miserable town?”
“I’m decorating an office suit for a law firm.” He winked as a white-toothed grin blossomed across his face. “Not just any firm. Remember Johnson John, that hunk from high school?”
Marcy nodded, inhaling Lenny’s clean, spicy cologne- a breath of fresh air compared to the ever-present reek of baby.
“Well, now even hotter than he was back then, and a successful lawyer too.” Lenny stepped into the house as the little monster wailed. Marcy cringed.
“You have a baby?” Lenny followed the sound to the living room where the monster was throwing toys around the playpen. “Can I hold him?”
Marcy rolled her eyes. “Proceed at your own risk. He’s a puker.”
Lenny either didn’t understand babies, or was too enraptured by to care. Marcy wondered if she was the only one immune. Was there something wrong with her because she’d rather kill herself than mother him?
“You’re just one big package of cuteness!” Lenny held Jack up, spun around and blew a raspberry at him. Jack exploded into a fit of migraine-baiting giggles. “Your mommy is one lucky lady.”
Marcy snorted.
“Do you get to stay home with him all day?”
“‘Get to’ isn’t the word I use.”
Lenny frowned. “Your husband doesn’t want him in daycare?”
“There’s no husband; just my meddling mother. Jack is going to puke if you keep spinning him.”
“He’s having fun.” Lenny kept up the spinning. Jack giggled up the inevitable fountain of puke. Lenny laughed. “So where do you keep your towels?”
Marcy got him a cloth from the kitchen drawer.
“All better now,” he said less than a minute later, dabbing Jack’s face with the cloth. “Are you coming to lunch with your mommy and I?”
“Yes - his gram works until five.”
“Well it’s a good thing I brought the sedan and not the two-seater. Your mommy didn’t tell me she let someone knock her up.”
“I didn’t let him.” Marcy’s teeth clenched. If she killed herself now, there’d be someone here to care for Jack.
“That sucks. I hope you gutted the bastard in court.”
Unwanted tears leaked from Marcy’s eyes. “He was hot, and there were no condoms. I said I’d blow him if he ate me out. He got me off twice, then just stuck it in me and held me down until he was done. A judge would laugh.”
“Shit.” Lenny covered Jack’s ears. “I admire you for keeping him.”
“Mom made me.” Marcy took baby steps towards her knife.
“I wanted to adopt so bad that I broke up with my partner simply because he couldn’t stand children. It was useless. I haven’t met anyone else, so I’m twice as lonely and working too damned much to adopt solo.”
“Fate has a fucked up sense of humor.” The knife was almost in Marcy’s hand.
“Yeah and we can’t do shit about it.”
We can choose death, thought Marcy.
Lenny put his arm around her. “I’m famished. Let’s eat.”
Marcy complied. The task of actually getting Jack out of the house took her mind off of prison, but while they ate, talked, and drank, Marcy couldn’t stop thinking that at the end of the day, Lenny would go back to his busy albeit lonely life and she would return to prison.
|
Spots
Ashley Layco
“Well darn, I have no idea what that thing is, and frankly, I don’t care what that thing is,” Papa said. He reclined his seat back and focused on the TV. Wheel of fortune was playing.
Granny looked up from her bible. “Buddy, honey, the only reason you don’t care is because you’re too focused on your albino cows,” she said.
Papa slammed his fist into the recliner arm. “Dammit, Irene, they are not albino cows! Those spots don’t just disappear! And on top of that, I lost one yesterday! I bet it has something to do with that damn half-wolf.”
I bookmark my spot in my biology book and close it. “You do have a theory about the wolf.”
Papa scrunched his nose together. “Maybe I do, but it’s not gonna-” Papa stops and looks around. “Did you hear that?”
Granny and I approach the door. It was so quiet that you could hear the cows breathing. But with that was another sound. The sound of water dripping on hay.
“Dammit, it looks like the pipe got loose again,” I said.
Papa closed the recliner. “That god damn pipe, I swear, when my leg heals-”
“Yes, when your leg heals,” I say. “I got it, Papa,” I say. I grab the flashlight, screwdriver, and swing the shotgun over my shoulder before going out into the darkness.
I go outside and put on my shoes. They had holes in it, but they were strong and sturdy. I walk down the stairs and approach the pipe. I shine a light on it. The pipe was old, and rusted, but it was leak free, which meant...
I clicked the flashlight off and grabbed the shotgun, pointing it in front of me. My heart began to race and my palms started to sweat. I inched more into the barn, towards the cows. The sound of water increased as I approached the back of the barn. The cows were not sleeping. They were huddled in one corner. I took a step forward and gasped. Liquid poured into my shoes, getting into my socks. I smiled and swung the shotgun onto my back. I approach the corner of the barn and shine the light. When I clicked it on, the smile on my face disappeared.
In front of me was one of my dad’s precious cows. Its skin was pure white, except for some spots on its shoulders. However, even that was disappearing. It was as if the black was being sucked right out of her. The culprit of this was standing on her. It was human-sized, but it was furry and had a tail. It had to be one of those half-wolf things. It continued to ‘feast’ on the cow. I reached for the shotgun, pointing it in front of me before shining the light on the beast.
The wolf falls off the cow, causing the cow to run back to safety with the rest of the herd. I watch as the wolf gets up. It stares at the light, and then...
“Can you stop shining that damn light in my face?” it says, covering its eyes.
“You can speak?” I say.
The wolf chuckles. “Of course I can speak, what do you think I-” the wolf gasps. “Oh my god, are these your cows?”
“No, but these are my dad’s cows.”
The wolf claps both hands over its face. “Oh god, I was just trying to get rid of their demons and I forgot to close the door of the barn so one of them ran away. I tried looking-”
“Demons?”
“Ah, yes, whoops, wasn’t supposed to tell the living that. Anyways, yes, demons. But don’t worry about it because I got them all out,” the wolf says, patting its chest.
“You got them all out? What about this stuff?” I say, gesturing at the puddle underneath me.
The wolf’s eyes widen. “Fuck! I’m so sorry for getting the gunk all over the place, its my first week and management just threw my ass out here without even an instruction manual!”
The wolf sticks its hand out and siphons the rest of the black liquid through its hand.
I shake my head. “It’s alright, I guess I’ll just leave you-”
“No wait!” The wolf says, sticking out its other hand at me. “I made a mistake in telling you about the demons, so I’ll help you out. Give you a little ‘hush-money’, so to speak.”
The wolf raises both of its hands and rubs them together. It then places it on the ground, causing the ground to hum. After a few seconds, the wolf stands up, smiling.
“Get outta here, your gift is outside,” the wolf says.
I go outside of the barn and see nothing. Nothing but the full moon, the corn crops and the forest beyond. But then, the ground begins to gurgle. As I walk closer to the corn fields, the sound gets louder.
“Here, girl, start digging,” the wolf says, throwing me a shovel.
I dig, and it doesn’t take long until I find what the source of the gurgling is. Black substance begins to pool out of the ground, soaking my wet shoes even more. The smell was unmistakable. It was oil.
“Go get you and your family a nice house somewhere...anywhere but here,” the wolf says.
I drop the shovel and run into the house to give the good news. Grannie bursts out of the house, squeaking about living in the Bahamas. I help Papa out of the house. When I open the door, Grannie is near the oil well, jumping up and down.
Papa smiles. “Looks like I’ll be able to get this leg fixed earlier than I thought,” he says, limping down the stairs.
I walk down the stairs, soggy socks leaving black footmarks. At the bottom of the stairs are a pair of shiny new black boots and socks. The wolf is nowhere to be found.
|
The Flood
Sarah Henry
At a Chinese restaurant,
waiters handed out
happy fortune cookies
as the flood approached.
He is thinking of you fondly.
The rainfall had been
heavy at times.
A new friend will appear.
It fell harder now.
Water streaked the windows.
Blessings come to the wise.
The glass darkened.
Many people depend on you.
A raft of debris was hidden
from sight completely.
You will live a long life.
A waiter locked the door
as fortune knocked.
The water rose higher.
Expect surprises.
The power failed
with a pop.
Look on the bright side.
The building collapsed
and washed away.
You have rare gifts.
The flood ran on
like a sentence
without a period
or conclusion
worth waiting for,
as luck would have it.
|
Filthy Blood
Hector Ramos
“You need more bubble wrap.”
That high-pitched screech reverberated in the hallway leading to the front door. I sigh and turn facing this short woman with thick rimmed glasses I call “Mom”.
“More bubble wrap? Really?” I cross my arms across my chest and raise a single brow. “I’m just going to get the mail.”
My mother slows down as she approaches me and holds out a roll of the offending material. This woman is dead serious. But what do I expect from the woman who bought over one thousand square feet of padding to place around the house when I was born. The house is still padded to this day.
“Just to ease my mind, Sweetie. Please?” Her eyes widened and became glossy with unshed tears.
“Not the pretty-please-eyes! That’s not fair,” I whined. She knew I couldn’t say no to that. “Fine. I’ll add an extra layer. Just one.” I press my index finger to her face to emphasize my point.
“Thanks, darling.” She smacks a wet kiss on my check and skips, the woman literally skips, away.
After rolling both my legs in a layer of the wrap, something I know how to do since I was six, I pull on my hoodie and head outside.
I feel the blush of embarrassment paint my cheeks as a strolling couple point and giggle at me. You’d think after so many years, I’d be used to it, but in spite of what they say, it doesn’t always get better. I shuffle down the walkway towards the mailbox. This journey is my only glimpse into the real world.
“Hey, neighbor.” A deep familiar voice calls from the other side of the fence.
“Hey, Jaxon. The tulips look great,” I stutter out. I mentally slap my forehead. He’s just some guy who’s lived next door for the past ten years, but I’ve never been good with other people.
“Yeah, they bloom well this time of year.”
I stand there, shuffling on my feet before quickly waving and blurting out a goodbye. Rushing inside, I slam the door behind me and lean against it.
“Hey, Champ. You okay? You look like you ran a marathon. You didn’t run, did you?” My dad pats me down and begins pacing back and forth when he sees I’m okay. “You can fall down and sprain your ankle or run into a tree and break your nose, or run into oncoming traffic and be flattened by an ambulance. Well, I guess that would save us time to get the hospital but still you could get-“
“Dad! I’m fine. I didn’t run a marathon or at all. I’m pretty sure if I did, I’d exhaust myself tying my laces.”
Dad’s brow furrows. I shake my head and brush past him, heading up to my room. As expected, Dad follows behind, hovering.
“I don’t need a helicopter parent.”
“You know the rules, if not me, Mom has to watch you.”
I flop down on my bed, turning to face my father.
“I’m sixteen, Dad. I don’t know why you and mom feel the need to babysit twenty-four-seven.”
“Maybe you’re right,” Dad sighs and sits down next to me. “Your mother and I haven’t had a night out probably since the night you were conceived.”
“One, that’s gross, and two, you guys deserve a night out. Away from me.”
Dad rubs his chin as if he’s thinking about it.
“I’ll help you out convincing Mom.” I wiggle my eyebrows, hoping he would agree to leave me along for at least one night.
“Fine, but only if you help me convince your mother.”
“Yes!” I fist pumped, causing my Dad laugh. Now to unleash my master plan.
That night, I had to put my plan into action and everything had to be perfect.
The low lights in the dining room, the fully cooked meal, courtesy of Dad, he wouldn’t let me near the stove, and a fresh bouquet. All set up for round one when the door clicks shut.
“She’s here.”
I sneak back into the kitchen and peer around the doorway.
“Honey, what’s this? Where’s Riley?”
“Well, dear I thought we could use a nice dinner, just the two of us.”
“That’s nice, but we should really keep an eye on Riley. Who knows what kinda trouble he can get into.”
“He’s sixteen years old, he can take care of himself.”
Mom hugs herself and approaches the table.
“He’s my baby, Jerry.”
“Lynn, I’m not saying he’s gonna stop being your baby, but he needs to be able to take care of himself. You know he can’t live with us forever.” A silent pause. “You do know Riley can’t live with us for the rest of our lives, right?”
Mom’s face says it all.
“This is what I’m talking about, Lynn. We are too involved. We need to let go a bit. It’ll be good for him and our marriage.”
Uh-oh. This just went to another level.
“Our marriage? What’s wrong with our marriage?” Mom shrieked.
“Nothing, but we spend so much time worrying about Riley that we never have time for ourselves. Look can we just sit down and talk about this.”
Mom huffs before taking a seat across from Dad.
“Just promise me that Riley didn’t help make the food and I’ll be fine.”
“No, Lynn. I didn’t let our son anywhere near the stove or knives or utensils.”
“Okay then.”
My work here is done. I head back upstairs, giving those two some privacy.
The next morning, I wake up to a quiet house. I creep out into the hallway and knock on my parent’s room.
“Mom? Dad?”
No response. Last night’s dinner must have gone well. Gross.
I head to the kitchen to get some cereal, probably the only thing I’m allowed to get myself.
Bowl in hand, I pass the refrigerator and see a note hung up.
“Seems like Mommy and Daddy dearest decided to take a day for themselves. Hell yeah!”
I put the empty bowl in the sink and race up the stairs, taking two at a time. I slide down the hallway into my room. I change and head back downstairs, ready to take on the world. Or at least the block.
I lock the door behind me and step on the lawn.
“Hey, neighbor.” Jaxon calls out from his yards, hunched over his garden.
“Hey Jaxon. Doing a little yard work?” Thank you Captain Obvious.
“Yeah, you wanna help?”
I nod and head over not seeing the garden hose that trips me. I yelp and fall into a nearby bush scratching my hands.
“Oh my God, Riley. Are you okay?” Jaxon hoists me up by my arms and straightens me out.
I brush off my shirt and twitch at the pain in my hands.
“You’re bleeding. Here let me get you a bandage.” Jaxon runs inside to presumably get the bandage.
I stare at my red palms and see a drop of liquid crimson spill out and fall to the ground.
“What the?”
The drop splatters on the lawn and within seconds a ruby petaled flower sprouts and blooms from the same spot, until a voice startles me. I look up to see Jaxon gazing wide-eyed at the flower, the forgotten bandages fall from his grip.
“Well I guess now we know why your parents are so overprotective.”
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Lake Huron
Andrew Cyril Macdonald
i.
The vast expanse invites where’s marked not a thing
But the timeless our essence pours out of.
ii.
White caps as wide tongues lap-up
Playful in the demeanour of roar.
Awash in them and at last ourselves in their swell,
We ask for the more
That like unto like we should have it—
Crash and roar were we made for.
iii.
What clasp it gathers,
What force it swells
In the powerful love it offers.
Up-thrown against, the robust encounter then crashes us
Frenzied in the will of such savage adventure.
iv.
Azure eternity the movement it makes
Shuts will and drowns ambition
As steady its vastness reminds
Lives draw out and extinguish
In the drag each are marked with.
v.
The wave’s play engages, sprays against us
As we lie about its numerous deaths,
Wash-ups the shore confronts with.
How the roaring holler lifts and tosses,
Dashes and carries down at our feet
Flesh and plant to its fancy succumbing.
What holocaust surrounds us,
And, witness to this, the sense we have
As something to contend with
Lies just as dead on these sands
The water’s millennia have pounded.
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Better
Doug Hawley
The Interview Before The Pilot
“This is Jason Atkins for ‘Divertissement Dialogue’ where we find out what’s up in entertainment. Our guest tonight is Duke Hanley. Tell us about your new show appearing on Fox starting June 12.”
“Thanks for having me Jason. I had been noticing that America’s getting tired of nuts and sluts and excess. The ratings for ‘Jerry Sewer’, ‘Large Loser’ and ‘Keeping up with the Contagions’ have been dropping. I’m convinced that we want to see something fresh and different. My show is about successful people wanting that little bit of improvement in their lives and getting it! A guy doesn’t need to marry his cow or lose 400 pounds to attract viewers. A lot of people want to see a successful banker fulfill a lifetime ambition to kayak the Columbia River.”
“So Duke, tell about your background. I understand that you don’t come from a television background.”
“That’s right Jason. I like to think of myself as a bit of a renaissance man. Physically, I can bench-press 150% of my weight, I’ve completed a few marathons and I’ve climbed short mountains. On an intellectual level, I got my Ph.D. in math and have now written over fifty publications ranging from humor to sci-fi. I think that my varied background equips me very well to succeed in TV production.”
“Sounds great. We look forward to the pilot and enjoying your show for many years to come.”
Excerpt From The Pilot
“Welcome to the studio audience and viewers at home. This is your host Barney Green. Let’s meet our first winner on ‘Get Better’, the program that helps the successful meet even loftier goals.”
She is Judy Jackson. She is a forty year old mother of three and college professor of finance. What is your goal Judy?”
“Well Barney, when I was first married, I had a twenty two inch waist. After having three wonderful children, my waist size has gone up to twenty four. I’d like to lose those two ugly inches.”
“Fear not Judy. We’ve got workout guru Jesse Jergins, who will have you whipped into shape in no time. What’s in store for Judy, Jesse?
“She’ll be put on a two week regimen in which she cuts cream out of her coffee and walks a couple of miles every day. Based on my experience that should be all she needs to shed the eighteen years of neglect that resulted in her minor pudge.”
“Next up is George Snow. He is a thirty five year old internet multi-millionaire. What would you like to achieve?”
“When I was at Harvard, I concentrated on electrical engineering and scorned the humanities. In order to become a more rounded person, I’d like to become a credible Shakespearean actor.”
“George, we are ready for you. Ian Lear, star of the London stage and acclaimed Shakespearean actor will get you where you want to go. What’s the plan, Ian?”
“Barney, I talked to George before the show, and he is overly modest about his ability in the arts. He is already a first rate painter and writer. Further, in order to sharpen his business skills, he was on the college debate team, which demanded diverse oratorical skills. I also was surprised by his excellent memorization skills and body control. I think that we will have him on stage within a month.”
“Our last winner is a multi-talented entertainer, Martin Stevens. He acts, sings, juggles and tap dances. He is a novelist, movie producer and star. How you may ask, could he do more or get any better? Tell us yourself, Martin.”
“Glad to Barney, but first let me tell you how happy I am to be here with you tonight Barney. How are the wife and the kids?”
“Died in a fire.”
“Maybe I should just tell you what my little problem is. I love both tap dancing and singing, but I can’t seem to coordinate both. Somehow doing one throws the other off. Can you help me?”
“Got you covered. Joe Simpson, the exercise physiologist and Jane Bulkin, the preeminent expert on breath control will ease your way into being a tapping – singing idol.”
Interview After The Pilot
“This is Jason Atkins talking to Duke Hanley about the worst TV disaster of all time. His new show “Get Better” was receiving a .1% share with an audience of 350 people when it was cancelled 18 minutes into its hour runtime. Duke, can you tell us what happened?”
“I sure can. This proved that the American viewing audience is a bunch of bleeping bleeps. I’m done. I’m out. They can go back to “Obese Incest” and all of their other bleepy favorites. As soon as I’ve seen my appearance on the Jerry Sewer show, I’m blowing up my bleepingTV.”
Better originally appeared in the defunct Nugget Tales.
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Testament
Doug Hawley
“I’ll introduce myself first. I’m George Simmons, the attorney for the late Duke Hanley. We are gathered to go over the last will and testament of Mr. Hanley. You probably know that Mr. Hanley committed suicide last week at age fifty-three. Before I get to the will, his instructions were to read what he called the testament first.
“Excuse me miss, do you want to leave now?”
“I put up with enough from my geek brother when he was alive, I don’t want to hear any more now.”
“Then, before I proceed, does anyone else want to interrupt the reading? No? Good.”
Testament
I, Duke Hanley, was always ignored when I was alive. I’m hoping that I get your attention now that I’m gone. This is my testament.
I understand why my life was so miserable. Much of it was my fault. I should have treated those better, who, like me, were the underdogs of the world, but I mostly just stewed in my bitterness. Short, ugly guys just don’t have much chance at winning in this world. My first love, the one that I thought I would marry and live with happily ever after, just dropped out of sight with no warning. The second moved on after what I thought was a minor disagreement over politics. After that, I just gave up on women to avoid being hurt again. My family ignored me. In any case only my brother Gene and my sister Jan are left alive. Work was pretty much the same. I was stuck as a mid-level actuary for most of my life. No one ever saw me as a leader or wanted to promote me.
OK, enough of my whining. There were a few bright spots in my life. My neighbors, Ken and Beth Jergens were very good to me. He was happy to help out when my toilet overflowed. I was not much of a handyman, but he was first rate. They looked after my cat Sam and dog Jo when I was out of town or in the hospital. Mostly, they were always friendly and tried to involve me in their social life. At least Sam and Jo loved me. I know that it is kind of Caine Mutiny pathetic, like Humphrey Bogart in that film, but they brought such joy to my mostly sad life. That’s pretty much the end of the good stuff.
A few months ago, I decided to kill myself, but was too chicken to just shoot myself in the head and be done with it. I contacted Mr. Simmons and arranged for him to take care of all my bills and other business, and told him that I was taking a long vacation. I quit my job then. My intention was to just starve myself to death. I went to bed and only got up to go to the bathroom. After a week, I was miserable and in pain, so I decided to go the more traditional route – a lot of pills and whiskey.
My one real success in life was investing. My actuarial career gave me a leg up in predicting economic trends. Besides that I had either incredible intuition or luck. I got into Apple and Microsoft at the right time. There were a bunch more successes, but suffice it to say I accumulated a large fortune. You may wonder why I led such a Spartan existence. I never had much interest in ostentation or what is now known as bling. Mainly, I had no one to share my riches with.
That’s the end of the testament. Mr. Hanley had previously filed the will with me, but not the so-called testament, which I received a day after he died. He didn’t know much about wills, but I think his is still legal.
End Of Testament
“First Mr. Hanley specifies that except for the Jergens, no one will receive anything from his estate unless he or she stays through the aforementioned testament.”
“The Jergens will receive the bulk of the estate, estimated to be worth $13,675,000, if they are willing to take care of Sam and Jo. The estate probably would have been worth twice as much except for Mr. Hanley’s penchant for prostitutes and gambling. He wasn’t quite the plain living man he claimed to be. He would take a trip to Vegas every weekend and play high stakes roulette, losing up to $250,000 a night, and then hire a bunch of escorts for his suite. Sometimes as many as five.”
Gene inquired “So Mr. Simmons, why do you know so much about Duke’s habits?”
“I’m pleased to say that I wasn’t only Duke’s attorney, but just about his only close friend other than the Jergens. There were times that he invited me along with him on his junkets, even though I have no interest in gambling. I particularly remember a very talented and large young lady named Candy who had some interesting props, and the very flexible Janice. Janice said that she had been a gymnast.”
Simmons’ face stayed dreamy for some time, but slowly changed back to his serious lawyer face. “Enough of reminiscing, back to the will.”
Gene interrupted Simmons. “That’s not all Duke lied about. When our parents were alive, we tried to stay in touch, but he always ignored us. I don’t know what his problem was.”
“If everyone will let me finish, his brother Gene receives $50,000. Sister Jan would have received an equal amount had she stayed. The local Humane Society gets a $25,000 bequest, and that is all. I’ve got a date on the golf course at 2.”
“Nothing will be distributed until the will goes through the legal niceties for large estates.”
Originally published in the defunct AWS
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Inappropriate Toys
Ronald Charles Epstein
Inappropriate toys
for growing boys:
A “Tender Age Shelter” set,
marketed by Lego.
“Death Wish II: The Game”,
officially rated “Mature”
for sexual, and other, violence.
A Kim Kardashian doll-
ass sold separately.
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5 Minutes before Nagasaki
Eric Dreyer Smith
“The ground itself was covered by a rolling black smoke.
I was told the area would be destroyed, but I didn’t know
the meaning of an atomic bomb.” – KB.
Amaya Matsuo was working feverishly in her white-tiled kitchen. Her cousin Hiroshi had just installed new wood cabinets along the wall adjacent to the refrigerator. Hiroshi had learned from his grandfather how to study each piece of wood before selecting it for carpentry. The task is to find the piece of wood yearning for a second life. Though simple, Amaya’s new cabinets spoke to her each day of a harmony between people and nature.
The Kasutera, a sponge cake perfected by many generations of effort of Matsuo wives. It was a specialty dish of Nagasaki folk and Amaya took pride in making one of the best cakes in town. The recipe originated in Spain and brought to the Japanese city during the 16th century by Portuguese ships along with other unusual items such as guns, tobacco and pumpkins.
Amaya smiled as she added her secret ingredients to the traditional recipe; powdered green tea, cocoa and brown sugar. She would please the family come evening time though many of the little ones were out of town due to recent events.
Not far from the Matsuo house, Kiyoshi and Hana Tanaka were bickering fiercely in their own home. Kiyoshi was insisting once again that Akemi was too old to be sleeping in their bed and that it was time for the nine-year-old boy to be in his own room. Hana was having none of that. Kiyoshi that morning thought he had a chance of convincing his lovely, blacked-haired wife that Akemi was ready for his own bed. It was a lost cause. Hana could not let the boy alone, at least as long as the war and its terrible stories continued.
Botan Nakamura’s profession welcomed the scattering of the people and energies, due to the war. Many shops closed three or four days a week. Currently Botan was rummaging through the pottery on the second floor at 13-10 Shinichi-machi. It was true that there were not as many goods to choose from, but also the authorities stretched thin. It could happen that a soldier would find you in the act then the consequences were deadly, but there was always risk in the life of a thief.
Botan was filling his bag with a few lacquered fans imported from Kyoto, a decently decorated tea set and 2 rather fine dolls. This haul would fetch the thief a pretty penny. It was two minutes before Nagasaki.
Nearly a hundred couples were making love, three dozen were dying of old age, there were several births in progress, gravediggers were digging holes, delivery men were on their routes, restaurants were just gearing up for the lunch hour, a secretary took dictation and a retired general happened to be sad.
Captain Kermit K. Beahan, after having caught a brief glimpse of a stadium pulled the lever at 11:02 a.m. and “Fat Man” fell from the B-29, named Bock’s Car, onto what, because of fluke was its second choice of targets – Nagasaki. Kermit Beahan pulled the lever in a very American way, a business-like way; a war-like way in a time of war; a way expressing how tired Americans were of fighting and a way perhaps so soulless that it had soul. In all, Kermit was the kind of man you had to find to do a job like this.
The plutonium bomb exploded 1650 feet above the city with a yield of 21 kilotons. Amaya, her cake, Hiroshi, his cabinets, Kiyoshi, Hana, Akemi, all beds, Botan, his dolls and the others destroyed.
Later Kermit said, “The ground itself was covered by a rolling black smoke. I was told the area would be destroyed, but I didn’t know the meaning of an atomic bomb.”
At one minute, before Nagasaki Daisuke Ohayasji handed the keys to the first and last car he would ever own. It was a proud moment when he strutted into the modest dealership and was able to make a full payment on the used car. He had worked for years in the factory as lower management in order to come up with the money.
Thirty seconds before Nagasaki Haru Kouno was completing his assignment. The mafia paid him to murder Eiji Taniguchi, a small shop owner who had been an errant gambler. It was to be an example to the neighborhood. Planned, as a slow death, the beating then strangulation mercifully cut short had it begun three minutes later. As it was by 11:02 am of August 9, 1945 Eiji Taniguchi had just breathed his last breathe.
Kermit Beahan, nicknamed “The Great Artiste”, went on to die at St. John Hospital in Nassau Bay at the age of seventy. He had said he would never apologize for the bomb and that at one point, years after the war; twenty-five Japanese sought him out and confided that the bomb was, “the best way out of a hell of a mess.”
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About Eric Dreyer Smith
Eric Dreyer Smith lives in San Antonio. He graduated from Trinity University in 1989. Books published include No One Blames San Antonio for the Civil War and Eligible Atrocities. He is currently completing an M.A. in counseling and his hobbies include short film production.
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Untaken
Jeffrey Briskin
You weren’t supposed to bring your smartphone. But after waking up and seeing stars in the night sky he crawled over to a pile of debris under a bush and fished out his iPhone.
4:39 am. Sunrise in another hour. Any other day he’d be getting up an hour from now to get to the Harbor Freight loading dock by 6 am.
He thought he’d never fall asleep, but he did. It hadn’t been easy, sprawled out naked on the wet grass atop a hill overlooking a brown and green checkerboard of wheat fields. The iPhone said it was 53o, much too cold for a weekend halfway through May. The camp fire had turned to cinders long ago, but the odor of scorched cotton, wool and polyester lingered.
He heard a grunt and turned. Bert was snoring again. He looked like an old, bald orangutan, his enormous beer gut wobbling on the ground like a sack of Jell-O. Next to him, his wife Alice, with her sagging retiree breasts and wrinkled secretary’s butt. Across the way, Mitchell and Don, red-haired brothers in their 40s. And Kate, the only young one. Short brown hair and an amazing health club body. If he had the time he would have hit on her.
But Pastor Chuck said today was it, May 18th. A year ago the minister had spoken with the Angel Gabriel himself who set the date and time. A year to prepare. Wind down your professional and personal engagements. Sell everything you can. Abandon the rest. Arrive at the spot with nothing more than what you came into the world with.
Joey had walked here from the cheap hotel he had been staying at since he broke the lease on his tiny studio and gave just about everything he owned to the Salvation Army. Sold his old Ford F150 to a teenager for $1,500. Put the cash and the $412 in his savings account into an envelope and mailed it to Pastor Chuck’s Next Step Church and Foundation in Galveston, Texas, just as he had been instructed. He never questioned what the money was for. But now he thought, why did he need the money is the end was coming?
Kate woke up and stood up and began to stretch. Lord, she was tasty. Even after all these hours of being naked together on this hill he still couldn’t keep his eyes off her. She even slept sexy,
“Did it happen?” she asked.
“Not yet,” Joey replied.
“What time is it?”
“Almost 5 am.”
She narrowed her eyes. “How do you know?”
Sheepishly, he waved his smartphone.
She smirked. “You weren’t supposed to bring one.”
He shrugged.
Alice opened her eyes, yawned and sat up. “What’s happening?”
Go back to sleep you ugly sow, he didn’t say, because that would have been unecumenical of him.
“Nothing. It didn’t happen,” Kate said.
Alice looked around. And then poked her husband. “Bert, wake up!”
Bert blinked. “What.”
“We’re still here! It’s past midnight!”
Bert kneeled, his gut spilling over his lap so at least you didn’t have to see his junk. “How do you know?”
Joey waved his phone at him.
Bert shook his head. “You weren’t supposed—”
“That’s not the point!” Alice snapped. “Think big picture, Bert. We’re supposed to be in Heaven right now.”
Bert looked around for a moment, and then said, without much conviction, “Maybe this is Heaven, and the rest of world has been turned to ashes.”
Kate reached behind her and picked up an empty beer can covered with dirt. “They drink Coors Light in Heaven?”
Bert groaned. Waving a fat finger at Mitchell and Don, he said, “Better wake up the gingers.”
Joey nudged the brothers with his foot. They opened their eyes.
“Sorry,” Don said, sheepishly. “It midnight yet?”
“Way past,” replied Joey.
Mitchell sat up. “Can’t be.”
“Is,” Joey said, holding out the iPhone.
“Pastor Chuck said—”
“Shut up!” Alice snapped. “That’s not the point.”
“How do you know that’s the right time?” Don asked. “Maybe Satan adjusted the clocks. To test our faith.”
Joey pointed to the distant horizon. “Look.” The first dim slivers of dawn were beginning to brighten the sky. “”It’ll be sunrise soon.”
That shut them up for awhile. They sat, lost in their own thoughts.
Before tonight, they had only met once before, in a tiny, mildew-scented conference room at the Comfort Inn. Three scratched-up wooden tables and cheap card table chairs. Bert and Alice were retired. Mitchell and Don were unmarried brothers who until recently had been running their dead father’s body shop into the ground. Kate had been a Zumba instructor whose ex-fiancé was serving 5 to 10 for selling meth. And Joey worked on the loading dock of a store selling second-rate Chinese-made hardware. They didn’t know he was a high school dropout and former opioid addict.
They had all found Pastor Chuck’s online Church of the Next Step on their own by clicking on ads placed on web sites. Once they joined the holy man’s online congregation, they began receiving texts and emails inviting them to the hotel to attend his special videoconference, where he promised to air an exclusive video of his conversation with the angel Gabriel. On a dusty 42" flat screen, they watched the tall, handsome golden-haired angel, dressed in a flowing white robe, hovering in the air with the aid of his enormous gossamer wings, warn the pastor and his flock what was coming and when. What they must do to prepare. The only thing the angel let congregants decide was where to wait. Later, through text messages, they agreed this hill was the best spot. The highest point in town. The place closest to Heaven.
Alice broke the silence. “We gave up everything, Bert! Our house, our 401(k), our boat.”
Bert shrugged.
She hit him in the shoulder. “I trusted you!”
Bert winced. “You were there when Pastor Chuck showed us the video. Why didn’t you say anything then?”
Alice looked around. “Because...I didn’t want to say anything in front of—them.”
“Hogwash! You had a whole year to talk me out of it, Alice. But you didn’t. Because you were afraid you’d be left behind.”
Alice broke into sobs. Joey turned away so he wouldn’t have to watch her flab wobbling around.
“Gotta be some mistake,” Don said.
“Check your phone. See if he sent a message,” Kate replied.
“That’s not—”
“Shut up!” Kate hissed. Joey nodded. How could you disobey a hot, naked woman yelling at you?
Mitchell looked over his shoulder. “You still have cell service?”
Joey shrugged, activating the text log. “It’s paid through the end of the month.”
No new texts from Pastor Chuck. No new emails, either.
“Text him. Ask what’s going on,” Kate ordered.
He tapped the virtual keyboard with cold fingers. A moment later he read the response. “Phone number is not in operation.”
“Email him!” Kate urged.
He did. Moments later, he received “message undeliverable.”
Before Kate could ask, he entered the URL for the Next Step Church and Foundation. 404 error; page not found. Pastor Chuck’s Facebook page and Twitter feed no longer existed, either.
Sweat began to roll down his forehead. “He’s gone. But we’re still here. And the world’s still here.”
“Pastor Chuck was taken,” Don suggested. “Maybe we weren’t because we’re not worthy.”
“But he said we were!” Kate snapped. “After we sent him our money he sent each of us an email guaranteeing we’d be taken, right?”
Everyone nodded.
Alice stopped crying. “Why did we give him our money, Bert? Why didn’t we give it to our children?”
“What’d be the point? We thought the world is...” he paused, breathing heavily. “Was...going to end.” He looked like he was about to have a heart attack.
“What do we do now?” Alice wailed. “We have nowhere to live. No money. We don’t even have clothes because that swindler told us to burn them!”
Don jumped to his feet. “Don’t you dare call Pastor Chuck a swindler! He’s a holy man!”
“Yes,” Bert wheezed. “Pastor Chuck will communicate with us from Heaven. He’ll tell us what’s going on. We must have faith.”
Shaking her head, Alice waddled over to the remains of the fire and poked through the ashes that had once been their clothes. “Not even a pair of damn panties left.”
The sky began to brighten noticeably. Don looked at Mitchell and asked, “You think they’re still hiring at the Meineke in Cumberland?”
Mitchell shrugged. “Maybe. Suppose we’ll have to find out.”
“Gotta get some clothes first.”
Pointing toward the bushes, Don said, “We could grab some leaves. Wrap ‘em around our private parts like Adam and Eve.”
“Yeah.” They headed off to forage.
Kate shook her head and started walking toward the down slope of the hill.
Joey jumped to his feet. “Where are you going?”
“Down the valley to ask one of the farmers for some clothes.”
“But—but you’re naked!”
She looked at him as if he were an idiot. “Right. That’s why I need the clothes.”
He jumped up. “I’ll go with you.”
She shook her head. “Don’t think so. A farmer will open a door for a naked girl. If he sees a naked couple he’ll call a cop. Or shoot at us.”
Waving his iPhone, he said, “Uhhhhh, can I give you my number? In case I hear from Pastor Chuck again?”
Rolling her eyes, she said, “I’ve got nothing to write with.” She paused before adding, “Besides, I’d kind of like to forget all of you ever happened.”
He watched until her shapely form disappeared and then sat down. Alice’s sobs had become quiet whimpers. Bert sat in silence, wheezing and shaking his head.
He sat down and checked his phone one more time and placed it on the ground.
From a distant tree he heard the early morning trills of a mockingbird. He no longer felt cold, and the dew on the grass actually felt nice on his bare skin.
The world was still here. And a good chance of shaping up to be a beautiful day.
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About Fabrice Poussin
Fabrice Poussin teaches French and English at Shorter University. Author of novels and poetry and the advisor for The Chimes, the Shorter University award winning poetry and arts publication, his work has appeared in Kestrel, Symposium, The Chimes, and dozens of other magazines. His photography has been published in The Front Porch Review, the San Pedro River Review and more than 250 other publications.
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Communication
Janet Kuypers
Spring 1997
I
now that we have the information superhighway
we can throw out into the open
our screams
our cries for help
so much faster than we could before
our pleas become computer blips
tiny bits of energy
travelling through razor thin wires
travelling through space
to be left for someone to decipher
when they find the time
II
got into work the other day
and got my messages out of voice mail:
mike left me his pager number
and told me to contact him with some information
another mike told me to call him at the office
between ten thirty and noon
lori told me to check my email
because she sent me a message i had to read
so i first returned mike’s phone call
but he wasn’t in, so i left a message with a coworker
and then i dialed the number for mike’s pager
listened to a beep, then dialed in my own phone number
then i got online, checked my email
read a note from ben, emptied out the junk mail
realizing i didn’t actually get a hold of anybody
i tried to call my friend sheri
but i got her answering machine
so i said,
“hi - it’s me, janet -
haven’t talked to you in a while - ”
at which point i realized
there was nothing left to say -
“so,
give me a call, we should really
get together and talk”
III
sara and i were late for carol’s wedding rehearsal
which was a bad thing, because we were both
standing up in the wedding
and we were stuck in traffic, and i asked,
“sara, you have a cel phone, don’t you?“
and she said “yes”
and i asked, “well, do you know carol’s
cel phone number, cause if you do, we can
call her and tell her we’ll be late -”
and she said, “no - do you know it?”
and i said “no”
IV
I was out at a bar with Dave, and I was explaining to him
why I hadn’t talked to my friend Aaron in a while:
“You see, we usually email each other,
and when we do, we just hit ‘reply.’
when you get an email from someone,
instead of having to start a new letter
and get their email address, you can
just hit the ‘reply’ button on the email message,
and it will make a letter addressed
to the person who wrote you the letter originally.
so one of us sent the other a letter, and
it had a question at the end,
so i hit ‘reply’ and sent a response,
with another question at the end of my letter.
so we kept having to answer questions for each other,
and we just kept replying to each other,
sending a letter with the same title back and
forth to each other. well, once i got an email
from him and there was no question at the end,
and so i didn’t have to send him a response.
so i didn’t. and we never thought
to start a new email to one another.
so we just lost touch.”
and then it occurred to me, how difficult it had become
to type an extra line of text, because that’s why
i lost touch with him
and then it occurred to me, no matter how many different
forms of communication we have,
we’ll still find a way
to lose touch with each other
V
now that we have the information superhighway
we can throw out into the open
our screams
our cries for help
so much faster than we could before
but what if we don’t want to communicate
or forget how
too busy leaving messages, voice mails,
emails, pager numbers
forgetting to call back
what if we forget
how to communicate
VI
i wanted to purchase tickets for a concert
but i was shopping with my sister
and wasn’t near a ticket outlet
but my sister said, “i have a portable phone,
you can call them if you’d like”
so she gave me the phone, and i looked
at all these extra buttons, and she said,
“just press the ‘power’ button, but hold it down
for at least four seconds, until the panel lights up,
then dial the number, but use the area code, because
this phone is a 630 area code, then press ‘send’.
when you’re done with the call, just press ‘end’, and
make sure the light turns off.”
so i turned it on, dialed the number,
pressed ‘send’, pressed my head
against the tiny phone
and the line was busy
and i couldn’t get through
VII
i wanted to get in touch
with an old friend of mine from high school,
vince, and the last i heard was that he went to
marquette university. well, that was five years ago, he
could be anywhere. i talked to a friend or two that
knew him, but they lost touch with him, too.
so i searched on the internet, to see
if his name was on a website or if
he had an email address. he didn’t.
so i figured i probably wouldn’t find him.
and all this time, i knew his parents lived
in the same house they always did, i could just
look up his parent’s phone number in the phone book,
and call them, say i’m an old high school friend
of vince’s, but i never did. and then i realized why.
you see, i could search the internet for hours
and no one would know that i was looking for someone.
but now, with a single phone call, i’d make it known
to his family that i wanted to see him enough to call,
after all these years. and i didn’t want
him to know that. so i never called.
VIII
now that we have the information superhighway
we can throw out into the open
our screams
our cries for help
so much faster than we could before
but then the question begs itself:
who
is there
to listen
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Listen  to this live  from “Live at Café Aloha” (a Janet Kuypers/Jason Pettus show), or order ANY TRACK from the CD “Live at Café Aloha” @ iTunes.
|
Order this iTunes track: 
from the Chaotic Collection
...Or order the entire 5 CD set from iTunes:
CD:
|
Listen to the CD recording
of this, from the CD Change/Rearrange
|
Watch this YouTube video
live at the show Questions in a World Without Answers 10/05/04, Chicago
|
watch the full Questions in a World Without Answers video live, including this poem in Chicago 10/05/04 (#126;21:56)
|
Listen to this from the CD release
from the first performance art show
(8/14/97) Seeing Things Differently
|
Listen to this radio recording
from WZRD Radio (in a 2 CD set)
|
Watch this YouTube video
(8:18) at the live Jesse Oaks live “UNcorrect” feature 06/21/07
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Listen: (6:46)
to this recording from Fusion |
Watch the YouTube video
(2:22) 4/1/05 (April Fool’s Day) Live at the DvA Chicago Art Gallery show Conflict #149; Contact #149; Control.
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Order this iTunes track:
from Chaotic Elements
(a 2 CD set)...Or order the entire CD set from iTunes
CD:
|
Order this iTunes track:
from Chaots in Motion
(a 6 CD set)...Or order the entire CD set from iTunes
CD:
|
Watch this YouTube video
(4:05) live 10/15/10 at Power Networking for Success JK poetry show
 |
See the full Youtube show
live JK poetry show w/ gutar 10/15/10 at
Power Networking for Success with
“Type A Person” & “Communication”
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Watch this YouTube video
03/05/11 from the TV camera in Lake Villa at Swing State, live in her show Letting it All Out
|
Watch this YouTube video
3/5/11 in Lake Villa at Swing State, live in her “Visual Nonsense” show Letting it All Out
|
Watch this YouTube video
of Kuypers from the TV monitor in the “Letting it All Out” show, live in Lake Villa 03/05/11 at Swing State
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Watch this YouTube of Kuypers in the “Letting it All Out” show, live in Lake Villa 03/05/11 with this writing at Swing State
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See YouTube video of Janet Kuypers reading 4 poems 8/31/15 at the Chicago open mic Weeds (Canon Power Shot), with an edited version of her poem
Communication, plus her poems
Death Takes Many Forms,
True Happiness in the New Millennium, and
Other Souls.
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See YouTube video of Janet Kuypers reading 4 poems 8/31/15 at the Chicago open mic Weeds (Canon fs200), with an edited version of her poem
Communication, plus her poems
Death Takes Many Forms,
True Happiness in the New Millennium, and
Other Souls.
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See YouTube video of Janet Kuypers reading her poems “Everything was Alive and Dying” and “Communication” from her performance art collection book “Chapter 38 v1” before the official beginning 4/29/18 of the Austin installment of the 2018 Poetry Bomb at the Baylor Street Art Wall (Panasonic Lumix T56 camera).
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See YouTube video of Janet Kuypers reading her poems “Everything was Alive and Dying” and “Communication” from her performance art collection book “Chapter 38 v1” before the official beginning 4/29/18 of the Austin installment of the 2018 Poetry Bomb at the Baylor Street Art Wall (Panasonic Lumix 2500 camera).
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See YouTube video of Janet Kuypers’ September 2018 Book Release Reading 9/5/18, where she read her “Live at Café Aloha” poems “Communication” and “And What I Want to Know” from the Down in the Dirt v160 book “Spitfire” in Community Poetry! at Half Price Books (Panasonic Lumix 2500 camera).
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See YouTube video of Janet Kuypers’ September 2018 Book Release Reading 9/5/18, where she read her “Live at Café Aloha” poems “Communication” and “And What I Want to Know” from the Down in the Dirt v160 book “Spitfire” in Community Poetry! at Half Price Books (Panasonic Lumix 56 camera).
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and What I Want to Know
Janet Kuypers
Summer 1997
I’ve been dreaming of you lately.
Usually, in my dreams, I see you
for just a short while,
then you have to leave.
Maybe you tell me you miss me.
Maybe you kiss me.
Last night, when you left me once again
I drove after you
to the airport so I could say
goodbye to you one more time.
In my dreams you’re always with me.
In my dreams you’re always leaving me.
In my dreams I run after you.
Just to say goodbye again.
And what I want to know is
when are these dreams going to stop.
And what I want to know is
are you dreaming of me too.
I daydream about you in the mornings
while my legs are still tangled in my sheets.
I close my eyes, so I can feel you there,
curled up against me. Why -
why do I have to get out of this bed.
And what I want to know is
if you saw me hit by a car
my lifeless body lying in the street
would you hold me up against you,
would you hold my limp arms
in your coarse hands.
Would you rock me to sleep.
Would you cry.
Would you not want to say goodbye.
And what I want to know is
if you saw the car speeding toward me
would you instantly run to me
because life is no longer life
without the one you love.
I know what I would say.
I know my answers.
And what I want to know is
if I will live like this forever.
And what I want to know is
if I’m going to suffer this alone.
And what I want to know is
are you dreaming of me too.
|
Order this iTunes track
from the poetry audio CD
“Oh.” audio CD
...Or order
the entire CD set from iTunes:
|
Order this iTunes track:
from the Chaotic Collection
...Or order the entire 5 CD set from iTunes:
CD:
|
Listen (or listen live)
to the DMJ Art Connection,
off the CD Contact•Conflict•Control.
|
See YouTube video of Janet Kuypers reading her poem and What I Want to Know (3:02) 4/1/05 (April Fool’s Day)
Live at the DvA Chicago Art Gallery show Conflict #149; Contact #149; Control.
|
Watch this YouTube video
live at the Cafe in Chicago 12/15/09
|
Watch this YouTube video
read live 12/18/11, at the Café weekly poetry open mike she hosts in Chicago (with music and video shown from the HA!man of South Africa)
|
Watch this YouTube video
of her reading many poems 12/18/11 at the Café in Chicago (music by the HA!man of South Africa, vocals by Suzanne Hettinger, guitar by John) including this writing
|
Watch this YouTube video
of the intro to the 12/18/11 poetry open mike at the Café in Chicago, & her reading poems (music from the HA!man of South Africa, vocals by Suzanne Hettinger, guitar by John) with this writing
|
Watch this YouTube video
read live 12/18/11, at the Café weekly poetry open mike she hosts in Chicago (with music and video shown from the HA!man of South Africa), from the Kodak Camera
|
Watch this YouTube video
read live 12/18/11, at the Café weekly poetry open mike she hosts in Chicago (with music and video shown from the HA!man of South Africa), from the Samsung Camera
|
See YouTube video 6/13/16 of Janet Kuypers reading her 3 poems Death is a Dog, and What I Want to Know and I Dreamt About You Last Night at the Austin open mic Kick Butt Poetry (from a Canon Power Shot camera).
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See YouTube video 6/13/16 of Janet Kuypers reading her 3 poems Death is a Dog, and What I Want to Know and I Dreamt About You Last Night at the Austin open mic Kick Butt Poetry (from a Sony camera).
|
See YouTube video of Janet Kuypers’ September 2018 Book Release Reading 9/5/18, where she read her “Live at Café Aloha” poems “Communication” and “And What I Want to Know” from the Down in the Dirt v160 book “Spitfire” in Community Poetry! at Half Price Books (Panasonic Lumix 2500 camera).
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See YouTube video of Janet Kuypers’ September 2018 Book Release Reading 9/5/18, where she read her “Live at Café Aloha” poems “Communication” and “And What I Want to Know” from the Down in the Dirt v160 book “Spitfire” in Community Poetry! at Half Price Books (Panasonic Lumix 56 camera).
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And I’m Wondering
Janet Kuypers
Summer 1997
I’m wondering if there’s something
chemical that brings people together,
something that brings people to their
knees, somethings that sucks them in
And I’m wondering if you’re sensing what I’m
sensing, is it just me, am I making this up
in my head, or when I glance up and catch your
eyes, well, are you actually staring at me
And I’m wondering if it could work out this
time, if we’d have one of those relationships
that no one ever doubts, especially us,
because we know we’ll always be in love
And I’m wondering if you’d find
my neurotic pet-peeves charming
like how I hate it when someone touches
my belly because I’m so self conscious
And I’m wondering why you had to tell me
when we happened to be sitting next to each
other that the fact that our legs were almost
touching was making your heart race
And I’m wondering why I felt the need
to take your cigarette and inhale, exhale
while the filter was still warm from
your lips, there just seconds before
And I’m wondering if a year or two from now,
after we’ve been going out and should have
gotten to the point where we are bored with
each other and sink into a comfortable rut
if you saw me making macaroni and cheese
in the kitchen using margarine and water
because I’m out of milk and I’ve got my hair
pulled back and strands are falling into my
eyes and I’m wearing an oversized button-down
denim shirt and nothing else, well, what
I’m wondering is if you would see me
like this and still think I was sexy
When I glance up and catch your eyes from
across the room, when I see your eyes dart
away, when I feel this chemical reaction, well,
it makes me wonder if you can feel it too
|
Order this iTunes track:
from Chaos in Motion
(a 6 CD set)...Or order the entire CD set from iTunes
CD:
|
Listen (or listen live)
to the DMJ Art Connection,
off the CD Contact•Conflict•Control
You can also hear this version:
off the CD the DMJ Art Connection Disc One
|
Listen to this from the CD release
from the first performance art show
(8/14/97) Seeing Things Differently
|
Watch this YouTube video
6:25, of these three poems (White Knuckled, Last Before Extinction and And I’m Wondering) at the Politically UNcorrect poetry open mic at Jesse Oaks in Lake County (north of Chicago) on 05/24/07
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Listen to this live at Live at Café Aloha (Janet Kuypers/Jason Pettus show), for sale at iTunes.
|
Watch the YouTube video
(2:07) live 08/05/07 at Beach Poets
|
See YouTube video of Janet Kuypers reading her poem And I’m Wondering (3:04) 4/1/05 (April Fool’s Day) Live at the DvA Chicago Art Gallery show Conflict #149; Contact #149; Control.
|
Watch this YouTube video
1:58, 11/06/10 in Lake Villa at Swing State, in Sexism and other stories
|
Watch this YouTube video
11/06/10 from the TV camera in Lake Villa’s Swing State, live in her “Visual Nonsense” show Sexism and other stories
|
See the full show of Kuypers reading in the “Sexism and other stories” show, live in Lake Villa 11/06/10 with this writing at Swing State
|
See the full show of Kuypers reading from the TV monitor in the “Sexism and other stories” show, live in Lake Villa’s “Visual Nonsense” 10/20/011/06/10 with this poem at Swing State
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(2:52, 05/10/11)
Or watch the YouTube video
at the Café in Chicago w/ Jenene Ravesloot (in the ISBN# books Unknown and Sexism and Other Stories and in cc&d mag v220, the 05/11 issue)
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Watch this YouTube video
of the intro to the 05/10/11 open mic at the Café in Chicago, plus the cover of I’m Free at Last & the poems And I’m Wondering & Dreams 09/24/05 (a phone as a purse that matches my shoes)
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See YouTube video
of Kuypers reading this piece in the live show the Janet Kuypers with the music of HA! at Chicago’s Gallery Cabaret 20121003 (Canon)
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See YouTube video
of Kuypers reading this piece in the live show the Janet Kuypers with the music of HA! at Chicago’s Gallery Cabaret 20121003 (Kodak)
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See YouTube video
of the Janet Kuypers with the music of HA! full live show at Gallery Cabaret in Chicago 20121003 (Canon), including this piece
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See YouTube video of Janet Kuypers reading her poems “The State of the Nation (2016 edit)” (because it was Constitution Day), “All These Reminders” & “And I’m Wondering” 9/18/16 at the Austin music open mic Kick Butt Poetry (this video was filmed with a Canon Power Shot camera).
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See YouTube video of Janet Kuypers reading her poems “The State of the Nation (2016 edit)” (because it was Constitution Day), “All These Reminders” & “And I’m Wondering” 9/18/16 at the Austin music open mic Kick Butt Poetry (this video was filmed with a Sony camera).
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See YouTube video of Janet Kuypers in her 10/7/17 show “in Autumn, Love is in the Air” @ “Expressions Welcomes Autumn!” in Austin, performing her poems “Sepia Leaves”, “Autumn (2017 Dripping Springs/Bahá’í Center edit)”, “Who You Tell Your Dreams To”, “You and Me and Your Girlfriend”, “The Way You Tease Me”, “And I’m Wondering”, “Just by Holding his Hand”, “Marry You in Autumn”, and “Looking for a Worthy Adversary (an extreme sestina variation)” (filmed from a Sony camera, with background music from the HA!Man of South Africa’s “the Ice is Melting”, cricket sounds in the background and a random rotating art display).
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See YouTube video of Janet Kuypers in her 10/7/17 show “in Autumn, Love is in the Air” @ “Expressions Welcomes Autumn!” in Austin, performing her poems “Sepia Leaves”, “Autumn (2017 Dripping Springs/Bahá’í Center edit)”, “Who You Tell Your Dreams To”, “You and Me and Your Girlfriend”, “The Way You Tease Me”, “And I’m Wondering”, “Just by Holding his Hand”, “Marry You in Autumn”, and “Looking for a Worthy Adversary (an extreme sestina variation)” (from a Panasonic Lumix camera, with background music from the HA!Man of South Africa’s “the Ice is Melting”, cricket sounds in the background and a random rotating art display).
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View the 10/7/17 show poems in the free PDF file chapbook
“in Autumn, Love is in the Air”
containing the poems &“Sepia Leaves”, “Autumn (2017 Dripping Springs/Bahá’í Center edit)”, “Who You Tell Your Dreams To”, “You and Me and Your Girlfriend”, “The Way You Tease Me”, “And I’m Wondering”,
“Just by Holding his Hand”, “Marry You in Autumn”, and “Looking for a Worthy Adversary (an extreme sestina variation)”.
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See YouTube video of Janet Kuypers, while hosting the Poetry Aloud open mic 4/28/18 in Georgetown TX, read 3 her poems, “And I’m Wondering”, “Transcribing Dreams 3”, and “The One at Mardi Gras” from her book “Chapter 38 v1” to a live audience for National poetry Month (Panasonic Lumix 2500).
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See YouTube video of Janet Kuypers, while hosting the Poetry Aloud open mic 4/28/18 in Georgetown TX, read 3 her poems, “And I’m Wondering”, “Transcribing Dreams 3”, and “The One at Mardi Gras” from her book “Chapter 38 v1” to a live audience for National poetry Month (Panasonic Lumix T56).
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See YouTube video of Janet Kuypers reading her poem “And I’m Wondering” from her poetry performance art book “Chapter 38 v1”, her prose “Clay” from her poetry performance art book “Chapter 38 v2” and her poem “New To Chicago” from her poetry performance art book “Chapter 38 v3” 6/24/18 to “Spoken and Heard” @ Kick Butt Coffee (from a Panasonic Lumix T56 camera).
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See YouTube video of Janet Kuypers reading her poem “And I’m Wondering” from her poetry performance art book “Chapter 38 v1”, her prose “Clay” from her poetry performance art book “Chapter 38 v2” and her poem “New To Chicago” from her poetry performance art book “Chapter 38 v3” 6/24/18 to “Spoken and Heard” @ Kick Butt Coffee (from a Panasonic Lumix 2500 camera).
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See YouTube video of Janet Kuypers’ October 2018 Book Release Reading 10/3/18, where she read her “in Autumn, Love is in the Air” poetry “Who You Tell Your Dreams To”, “You and Me and Your Girlfriend”, “The Way You Tease Me”, and “Looking for a Worthy Adversary (extreme sestina variation)” from the cc&d 9-10/18 book “Faces”, then her poem “And I’m Wondering” from the Down in the Dirt 9-10/18 book “Spitfire”, during Community Poetry! at Half Price Books (this video was filmed from a Panasonic Lumix T56 camera).
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See YouTube video of Janet Kuypers’ October 2018 Book Release Reading 10/3/18, where she read her “in Autumn, Love is in the Air” poetry “Who You Tell Your Dreams To”, “You and Me and Your Girlfriend”, “The Way You Tease Me”, and “Looking for a Worthy Adversary (extreme sestina variation)” from the cc&d 9-10/18 book “Faces”, then her poem “And I’m Wondering” from the Down in the Dirt 9-10/18 book “Spitfire”, during Community Poetry! at Half Price Books (this video was filmed from a Panasonic Lumix 2500 ca,era).
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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. 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. Starting at this time Kuypers released a large number of CD releases currently available for sale at iTunes or amazon, including “Across the Pond”(a 3 CD set of poems by Oz Hardwick and Janet Kuypers with assorted vocals read to acoustic guitar of both Blues music and stylized Contemporary English Folk music), “Made Any Difference” (CD single of poem reading with multiple musicians), “Letting It All Out”, “What we Need in Life” (CD single by Janet Kuypers in Mom’s Favorite Vase of “What we Need in Life”, plus in guitarist Warren Peterson’s honor live recordings literally around the globe with guitarist John Yotko), “hmmm” (4 CD set), “Dobro Veče” (4 CD set), “the Stories of Women”, “Sexism and Other Stories”, “40”, “Live” (14 CD set), “an American Portrait” (Janet Kuypers/Kiki poetry to music from Jake & Haystack in Nashville), “Screeching to a Halt” (2008 CD EP of music from 5D/5D with Janet Kuypers poetry), “2 for the Price of 1” (Janet Kuypers poetry to music from Peter Bartels), “the Evolution of Performance Art” (13 CD set), “Burn Through Me” (Janet Kuypers poetry to music from The HA!Man of South Africa), “Seeing a Psychiatrist” (3 CD set), “The Things They Did To You” (Janet Kuypers poetry to music from the DMJ Art Connection), “Hope Chest in the Attic” (audio CD set), “St. Paul’s” (3 CD set), “the 2009 Poetry Game Show” (3 CD set), “Fusion” (Janet Kuypers poetry in multi CD set with Madison, WI jazz music from the Bastard Trio, the JoAnne Pow!ers Trio, and Paul Baker), “Chaos In Motion” (tracks from Internet radio shows on Chaotic Radio), “Chaotic Elements” (audio CD set for the poetry collection book and supplemental chapbooks for The Elements), “etc.” audio CD set, “Manic Depressive or Something” (Janet Kuypers poetry to music from the DMJ Art Connection), “Singular”, “Indian Flux” (Janet Kuypers poetry to music from the DMJ Art Connection), “The Chaotic Collection #01-05”, “The DMJ Art Connection Disc 1” (Janet Kuypers poetry to music from the DMJ Art Connection), “Oh.” audio CD, “Live At the Café” (3 CD set), “String Theory” (Janet Kuypers reading other people's poetry, with music from “the DMJ Art Connection), “Scars Presents WZRD radio” (2 CD set), “SIN - Scars Internet News”, “Questions in a World Without Answers”, “Conflict • Contact • Control”, “How Do I Get There?”, “Sing Your Life”, “Dreams”, “Changing Gears”, “The Other Side”, “Death Comes in Threes”, “the final”, “Moving Performances”, “Seeing Things Differently”, “Live At Cafe Aloha”, “the Demo Tapes” (Mom’s Favorite Vase), “Something Is Sweating” (the Second Axing), “Live In Alaska” EP (the Second Axing), “the Entropy Project”, “Tick Tock” (with 5D/5D), “Six Eleven”
“Stop. Look. Listen.”, “Stop. Look. Listen to the Music” (a compilation CD from the three bands “Mom’s Favorite Vase”, “Weeds & Flowers” and “The Second Axing”), and “Change Rearrange” (the performance art poetry CD with sampled music).
From 2010 through 2015 Kuypers also hosted the Chicago poetry open mic the Café Gallery, while also broadcasting weekly feature and open mic podcasts that were also released as YouTube videos.
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 three collection books from 2004: Oeuvre (poetry), Exaro Versus (prose) and L’arte (art), 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 shutterfly ISSN# cc&d hardcover art book life, in color, Post-Apocalyptic, Burn Through Me, Under the Sea (photo book), the Periodic Table of Poetry, a year long Journey, Bon Voyage!, and the mini books Part of my Pain, Let me See you Stripped, Say Nothing, Give me the News, when you Dream tonight, Rape, Sexism, Life & Death (with some Slovak poetry translations), Twitterati, and 100 Haikus, that coincided with the June 2014 release of the two poetry collection books Partial Nudity and Revealed. 2017, after hr October 2015 move to Austin Texas, also witnessed the release of 2 Janet Kuypers book of poetry written in Austin, “(pheromemes) 2015-2017 poems” and a book of poetry written for her poetry features and show, “(pheromemes) 2015-2017 show poems” (and both pheromemes books are available from two printers).
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Thank you to Thom Woodruff for taking photos of Janet Kuypers reading from the Scars Publications Down in the Dirt v160 book “Spitfire” to poets, audience members & bookstore shoppers during one of her feature readings at Community Poetry! at Half Price Books in Austin, Texas 9/5/18.