The Hitchhiker
Ashley Clark
Jonas started walking down Route 77 hoping to hitch a ride before the big storm came. The storm clouds raced across the sky, carrying a chill on the air that bit right down to Jona’s bones. He turned up the collar of his coat and stuck out his thumb, hoping the oncoming truck would pick him up. The truck stopped a few feet down the road. Jonas jogged over. The passenger door popped open. Jonas paused and looked at the old beat up Ford pickup truck.
“Need a lift?” said the driver.
“Yes, I do,” said Jonas.
Jonas grabbed his bag and hopped in the truck. The truck reek of musk and cigarettes.
“Thanks for picking me up,” said Jonas.
“Mmh,” mumbled the driver.
“My name is Jonas, what’s yours?”
“My name is Michael, but everyone calls me Big Mike,” said the driver.
Jonas, tired from his walk, decided to lay his head on the window and watch the dark clouds fade away as they drove to the next town. Within a few minutes Jonas dozed off. Mike looked at the sleeping teen and drove 20 more miles until his stomach started growling. He then found trucker’s pitstop so they could grab some burgers.
Mike shakes the sleeping teen and it startles Jonas, that he screamed, “Stop DAD!”
Shaking Jonas harder he finally wakes up, from his nightmare and wiped his eyes and says, “Where are we?”
“We are at a trucker’s stop, I was hungry and decided to grab us some burgers.”
“Thanks, and sorry about my outburst, I was having a bad dream,” said Jonas.
Mike nodded his head and they both got out the car and headed into the restaurant. There weren’t many customers, they were seated within minutes.
“Can I ask you a question?” said Jonas.
“Sure,” said Big Mike.
“You don’t have any weird fetishes with young boys or anything like that?”
“Hell no, who do you think I am?”
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to offend you, but I’m running away from a troubled home and I don’t want to find trouble as I run away,” said Jonas.
“Runaway?” said Big Mike sounding shocked.
Before Jonas could tell Mike his problems at home with his father the waiter came and took their orders.
“So back to this runaway situation, are you in some type of trouble?” asked Big Mike.
“I’m not in trouble, but I’m running away from my abusive father.”
Not knowing what to say Big Mike placed his hand on Jonas shoulder and gave him a look like everything’s going to be okay. That one gestured made Jonas feel comfortable with Mike, and he decided to tell him about his mom dying when he was 6 and how his dad took his anger out on him. Mike felt sorry for Jonas and wanted to help him out.
“How old are you now Jonas?” asked Big Mike.
“I’ll be 18 in two days, and that’s why I think my father haven’t tried looking for me. It sucks you know, being unwanted by your only family member,” said Jonas.
“Well, sorry for everything that happened to you, but I want to let you know, it’s not the end of the world. Maybe we were meant to meet, I lost my son last month to cancer and I drive when I’m lonely,” said Big Mike.
“Wow, I’m sorry to hear that, and how me meeting you is a great thing?”
“Well, I run a trucking company and my son was my partner and I need an extra driver, maybe we can help each other out. I know you don’t have no family and nowhere to go. I can give you a job and a place to stay until you’re ready to leave,” said Big Mike.
“Can I think about the offer?”, asked Jonas.
“Sure, but I would like an answer before we get to the next town.”
“How far is the next town?”
“I don’t know about 2-3 hours away,” said Big Mike.
“I’m in, this is probably the best thing that happened to me my whole life.”
The two finished their food and headed out the restaurant, Jonas stopped a few feet from the truck door and looked up in the sky before getting into the car.
“What was that about?”, asked Big Mike.
“I just wanted to tell my mom I’ll be okay, I promised her before she died, I won’t ever become like my father,” said Jonas.
“I understand, but let’s go — the storm looks like it is heading our way kiddo,” said Big Mike.
The two hopped in the car and drove away and in the first time in years Jonas felt like he could have some peace in his life.
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The Oldest Couple
Tom Ball
She played the piano and wrote original music with her own lyrics and sang.
And I wrote speculative fiction novellas.
We were a couple in 2076 and eternal youth was invented in 2077. Things had changed and in 2151 we announced we would sign a 500-year contract to stay together. At the time we had been a couple for 75 years and it was close to a modern record. Many people thought we were mentally ill, and psychiatrists sent us entreaties to let them help us. The average love affair lasted just 3 nights. But we were a perfect match for one another and we knew it.
We also became famous for our art, both got famous finally when we were both 129. We both wrote unusual works, so it took a while to get noticed.
We continued to make great works as the years rolled by and had hundreds of children.
We reflected on the summer of love, 1969, how drugs, music, sex and rock music made for a dynamite synergistic result. And 1969 was also the summer of the moon landing and science fiction peaked, but in later years it grew less and less interesting as space seemed empty. And many of the greatest minds of the era were mad.
But then another Renaissance came in 2075 when MRT was formally invented, but you needed to ask permission to get into another’s head. And now every summer was a summer of more and more love.
My love and I had helped revive science fiction and fantasy in our Art.
#
8,000 years later...
The Worlds were aging gracefully. The suns continued to burn brightly.
We were still a couple, but society had moved on to sexual variety at sex clubs. There people often participated in orgies. There were many kinds of orgies, for straight people and for gays etc. Sex enhancers were free and increased one’s sex drive and ability. Orgy groups were ranked 1 to a million and the others had no ranking.
We now had 20 billion direct descendants out of a total population of 120 billion. We made a point out of meeting all our descendants in groups of 500 at a time.
Of the world population 55 billion lived on land, 20 billion under the sea, 25 billion lived on the water surfaces, and 20 billion in the air in air cars. Twenty billion were directly related to us.
And there were 50 billion in space. The UW police kept the peace. Twenty billion of those were our direct descendants.
And there was a lot of intergalactic trade.
And I had written 10,000 novellas and she had written 44,000 songs.
People had predicted that artificial intelligence would take over, but the spies prevented it. And there was no virtual reality. It was banned.
There was so much art out there that it would take a million years to go through it all. And we planned to do so.
We continued to have by far the world record for longest couple staying together.
And we had the record for most children (test tube babies/incubators) we had 1,000s of them. Many of our children excelled in science or in business, but most remained artists of some kind, like us.
We both figured we could live and love each other for another 10,000 years. Every day we loved life more.
Now, a full ½ were artists of some kind. Our favorite genre was “madness.”
And our descendants, controlled politics and business and science. It was all in the family.
Children cost $10 million, and we had invested most of our money into children. Some were monogamous though less so than us and some had only one-night-stands.
Many of our children were in awe of us. And some felt a lot of pressure to be as good as we were. Some killed themselves.
In our long life, my love and I indulged in every facet of knowledge and action. We were elected to high bureaucratic political positions and we dabbled in astrophysics, and biology, but it was truly in the Arts that we excelled.
We observed that sex was physical desire and so kept drawing new faces together and then getting plastic surgery on our faces.
We loved to gaze upon each other’s clever faces. Some people had stupid looking faces and we found it entertaining. But to be truly desirable a dumb person had to be outrageous or perverted or in some way interesting.
And we did a lot of charity work, and truly loved in brotherly love. And spent time loving and educating our children and descendants. Most people spent their money frivolously, but we invested heavily in our children and descendants.
Spies continued to control everyone today, but now most spies were our descendants and so we had a free hand to dabble deeply into any kind of Art.
But many people had respect for us and tried to teach their children the “new morality.” But they largely failed.
We even had a Net TV show in which we talked about famous peoples’ romantic problems.
And we were constantly reimagining our life: We kept changing our house and air car and the drugs we took and the food we ate.
Many people we knew were old friends. They’d come to visit us with their latest loves.
We were the most famous lovers in the history of the world. And we were invited to many other Worlds, beyond Earth. If the journey was less than a month we would go. We’d been to 450 Planets/Moons.
There were no more wars or poverty, the spies saw to it. And mental illness was at record lows. There were no leaders per se, people voted on new legislation with a 50% majority vote from the populace as a whole.
And one could make a wish for something and it usually came true. All material things could be produced with automatic production machines and love of all kinds could be found on the Net.
There was no work to do except to toy with the arts and other hobbies. People spent most of their time socializing and partying. We had many social engagements to go to all over the Worlds. There were many beautiful places to go to. And the social gatherings were all filmed and could be accessed on the Net.
And my love and I were proud to be human.
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Road Kill
Jaquayah Williams
Like the beating heart, this tree too has chambers.
Tiny boxed rooms, doors coupled con locks on them,
Keys thrown away, no copies in sight.
Minuscule homes constructed to snatch away one’s innocence.
Crowds in the vicinity,
Yet none in close enough proximity
None in close enough proximity
to hear a cry.
Not the talking stye
upon her eye.
Not her mother.
Not her father.
Both just a few steps away.
Three steps seem too far after you’ve just been bent over a toilet in a house you’d once called home.
Two steps seem too far after you’ve just seen your own fresh blood on your new white ankle-length skirt
One step seems too far when you’ve just seen his shadow run out of your front door,
Unseen, unheard, unknown.
Told him don’t, stop
Told him stop, don’t
You knew he wouldn’t
You know he won’t.
That was when you were 13 years old,
But now you’re grown.
Tricks still playing heavy on your mind,
Don’t know if it even happened,
Maybe it was a dream.
Don’t know if anything is the way it seems
Don’t know anything.
I just don’t know.
But, like the beating heart, this tree too has chambers.
Tiny boxed rooms, doors coupled con locks on them.
Keys thrown away, but I think I’ve just found a copy.
Beware.
It’s all coming out.
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Differently-Abled
Conjeevaram J. Nandakumar
It was a New Year day. A day when everybody makes up a resolution, I wasn’t an exceptional specimen either. I too made a resolution, but only thing that it doesn’t matter whether I had adhered to it or not or to have a self appraisal on it the next year.
I came out of my room limping and headed straight to the Guindy railway station. I was in no hurry to go to the office nor I had anything else worth to do and waited patiently for a bus that was sparsely crowded. The first time in my life I felt relaxed and composed because I have made up my mind to take the right decision.
I reached the railway station and ambled my way to the centre of the platform and found a comfortable vacant seat and dropped myself there. I surveyed the platform from left to right and saw people with a broad smile on their faces greeting each other with New Year wishes while boarding and detraining the train.
Only I can spot out their factitious smile and demeanor that is veiled over their true nature. What kind of fools are they to celebrate a New Year.
According to me I don’t find any reason to celebrate New Year when I had never been richer even for an hour in all those bygone new years of my life span. Apart from the commuters I saw a blind beggar who was crying himself hoarse for alms. He thumped his way and waded through the crowd. He tapped his cane rhythmically as he begged,
“Oh masters please have pity on this blind wretched man whom god has punished. You are all blessed with the sight. Please see my plight, have pity on me and help your might”.
He was harping on the same string, but none of the passersby seemed to bother though few dropped a coin or two only for the fact that they felt his presence a nuisance and keen on to do away with him.
A few metres away near the weighing machine I saw a peddler hanging a tray over his neck selling pens. He stood motionless and speechless and made no attempt to promote his product, but I saw people deliberately moving towards him and dropping the money and taking the pen. Few of them dropped the money without taking the pen probably for the fact the peddler would have made personal acquaintance with the commuters.
The man showed no reaction; though he was impeccably dressed I could figure out by the color of his dress that he belonged to the labour class, probably anybody could mistake him for an authorized railway vendor.
I submerged into a slew of reminiscences which took me to the vistas of the past bitter memories when I used to sell pickles limping from shop to shop as a sales person, rejected, humiliated, returning back home with empty handed not having sold a single piece. I could not resist a smirk at the left corner of my lips when I compared my sales job to the blind beggar.
I was in no way better than him. I was begging for money in return of my product and he was begging for money for his blindness.
Only the terminology makes the difference. I was addressed as a sales representative and he was derogatorily remarked as a beggar.
Now that I have tried my luck at various professions including the care taker now that I really wonder that I am left with only one option to take up the job of an undertaker.
Suddenly I heard a voice within my ears saying,
“I don’t run a charity and this is not a charitable boarding house to accommodate everyone”.
That voice kept ringing and reverberating off and on in my ears and I feared whether I was suffering from schizophrenia as I started getting hallucinations and hearing voices. I slowly picked up the crumbled suicidal letter from my pocket and started reading it probably for the hundredth time.
For those who have loved me (I really wonder if any),
After many years of pondering and deliberation I’ve made this decision that should not be an example to anyone because it is unique to my situation. One should have a certain degree of insight about the wretched and cynical people around me who prompted me to take this extreme drastic decision.
This is not an ad hoc decision but that has been chasing after me like a fog all along those long years, right from the time I have been living with an extended family together with my elder brother’s children and my parents impressed by the thought that ignorance is bliss.
I presume that I was the only person on earth who had tried all kinds of jobs but nothing seemed to suit my cup of tea. I would start with a bang traversing the maze of avenues in search of a suitable job, but eventually end up with a whimper meeting myself jobless at the point where I have started.
All was well right until my brother’s children went to states to live with their parents when everything went topsy-turvy and for a person smitten by blindness and ignorance it was a bolt from the blue.
Only then it came to light the nefarious hidden intention of my brother who started eliminating one by one from his house and that we have been sheltered there only as a caretaker for his children. He was a person of typical character of a parasite who sponged upon us for our service and deemed us to be useless when his children were not around us and felt no qualms in ditching us.
My faith shattered when my brother in a heated argument with me had said,
“I don’t run a charity and this is not a charitable boarding house to accommodate everyone”.
That was the last straw on a camel’s back. I walked out of his home. Life is meaningless for me. I have penned every word, every thought, and every emotion. My attempt is to seek out, and expose every illusion and myth of this world full of self conceited people like my brother. No matter what, I have decided to end my life.
Signed:
A soul devoid and bereft of love.
Yes, that was the New Year resolution that I had made this morning and the reason for me to be here now. I have made up my mind to fall on the track before a moving train to end my life and I was anxiously waiting for the right moment.
“I don’t run a charity and this is not a charitable boarding house to accommodate everyone”.
“So be it”
I said loudly and started to move towards the edge of the platform and I could still hear the blind beggar’s tapping sound of the cane which sounded like the sound of a drum in a funeral procession.
The train was approaching near and I was about to take a final leap suddenly I heard a commotion accompanied with a clamoring sound.
I turned back and saw the blind beggar bumping over the peddler and barking at him with irritant voice,
“Can’t you see me and move away from my way. It is only I am blind and not you”.
I heard a gruff voice in response to his yelling.
“So am I, my friend, and here is the reward for your trouble”.
I saw the peddler taking a wad of currency and pulled out a hundred rupee bill and gave it to the beggar and further he added,
“My friend, there is no point in chastising others and self pitying yourself and is not going to help you in any way. Nobody is here to hear your grievances. You cannot change others. You’ll have to change yourself according to the changes.
We both are differently-abled people, but I am able to think differently. So I never grudge on others, but I’ll capitalize on their boastful mentality. That’s the difference between you and me though we both beg for alms”.
My curiosity was aroused. I went closer to the peddler and saw that he was as blind as a bat and wearing coolers showing no emotions and standing like a statue. I saw a placard on his tray bearing the following words.
“There are beautiful people with kind hearted, mind and soul moving around me. Unfortunately I cannot see them.
Happy New Year”
I was flabbergasted to see that blind peddler and his convictions. What a stark truth! Yes there is no point in blaming the world for all our mishaps. That was the reason the peddler attracted everyone towards him and sold his products effortlessly. The placard played the magic.
I should adapt to the changes. After all isn’t it the law of evolution and here we stand as a supreme specious.
It’s a game of life where everyone plays. It’s a different ball game altogether. No specific rules. No matter how you play but who wins really does matter. I’ll call my shots with no ego, pride, or inhibitions, but count on my blessings. I’ll stoop to conquer the world.
I came out of the station with a hallo of wisdom hovering over my head. I climbed the foot over bridge and greeted to a throng of people “Happy New Year” for the first time in my life who were perfect strangers to me and I heard a child’s voice in reciprocation
enter>“Happy New year brother”.
It was indeed a happy new year for me and to the blind beggar. I picked up the suicidal letter from my pocket. Tore it into shreds, and threw it into the wayside dustbin.
The shreds floated in the air like feathers. Of course, so too was my heart.
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Forward in Reverse
Fred Chandler
The attraction is a magnate of uncertainty
Making you step those borderless avenues
In the longing hope to understand it again
And be reminded what tried to kill you then
It wasn’t some gnawing vessel of confusion
It was always this blank present before you
Which you could never really leave behind
This journey is a visitation to its combination
As two presents that are then and are now
It started with a crippled tiny rocking chair
In a baby’s room in aged nursery wallpaper
Where an adult bed remains as this jail cell
It is and was the panic room of suffocation
Where you ran away to run away to safety
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About Fred Chandler
Fred has had the honor of being a KCET/PBS Poet of The Month, a National Endowment for the Humanities (NEH) grant recipient, and a published poet in the domestic and international journals The Muse, Black Lantern, The Splizz, and Northern Stars. Fred’s poetry readings have also been produced for shows at Beyond Baroque and 2018 literary festivals, and have been put to music by Bruce Botnik, famed producer of The Doors, and film composer and conductor Aaron Zigman (The Notebook, Wakefield).
You can find more of Fred’s work at www.fredchandler.com.
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In One Sense
Fred Chandler
A child’s sweat has a certain smell
Between being very sweet or sour
Weren’t we all there once like them
Free of having known the difference
The sweetness was a brief sedative
While trying to exhaust our energy
It was life giving us more and more
Until the crush of innocence arrived
That’s when our sweat then soured
It was either hurt feelings or tragedy
That permanently cut or bruised us
Which then fracture our membranes
And destroyed all chances to retreat
Or to have a sweet smell as an adult
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About Fred Chandler
Fred has had the honor of being a KCET/PBS Poet of The Month, a National Endowment for the Humanities (NEH) grant recipient, and a published poet in the domestic and international journals The Muse, Black Lantern, The Splizz, and Northern Stars. Fred’s poetry readings have also been produced for shows at Beyond Baroque and 2018 literary festivals, and have been put to music by Bruce Botnik, famed producer of The Doors, and film composer and conductor Aaron Zigman (The Notebook, Wakefield).
You can find more of Fred’s work at www.fredchandler.com.
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Guardians
Wil Michael Wrenn
Trees on tall hills
to the west
stand like guardians.
Trees have been there
overlooking the land for years.
But there are not as many
now
as there used to be.
Years ago
they were thick as a wall
there were so many of them.
I remember them that way
from my childhood,
but the Boy Scout Camp
that they belonged to
was bought out
by an absentee private landowner,
and he cut down many
of the stately trees.
Those that are left
stand apart from each other,
no longer like a wall,
but they still stand
like guardians
overlooking the land,
the best that they can.
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About Wil Michael Wrenn
Wil Michael Wrenn is a poet/songwriter living in rural north Mississippi. He has an MFA from Lindenwood University and is a member of the American Society of Composers, Authors, and Publishers (ASCAP). His work has appeared in several journals, magazines, and anthologies, and he has published a book of poems. His website can be found at: http://www.michaelwrenn.com/
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The Gift of Life
Wil Michael Wrenn
Sitting in a swing in my yard,
surrounded by a vivid green bowl
of misty, wooded hills;
windswept emerald fields;
peaceful, shady hollows;
and lush vegetation,
it dawns on me,
as the sun sets in a flaming sky,
what a great and wondrous gift
this thing called life
really is.
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About Wil Michael Wrenn
Wil Michael Wrenn is a poet/songwriter living in rural north Mississippi. He has an MFA from Lindenwood University and is a member of the American Society of Composers, Authors, and Publishers (ASCAP). His work has appeared in several journals, magazines, and anthologies, and he has published a book of poems. His website can be found at: http://www.michaelwrenn.com/
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Temporary Duty
Mike Schneider
No. 30 walked into the break room, drew a cup of coffee, sat down across the table from the room’s only other occupant.
“How’s it going 45, where’s the Old Man sending you this week?”
“Manila to cover a tsunami. I’m getting tired of these natural disasters. Too much work, too few troops.”
“Too few is right. I had eight capsized boatloads of Syrian refugees in the Mediterranean to contend with, by myself, a couple weeks ago. I forget the exact number of drownings but the boats were grossly overloaded and only a half dozen survived. I’m hoping for something a little lighter this week.”
“Like what?”
“Maybe the California wildfires, only a handful of people cashing out there, 20, perhaps 30. Important but not nearly as sad. They’ve had much better lives than those dodging bullets and living in the rat-infested rubble of the Syrian civil war.”
They were silent for a few minutes, 45 chewing on a chocolate doughnut from a box of Krispy Kremes in the middle of the table, 30 looking off into the corner rather plaintively.
“What are you thinking about?” 45 asked.
“About how much easier it was when the complement was still 5000. We were busy but we could get it done with relative ease. The Old Man cuts staffing by nearly 50 percent and now it’s nearly impossible.”
Forty-five nodded in agreement. They stopped talking while 45 enjoyed another doughnut, glazed this time, while 30 fiddled with his cell phone.
“Forty-five, what’s the worst case you’ve ever been assigned?”
“I don’t know. The Titanic wasn’t the worst but it stands out as one of the most tragic. Fifteen hundred people died for nothing. It wasn’t in the original plan, then the Old Man got a wild hair up the ass and, ‘Boom!’ iceburg.”
“Yeah, that wasn’t good. How many more years do you have on this assignment?”
“Only one hundred and three. How about you?”
“A hundred and five.”
“I don’t know about you but when this is over I sure will be glad to get back to being a regular angel again.”
“Same here. Half a millennium on this assignment is way more than enough for me.”
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Haiku (billion)
Denny E. Marshall
after death
a billion
galaxies
nbsp;
(1st published Reluctant Famulus)
|
Haiku (universe)
Denny E. Marshall
take candy wrapper
off the universe to find
the store is bigger
nbsp;
(1st published Counterclock)
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Slum
Mbizo Chirasha
(I)
Our slums reek with gossip and tabloids.
Smoke filled slums born out of emotion and sex, with goofier generation grown to enjoy borrowed bread and stolen cookies, motivated by hate and greed
Alcoholics, smelling with opportunistic wounds
Slums filled with crescendos of verbal assault and crude lingos, with novices bunkering for fame and gain
Slums empty of totems, choked by crap graffiti and gutter slang
Slums sitting on diamond, when people are demented by poverty
Toothless slums that will not sing the anthem, with puppets tweeting scandals,
Bullet riddled slums seeing life through the bottom of the bottle, waving goodbye to freedom, sniffing their lives in beer bottles and wine jars
Gossip is the unpleasant fart of the slum
Somalia, blood is welling up in your once smiling mouth
Bamako, howls of laughter sink in claps of gun drums,
Slums coughing pollution
Kiberia, your children lulled by the staccato of grenades,
Grenades bruising the soft palms of this earth
Gorongosa dancing in rain, stench of death lingering in raituri, smelling rotten typhoid
(II)
A slum is a fart of a dying city, smelling the scent of aborted republics with hoodlums burning republics in charcoals of hatred,
While republics beat their burnt flesh, mothers wince, licking their stab wounds
A slum is the wounded soul of a burnt republic, it is rubble haunted by propaganda
A slum is a ball of saliva released from the tired scarred chests of parliamentarians,
It is a township castrated by verbal diarrhoea, slang and skokian
Khayelitsha- you are the golden sun setting over hills
Bangui, you are the dance of a puppet
A slum is a republic in intensive care infected by propaganda diabetes and slogan asthma
Eczema, itching the skin and the soul of the state
It is a gang of roaches drinking the super cream milk of the state
it is the howling laughter from booze scorched throats.
Slum!
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Mbizo Chirasha Bio 2019
Mbizo Chirasha Recipient of PEN Deutschland Exiled Writer Grant (2017) Literary Arts Projects Curator, Writer in Residence, Blogs Publisher, Arts for Human Rights/Peace Activism Catalyst, Social Media Publicist and Internationally Anthologized Writer, 2017 African Partner of the International Human Rights Arts Festival Exiled in Africa Program in New York. 2017 Grantee of the EU- Horn of Africa Defend Human Rights Defenders Protection Fund. Resident Curator of 100 Thousand Poets for Peace-Zimbabwe, Originator of Zimbabwe We Want Poetry Movement. African Contributor to the Table of Words Dermer Press International Poetry anthology in Netherlands. Solidarity Member of Global Alliance for Politics and Arts. African Participant to the 2014-2020 World Poetry Almanac Anthologies series in Mongolia. Co-Editor of German Africa Bilingual Collection with German International Translator Andreas Weiland in 2016 (http://www.street-voice.de/SV7/SVissue7.html).
http://tuckmagazine.com/tag/mbizo-chirasha /Zimbabwe We Want Poetry Campaign /Mbizo Chirasha), http://www.newzimbabwe.com/showbiz-39824-,Poems+on+Zim+abuses+to+be+read+in+the+US/showbiz.aspx www.facebook.com/100thousandpoetsforpeace-zimbabwe, www.acaciabookstore.?com/home/?24-inside-disgrace-la?nd.
He is the Editor of Brave Voices Poetry Journal-Tuck Magazine, Word Guerrillas Protest Poetry Journal - Zimbabwe Sphere, Poets Free Zimbabwe- MiomboPublishing (www.miombopublishing.wordpress.com).
Mbizo Chirasha publishes Women of resilience Profiles and Blogs on Word Press (www.personalitiesofinspiration.wordpress.com).
Mbizo Chirasha is a Solidarity Member of the Global Arts and Political Alliance(GAPA http://www.ga-pa.org/2017/11/21/gapa-meets-poem-mbizo-chirasha/), an African Partner of the International Human Rights Arts Festival Exiled in Africa Program, New York United States (http://www.blackstarnews.com/education/education/the-international-human-rights-art-festival-highlights-poet).Mbizo Chirasha is the Founder /Creative Director of Girl Child Creativity Project (www.girlchildcreativity.blogspot.com).
The Zimbabwe Resident Coordinator of the 100 Thousand Poets for Change- Global and the Women Scream International Poetry Festival since 2011.Chirasha has led a number of Creative Interventions and Arts based projects. He is the Founder and Creative Director of Young Writers Caravan Project (2003-2006), Girl Child Creativity Project( 2010-Present), Urban Colleges Writers Contest ( 2013-2014) and Creative Knowledge and Artistic Leadership Training Project 2018-2023 Project.
Mbizo Chirasha was a Young Writers Delegate of Zimbabwe International Book Fair to Sweden( Goteborg Book Fair,2003)including featuring at the, Nordic African Institute Writers Seminar, Swedish Writers Union reading night in Sweden, Swedish International library association, the Rinkeby Library writers Evening, the Swedish Diplomatic luncheon in Stockholm, Writers Night at the Nordic African Institute in Uppsala and SIDA/African Pavilion at Goteborg Book Fair. The Publishing and Writing Delegate to UNESCO PHOTO NOVEL WRITING INTENSIVE TRAINING (2009), The Official Poet in Residence of International Conference of African Culture and Development, 2009 (Ghana) and Official Poet SADC Poetry Festival, NAMIBIA September 2009. He was the poet-in-residence: from 2001-2004 for the Iranian embassy/UN dialogue among civilizations project; the United Nations Information Center Harare Poet in Residence (2001-2008), an artist in Resident in the Atelier Alexandra Art School in Egypt 2006. He was the Convener/Event Consultant THIS IS AFRICA POETRY NIGHT 2004 - 2006; Official Performance Poet Zimbabwe International Travel Expo in 2007, He is a regular Guest Performing Poet at the Zimbabwe international Book Fair, Harare International Festival of the Arts and Zimbabwe German Society various programs.
In 2010 Chirasha participated as a Guest Performance Poet at the Harare International Protest Arts Festival, Ukhubambana Youth for Peace Festival, Patsimeredu Buddyz Festival. The poet was instrumental in the celebration of the Black History Month in February 2011 organized by the Zimbabwe Poets for Human Rights and the United State Embassy Harare’s Public Affairs Department. Mbizo was the guest poet of 2011 hosted by the US Embassy, Harare on the International Poetry Day. He has curated and founded a number of Arts, Arts Activism and Poetry Projects including, this is Africa Poetry Night 2004-2006, African Drums Poetry Festival-2007, The Young writer’s caravan project 2003-2004, Young Poetry Conference Zimbabwe in 2006. He was the Coordinator and Originator of This is the Artist ( Visual Arts and Poetry Cross Genre )Artist in Residence at the Zimbabwe German society in 2007.
He publishes Women of Resilience Voices and Profiles in his POI Journal (www.personalitiiesofinspiration.wordpress.com), Writing /Poetry Voices in MP(www.miombopublishing.wordpress.com). Mbizo Chirasha is an Arts and Political opinions Contributor to the Tuck Magazine(Brave Voices poetry Journal, www.tuckmagazine.com/mbizochirasha).
He co-edited a Ghanaian Poetry Anthology (2011) and a Nigerian Poetry Collection (2013). He is the Co-writer of the Poetry Collection Whispering Woes of Ganges and Zambezi (Cyber Press, India 2010). Good Morning President - Collection of his experimental poetry was published by( 2013, Diaspora Publishers, UK), A Letter to the President his small 3D poetry Collection of protest poetry was published by( 2017, Tiktakti Publishers in Israel).
Chirasha Co-edited an International Bilingual Poetry E- Journal ( Germany and English languages ) by African Poets on African Issues with Andreas Weiland an International Poet, Translator, Publisher and Critic in 2017 (http://www.street-voice.de/SV7/SVissue7.html). He is widely published in more than 500 journals, magazines, and anthologies around the world in countries including Canada, Nigeria, Kenya, Mongolia, Zambia, Botswana, Poland,Ecuador,Philippines, Greece, Uganda, Germany, Finland, South Africa, United kingdom, Ghana, Turkey, Grenada, India, United States, Norway, Poland, Slovenia,Macedonia and Zimbabwe among others. He is profiled in international, local and regional cultural websites.
FOR MORE INFORMATION
www.wikipedia.com/wiki/mbizochirasha
www.facebook.com/mbizo.chirasha
www.linkedin.com/mbizochirasha
www.tuckmagazine.com/tag/mbizochirasha
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Winter Storm
Allan Onik
Stalingrad 1942
The German hid amid the building rubble and held his FG 42. Snowflakes fell from the leaden sky into the ruined city. In the distance he could hear the gunfire and detonations. “Perhaps we can break out?” he said to other.
“The Fuhrer says we will never leave here save victory. And from the Red we’re best not taken alive.”
The Italian soldiers hid behind the decimated brick wall. The dead lay around them and shots whizzed by their helmets. In the bitter cold night, the stars shone brightly against the snow. “You see up there? Up there is Saturn. The planet of limitations. But don’t get too depressed my friend! Sometimes limits are for the best. For growth. We all have a time. We all have a purpose.” He stepped out and fired his Beretta AR70, then was blown off his feet.
The frost picked at the dead as the Reds ascended on the city. In the dawn, the men moved with tempered force. One held up his hand and the unit stopped. He crouched and picked the Luftwaffe dagger from the corpse’s scabbard. “For my collection,” he said.
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Realm of the Wolf
Allan Onik
In Kuntsevo Dacha throne room, Stalin finished his sketch. The wolf in the picture was amid the trees in the mountains. Foliage and shrubbery were nearby, though in the skies leaden clouds.
Berghof Road (close proximity to Berghof retreat):
The bodyguard hid near the hairpin turn, waiting. His hands trembled as he held the P38. When the Mercedes Benz 770 neared, he squinted and eyed the figure in the backseat. For the world, he thought. As the car slowed for the turn he stepped out and fired at the head and chest of the backseat passenger, neutralizing him. He then put the gun to his own head and pulled the trigger.
At Berhof retreat, Hitler stroked Blondie. The German Shepherd curled up next to the fire. “It was a good thing I drove,” the Furher said. “You can never be too careful.”
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Starlight
Allan Onik
Rockefeller Center Christmas Eve 1942
The little boy stopped in front of the Christmas tree. It was unlit, and under the dark skies snowflakes blew. His skin was red from the cold and he tightened his scarf. “Mommy,” he said, “why is the tree so dark?”
“Let me tell you a little story,” she said, crouching down in front of him. “There once lived a great daemon. He was angry, twisted, and pestilent. His anger was so great that he rose from the center of the earth and shook its very foundation. Civilizations fell under his wrath, for all it took was a heave and a breath to fell their kings. But above the earth there existed greater kings living amid the stars, and when the daemon scorched the earth they wept. Well, many years later, after tears flowed like great rivers, the kings in the stars shone their light on the earth. When the daemon shriveled and died he was a pathetic, wretched creature and he crawled back into the chasm from which he came.”
“So someday the tree will be lit again?”
“Yes, little one. You see, they will first light the star on it’s top. And the rest will follow.” The two continued walking into the bustling crowd.
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Goth
Dah
In a deep-
black sundress
her ebony toenails
powdery skin
her hair filled with ravens
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Dah Bio
Dah’s seventh poetry collection is Something Else’s Thoughts (Transcendent Zero Press) and his poems have been published by editors from the US, UK, Ireland, Canada, Spain, Singapore, Philippines, Poland, Australia, Africa, and India. He is a Pushcart Prize and Best Of The Net nominee and the lead editor of the poetry critique group, The Lounge. Dah lives in Berkeley, California, where he is working on his eighth book of poetry.
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Phoebe’s Fault
Karen Todd
Phoebe pushed her pillow tight over her ears. Her mom and dad were yelling again, but this time it was all her fault.
Why couldn’t they just get along? Phoebe knew, as any eight-year-old would, that her dad shouldn’t drink so much. He was mean when he drank – mean to her mother, mean to Phoebe.
Of course her mother knew that, too. Why did she have to bring up the things in the car? Phoebe felt her face grow warm with shame, remembering the strange square packets, and her question, and the look on her mother’s face.
Stupid car. If mom’s car hadn’t broken down, none of this ever would have happened. But it did break, so they used daddy’s car, and then everything was broken, and it was all Phoebe’s fault.
“What are these?” Phoebe asked as her mom drove her to school. She’d been rummaging through the glove compartment – daddy’s glove compartment – looking for a pencil. Phoebe had a pencil of her own but the lead was broken, and she needed to finish her math homework.
“What are these?” she asked. Her mother glanced over at the nearly flat square packets in Phoebe’s hand.
“Oh my God, Phoebe! Put those back!”
“I found them in there,” she said, pointing to daddy’s glove compartment. “What are they?”
“Just put them back! For God’s sake, Phoebe!”
Alarmed, Phoebe returned the packets to the glove compartment and said nothing more. The drive to school wasn’t all that long, but neither she nor her mother said anything. Phoebe thought maybe she should say something, but she looked at her mom just in time to see a tear slide down her face. Her mom quickly wiped it away, but Phoebe spent the rest of the trip listening to her mother’s uneven breathing.
“Bye mom.” Phoebe’s voice sounded small. “I love you.”
“I love you too, hon. Have a good day.”
The words were the same ones Phoebe heard every day, but her mom seemed so tired. No – not tired, exactly. More like part of her was somewhere else, somewhere far away.
The noise and chaos of the classroom helped to dispel Phoebe’s dread and confusion, but she forgot all about her math homework. Embarrassed, she handed in the incomplete work.
The packets fascinated Phoebe. All day long she wondered what they could be and made up a hundred possible answers. What could be so terrible? Why did her dad have them? Maybe he had some horrible secret disease and the packets were medicine. Or maybe...
Mrs. Mastel got on to Phoebe four times for not paying attention to her work.
After lunch, the office lady brought Mrs. Mastel a note. “Phoebe, your mom called. Jessica’s mom will pick you up today and take you home.”
“Yes ma’am.” Phoebe had a bad feeling. She tried to feel as excited as Jessica was, bouncing next to Phoebe in her seat, but the weight of the morning car ride was back.
Jessica chattered the whole way to her mom’s car. “Hey, mom! Can Phoebe spend the night?”
“Maybe. We’ll see.” Jessica’s mom smiled at Phoebe the way people do when something really bad has happened. Phoebe shrank into the seat.
“What’s wrong with you?” Jessica demanded.
“What? Oh. I don’t know.”
“Jessi! Is that any way to talk to your best friend?”
“But she won’t talk back! It’s like she can’t even hear me.”
“Maybe Phoebe just needs to be quiet right now. Be a good friend and be quiet with her.”
As they pulled into Phoebe’s driveway, Jessica asked with little girl somberness, “Do you want to spend the night?”
Phoebe desperately wanted to say yes, to find some place, any place to hide. But she knew without knowing how that she could not hide. Whatever was happening would find her, no matter where she went.
“Wait here, Jessi.” Phoebe thought it strange that Jessica’s mom walked her to the door instead of just dropping her off. Her mother met them at the door.
“Hi, m—” Phoebe saw her mother’s red, puffy eyes, saw the tissues clutched in her hand.
Jessica’s mom hugged Phoebe’s mom. “Beth, I’m so sorry. Are you sure you don’t want me to take Phoebe for the night?” Phoebe’s mom shook her head. “Okay. If you need me, call me. If there’s anything I can do call me, okay?”
Phoebe spent hours in her room. For a while, she sat on her bed, her arms wrapped tightly around Barney the bunny. Her mom paused outside her open door. “Phoebe, hon, do your homework.” She didn’t seem angry but her voice sounded flat and left Phoebe feeling more unsettled than before.
Shadows collected in her room. As she turned on her light, the phone rang. When her mom didn’t answer it she looked out into the darkening house. Had her mom gone out? Phoebe was about to answer the phone herself but it stopped ringing.
“Mom?” Phoebe tiptoed down the hallway.
The phone rang again, and this time her mother answered. “Why don’t you take a cab?... I don’t care how you get home, or if you get home.” Phoebe heard the receiver bang back into place and retreated to her bedroom.
Her dad’s office wasn’t far but long, long minutes passed before he came in. “What the hell is your problem, Beth?”
“Phoebe found these in your glove compartment. Maybe you’d like to explain to her what they’re for. You bastard! How could you? How could you?”
Phoebe moved silently, closed her door against the storm that had been gathering all day.
“Don’t touch me, you bastard! You son of a bitch, don’t you ever touch me again!”
She pulled her pillow over her head and squeezed it tight around her ears. It was all her fault.
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Bio
Karen Todd has found joy playing with words since shortly after she mastered the alphabet. Her various day jobs in marketing and business communications provided not only a way to pay the bills but also a sneaky way to get paid for doing what she loves most: writing. More recently, she discovered an ingenious way to feed her imagination while still feeding the dog each day as a Sleep Expert with a national mattress retailer. Turns out, people will tell you all kinds of things while they buy a new bed.
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Bearing too many Burdens:
Beyond Bollywood, the Smithsonian exhibit on Indian Americans
Sushumna Kannan
Beyond Bollywood is a promising title—to go beyond a culture’s stereotypes is as hard as any task could get. As we walk through this much-awaited exhibit on Indian Americans that is currently showing across different cities in the US and will do so until 2020, we realize that perhaps we expected a little too much of the title. For, in attempting to rid ourselves of one set of stereotypes, we often find them replaced with others—others that are somehow better or more positive stereotypes to have than the older ones. This is not to say that Beyond Bollywood is less important and could have been given a miss. Instead, in Beyond Bollywood, we witness a genuine and deep struggle to redefine a community against the current of simplistic, consumerish, dismissive understanding. However, such a redefinition is too arduous a task.
To replace Bollywood with a more realistic understanding of Indian Americans, the exhibit invokes yoga, fusion music born in the US with bhangra and hip hop, Indian art forms, festivals, Indian American doctors, dentists, engineers, motel owners and more. With orange-pink displays of catalogs accompanying large and small photographs—the exhibit is alluring and sleek. It is complete with multimedia installations that allow us to listen to music, watch videos and such. It has a hodge-podge of showcased items ranging from Indian jewelry, footwear, idols, lamps, postcards of miniature paintings, crafted jewelry boxes, musical instruments and other knick-knacks.
In a display titled, Desis, united we stand—a narrative on the aftermath of racial profiling of desis and protests against it is recorded. The “we” here is a proud Indian American community somewhat inclusive of other South Asians. The “we” includes second generation Indian American kids born in the US as well as Indians who migrated a generation ago and still are. This kind of clubbing of a large and diverse set of people makes it hard to understand who the intended viewer of this exhibit might be. The intended viewer appears to shift from the Desi community, to the second-generation kid to White Americans who eye us suspiciously in malls, parks and neighborhoods. While the exhibit is celebratory for the first two groups, it is informative for the last. Yet, it is not clear if talking of yoga and henna helped take the conversation forward.
In an accompanying display titled “divided we fall,” we are shown desis demonstrating for women’s rights and LGBT rights and protesting against racial discrimination, domestic violence. This nicely contemporizes the community’s involvement in American society, displacing the stereotype of the placid and safe Indian American. In a display titled “Let’s Dance,” again a celebratory tone takes over— “America has embraced Bollywood style dancing...” In a display titled “Freedom of Religion” is another celebratory note on how diverse Indian Americans are. Yet, the true reference of this celebration is India itself—not just the fact that we enrich American landscapes with different architectural structures. Often, this reference back to India is missing. This leaves us feeling somewhat inadequate about the display...like we might have just heard one half of a sentence with ellipses at the end. An underlying assertion in this display is that Indian Americans are indeed a part of America—which is tragic because a number of White Americans do not think so—this sentiment of rejection accentuated by Trump’s recent policies.
In a display titled, “Freedom Here and There,” there is reference briefly to India and its freedom’s struggle. It reveals interesting facts about early immigrants who connected the struggles for freedom in India from British as well as their own for “dignity and rights” in the USA. More history on early immigrants from Punjab is intriguing. The history of Bhagat Singh Thind’s citizenship is extraordinarily fascinating. Yet, the ones on Spelling Bee, Cab drivers, motel owners and the like introduces Indian Americans to White Americans too sporadically rather than telling a more complicated story and capturing the less celebratory aspects of Indian Americans with dignity. A display on the American stereotypes on India with an update on how Indian Americans now play themselves onscreen and Bollywood has taken a hold in America is another celebratory voice. A display asking, “Who are Indian Americans?” kind of shifts to the White American as the intended audience, taking on the burden of providing information.
Beyond Bollywood has many interesting and arresting moments but no one vision that holds it together. It does not talk about the uncomfortable and the celebratory voice loses its charm after a point. It could have, for instance, talked about how Yoga has adapted to America, with most teachers being non-American Indian. Or even invoked controversies about Yoga’s religious nature which parents often object to in schools. There could have been something more on Indian contributions to science and philosophy that connected to Indian Americans and something more on Indian dance forms—they appeared to lack details of the spiritual basis that is their bedrock. Arranged marriage, dowry and caste system should have been explained—unflinchingly, even if our theories of these appear impoverished, embarrassed, apologetic and un-decolonized at the moment.
How Indian Americans feel and relate should have been explored instead of an enumerative catalogue. The enumeration makes us wonder if nothing has changed since the British history of India at all and if India’s diversity still unnerves the western mind. At least, in the Victoria and Albert Museum, London, one sees an explanatory note on the excessive classification and categorization that was thought to produce knowledge. There should have been a mention of the summer holidays that second generation Indian American kids spend in India, what they love and hate about them, the parent-child conflict, the H4 work visa issue, immigration as such, home-sickness even when mostly at home in America and so on.
Lacking all these diverse narratives undercutting each other and offering only one grand narrative on Indian Americans, the Smithsonian’s curation of Beyond Bollywood reads like the State’s narrative through a government spokesperson who aims to please one and all and educates and informs in a diplomatic manner as well. On the whole, the exhibit bears too many burdens all at once—of being current, proud and useful. Despite this, the exhibit is timely, not because there is a rich narrative played out but because there is widespread ignorance about Indian Americans in American society, in 2018—more than a full century after the East and West met as never before, in the 19th century!
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Polaroid
Abigael Tanui
The sun sinks in the west, tucked away by swaying fields of wheat
As darkness tumbles in through a cracked window.
Like a heavy exhale the night convexes.
Churning, expanding, yearning,
it fills up space.
Like a toothy beast it prowls.
Nowhere, a tiny toy car chases it’s headlights
wielded like twin blades.
And an even tinier face stares past it’s floating reflection up through the dirty glass
Like an emerging polaroid.
Up through the window towards stars unveiled from light pollution.
Only half praying at them for a gas station sign to emerge in time.
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A Smoky Love
Travis Green
It was the day before Thanksgiving
and we stood outside across the street
from my home. The sun was shining
in the distance and the deep solid
clouds were frozen in silence. I
lit my cigarette with a lighter
and tried to breathe in the words
that were running out of your mouth.
You were tired of being with me.
The love that we had was running
it’s course. You were losing your
balance and creativity. I paused
with each breathless beat, letting
the diction rise in the shadows
and fall upon my heart, letting
its existence settle inside
my veins, as I flicked the
embers on the gray pavement.
My soul was fading yellow with
scarred and stretched surfaces,
aching brushstrokes beginning
with no meaning, while I shook
my head and turned away towards
the silent trees. A part of me wanted
it back, the tender love that we used
to share over midnight poetry, the
lovemaking we used to do over
R. Kelly’s song, Bump and Grind.
But I knew that we were too far
gone across the distant seas.
And as you kissed me on my cheeks
one last time, I knew I would never
see you again. I watched you walk
away in the distance, a smoky love
diminishing in the ashes.
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Dead Beat
Travis Green
There was so much pain buried
inside my chest, cracked veins
burning without caution, black
screaming skies beaten and choking
in the shadows, a harsh slash of
blazing depths smothering my existence,
as I stood inside my living room
staring at the scattered clothes
covering the red rusted floor.
The broken picture frames
bleeding in cold splitting verbs.
The damaged dressers beneath
splintered wood. The offbeat
clock spinning with meaningless
direction. The hanging ceiling fan
whirling in thundering sounds,
atomic blazed bombs banging
endlessly, swayed salvage rhythms
hardened in harboring oceans.
Across from my drunken soul,
there was the raged alcohol bottles
surrounding the walls of a shattered
love stinging my tongue in sunken
millenniums, constant tears tormenting
my heart into hopeless existences.
And as I stared at the mirror facing
my steel burnt eyes, shadowed
memories of a darkened love
blinding my light, blackened drums
rumbling in clouded disguises,
every part of me was conflicted
and stabbed. And as the anger
and pain amplified inside my brain,
closed curtains fading in white stains,
unbearable despairs and dangerous
turns, I smashed the mirror with
bruised bladed hands. And I could
see the blurred images of your
wash away world in each broken
glass, no meaning, useless,
a dead beat stuck in silence.
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Soggy Chicken Tenders
Jack Coey
He watched her make change for the guy in front of him and saw her smile which stirred something in him. He watched her scan the four items he had and place them in a plastic bag.
“Six eighteen,” she said.
He saw her name was Nora. He handed her a ten-dollar bill. She smiled but didn’t mean it.
“Three eighty-two is your change, thank-you.”
He stupidly stood there until she tilted her head as if to say,
“NEXT!”
He clumsily picked up his bag and walked away.
Nora, Nora, Nora, went around and round in his head. His name was Tyrone O’Toole and he worked as a pin-setter at the bowling alley. He was twenty-eight years old and skinny and lonely. He’d been in this town for about three months after leaving the south end after his father and he argued over money. His mother was dead. He wanted more than anything to have his own life where he didn’t have to answer to anybody, but he found that road to be a lonely one, at least to start. He’d heard the stories of his grandfather coming over on the boat, and wasn’t he just as much of a man as he? He’d moved from a run-down motel near the highway to a small apartment over the hardware store and was bringing home his dinner. He had ringing in his ears from balls hitting the pins and banged his hand against the side of his head to get it to stop. Passersby thought he had water in his ears. He climbed the wooden, creaky stairs to his room. When he moved in, he found wet condoms under the couch, and figured the men from the hardware store who were also his landlord used the apartment for lovemaking either with each other or with women while it was empty. He yearned to have his turn on the couch not with any of the hardware men however.
“Nora,” he thought.
He guessed she was in her twenties, and the next time he went in, he told himself to check her fingers for a wedding band. He admitted she probably had a boyfriend with her black hair and blue eyes, and her smile that, when she meant it, was as erotic as a French postcard. He thought about the time he saw his mother through a partially open door, and the shame he felt, and when he told Father Flanagan about it, he said how he should ask for The Lord’s Forgiveness during Confessional. He liked Mr. Stevens at school, and when he told him about it, he acted like his feelings were normal, and that boys were supposed to get excited over the female body, and he couldn’t figure it out because God said one thing, and Nature said something else, and what was a kid to do? He tried not feeling a certain way, but when the other boys showed him the magazine, the feelings shot through his groin like lightening. And then there was his old man who criticized him for lying around and not doing anything. He drove a cab in Boston, and the only muscles he used were his jaws to ask for the fare or to open his mouth wide enough to get the whisky down. He wanted to be a cop but didn’t quite make it, and Tyrone was started to figure out that had nothing to do with him. He took out the soggy chicken tenders and put them in the microwave. He’d been on the wagon since the night at the bowling alley when he walked across the lanes during a tournament and promised the owner he wouldn’t drink anymore if he would let him keep his job. He pressed the buttons: 15 seconds and Start. He lost two days of work while the owner thought about it, and he finally relented in large part because Tyrone set the pins faster than anyone. He felt the soggy chicken tenders with his finger and put them back: 15 seconds and Start. When the microwave beeped, he took out the soggy chicken tenders, and ate the soggy chicken tenders that now had a body temperature. He had the feeling that if he saw Nora’s attractiveness there must be plenty of other men who saw it too, and what did he have to really offer? Father Flanagan talked about Miracles, and he never said it couldn’t happen to a guy like Tyrone. Although Father Flanagan didn’t look at him the same after he told him about seeing his mother. Tyrone had the feeling that there was a part of Father Flanagan that was hidden somehow. One-time Father Flanagan came in the bathroom and looked at Tyrone in a way that momentarily showed that repressed desire – like an actor taking off the mask, and quickly replacing it, so the victim is not even sure of what he saw. Tyrone was cautious around Father Flanagan. The soggy chicken tenders sat in his stomach like cement. He felt tired.
When he woke, he sat on the toilet, and when he looked at his turds, they were the shape of soggy chicken tenders. Not only shape but size too like they went through his stomach without any alteration except for color. He worried he was sick. He thought about Nora to change his thoughts. He was curious as to when and how much she worked. He planned to go in this morning to see if she was there. He had the idea to slip a ten-dollar bill to one of the young cart boys to act as a spy for him. Or maybe he would buy him a six-pack. Kids were wicked curious about alcohol, maybe not to the level of sex, but still pretty much. It was later on, there was a tap on his door, and he opened it, and there was Lester. Lester was about thirty-five years old who sweated a lot and was pudgy with stains in his armpits, and beads of sweat on his forehead that Tyrone watched run down his forehead as he said,
“Hey, Tyrone, I was wondering if you weren’t going to be around later on if I and a friend could come up here for lunch. We would clean up, promise.”
Tyrone watched a bead from the middle of his forehead roll down onto the bridge of his nose like a skier going off a jump.
“From what I’ve found, I don’t know as I’d call that lunch.”
Lester’s face became not only wet, but red.
“That? That’s dessert,” Lester giggled.
“Yeah? When I find it, it’s gross.”
“Ah, come on Tyrone, be a pal.”
Tyrone looked at Lester a long moment.
“All right, Lester, but if I find any gross-me-outs I’m coming downstairs, and I don’t care who hears me, get it?”
“Sure, sure thing, Tyrone. Thanks, thanks a lot.”
Lester backed out of the door closing it in front of him.
Tyrone thought that making love to Lester would be like wrapping your arms around a sponge. He walked the two blocks to work, and Max was angry because the pin setter on Lane Eight wasn’t working, and Tyrone shut the power down in that lane, and looked over the machine. Max was a pain-in-the-ass because every little thing was a catastrophe. He found a loose wire and a bushing on the sweeper arm was worn. Max was over his shoulder, watching every move, complaining about the money it would cost forgetting he went to Florida every winter. When Tyrone told him what the problem was, Max acted like he would have to take out a second mortgage. Tyrone shrugged it off and let Max blow off steam. He had it fixed in twenty minutes. He watched the pin setter. He liked watching the young girls bowl from behind the machine. It was the fluidity of their hips he liked and bouncing of their tits if they were big enough. Men’s Leagues bored him. Bunch of middle-aged, paunchy, beer drinking men who thought they were still fetching.
“More like retching,” he thought.
Nothing to look at this morning; school’s in session. Max paged him to the desk and asked him if he could cover the snack bar for twenty minutes until Jose got there. He didn’t like doing it because he had to put up with the complaints of the hamburger being too rare or the bun is stale, or the French fries are soggy.
“If they think my hamburgers are bad, they ought to try my soggy chicken tenders – go through them like a brick,” he thought.
About a half an hour went by and Jose showed up with scratches on his cheek and a sheepish grin. He held his hands in the air and said,
“No lo se.”
And Tyrone got the message he didn’t want to talk about it. He walked out into the parking lot and wondered if Nora was working. He slowly walked to the supermarket trying to think of something charming to say to her.
Babe, you light up my life.
“Naw,” he thought.
Honey, you tick my clock.
“Stupid.”
Sweetie, you’re a strike in the tenth frame.
“What if she’s not a bowler?”
That thought caused him to stop walking.
“What happens if we have nothing in common?” He was sad at the thought of it.
“How likely is that, really?” he reassured himself. He walked again with revived purpose. He stopped in the parking lot and watched the building as if that would bring him luck. He saw Lester exit empty-handed and wondered what he was doing. He decided to go in and stood there. He watched the cart boy push a parade of carts. He decided again to go in and stood there.
“Of course, I’m not afraid of her, am I?”
He thought over his candidates of what to say to her, and they didn’t exactly propel him in the door. He walked around a little bit and headed for his apartment. He felt ambivalent: on one hand, he didn’t have anything to say to her, on the other, he was chicken.
Hey, I’m a soggy chicken tender.
When he got to his apartment, he looked for evidence that Lester had been there. There were some plastic wrappers in the trash barrel, and in the corner of the kitchen, he found a name tag with Nora written on it.
|
The St. Louis Zoo
Ben Rasnic
My friend Bob
& I
were tripping on sum
good windowpane when
we took a wrong turn
off I-64 & dropped down
into the St. Louis Zoo &
every other word was “Wow!”
until we got to the gorilla cage
where that great big fucker
with his huge arms wearing
truck tires around his biceps
gave me such a look that raised
chill bumps down my arms
& up my ass even in St. Louis humidity
from those Bette Davis in the gorilla world eyes,
pissed off and extremely judgmental
so we opted to visit Monkey World
& we laughed & laughed
at the slapstick Chimpanzees
masturbating behind a very matronly,
librarian type 60-year old virgin school marm
bewildered and confused by her Junior High
School audience’s total lack of decorum,
which now included my friend Bob & I.
|
the cobblestone trail
of my poetic footsteps
ayaz daryl nielsen
immense distances
of tilting sketches
and frail rhythms,
with verbs and verses
dogging my footsteps,
tapping on my shoulder,
of pendulums swinging
from tremulous dreams
struggling for life, yes,
this, this, the cobble-
stoned trail of my
poetry’s footsteps
|
about ayaz daryl nielsen
ayaz daryl nielsen, veteran and former hospice nurse, lives in Longmont, Colorado, USA.
Editor of bear creek haiku (28+ years/150+ issues) with poetry published worldwide (and deeply appreciated), he is online at: bear creek haiku poetry, poems and info
|
Untitled (giving)
ayaz daryl nielsen
midwinter snowstorm,
overnight’s icy roads...
giving slices of bread
to birds and squirrels
while I eat jelly
on a spoon
|
about ayaz daryl nielsen
ayaz daryl nielsen, veteran and former hospice nurse, lives in Longmont, Colorado, USA.
Editor of bear creek haiku (28+ years/150+ issues) with poetry published worldwide (and deeply appreciated), he is online at: bear creek haiku poetry, poems and info
|
Untitled (open)
ayaz daryl nielsen
lily pads open
dozens, blooming
a toad sits on one,
croaking, and from
pads a few feet away
other toads reply
and, you know,
I find myself
smiling
|
about ayaz daryl nielsen
ayaz daryl nielsen, veteran and former hospice nurse, lives in Longmont, Colorado, USA.
Editor of bear creek haiku (28+ years/150+ issues) with poetry published worldwide (and deeply appreciated), he is online at: bear creek haiku poetry, poems and info
|
Bullies Then and Always
John Tustin
It’s been so long that bullies affected me
Directly
But I have never forgotten them.
To be afraid to enter a place
Or to play a game
Or to speak a word
Because someone desperate
To be superior to you
Must squelch your sounds,
Your movement towards some small
Desire or happiness.
It always lies beneath my movements
And intentions.
I left those days behind when I stopped caring
What other people thought of me
Or of my physical being
But I remember my cheeks flushed
As some hambone twice my size
Stood before me and emulated my stammer
Or the half-hearted way
I kicked a ball sideways.
Later my bullies were my purported friends,
Domineering me with my own desire
To be liked.
Later still, my bullies were those who claimed to love me
And only want what is best for me.
That was worse than the childhood of torment and silence.
The bullies of grade school faded away.
I don’t remember their names but I still see the faces.
The bullies of friendship are also gone
But I know all their names
As well as every face.
The bullies of my love life are marked on me
As indelibly as the poison needle of tattoos stains a body,
Never to be erased and hardly even
Diminished with time
Except to look withered
And more real.
Look at my face.
Look closely.
I still shiver when the phone rings
And wince when I retrieve my mail.
Mistaking a face on the street,
Hearing a seemingly familiar voice
I am certain is about to excoriate me for my frailties:
Can you not see what she has,
What they have
Done?
It is over
But it never ends.
|
Burning Bridges, Burning Bushes, Burning Tires
John Tustin
I am busy burning bridges
As other listen to the burning bushes
That tell them the next life
Is better than this wandering around the desert
Looking for fertile soil
And neighbors who will not mutilate us
With the burning of gasoline tires
Around our necks.
They search for their plot of peace
In this world of war because a bush on fire
Told them it is there if they just look
And then to just forget that and wait for their reward when life tells them
It is parting ways with them.
I will be planting my dynamite
In strategic areas
To cause maximum damage
Because I don’t want any of you following me
When life tells me I am done -
I want to finally be alone!
And I may not go to the best place next time
(If there is a place to go)
But I certainly won’t go to the worst
Because I may have burned bridges but never
When someone was on them
And not a single burning tire was hung around a neck
And set on fire
By me
As the guitar strings bended,
The music played
In an air where ears do not listen
But the smell of gasoline and burning flesh
Canceled out the smell of burning branches
Where, within the crackling,
Spoke the voices
Of hoodwinkers
And charlatans,
Promising tomorrow.
|
Places I Have Lived
T. J. Butler
ground floor apartment, one hundred plants
little Egyptians living in the curtains
my grandparent’s house, terrifying basement
pink bedspread with chewing strings
#102 the devil’s apartment, tiny beer kitchen
rage and chaos swept under the carpets
built from scraps, falling down, the messy room
hears dishes thrown and dinner flying
staff, levels, points, staff, levels, points
hazy, sterile homes, psychic angel butchers
pop floor, mohawk freedom, ashing cigarettes
in empty glasses, trashcan is the kitchen
shoebox duplex, ace of spades on potted
tree, hair dye, mace and broken glass
walk-in closet for Christmas, two months
Valium, mini-thins, three people one bedroom
farmhouse, Alice post-mushroom, daydream roof
dancing girl, the scale says the bones are speaking
my car, motels, black patchouli-dreadlocks, acid
puppies, twenty cities summertime
sunrise, ocean apartment, waves crashing at
my headboard, can’t wait to get back home
familiar walk-in closet, different girl in my head and
try to make sense. He grew it like a garden.
a bedroom first since the basement, strange to
be alone, so much space to fill with demons
|
Author’s Bio
T. J. Butler lives on a sailboat with her husband and dog. She writes short fiction that is not all fun and games. She is a Pushcart Prize nominee and a regular contributor to Tiny House Magazine. Her work has been or will be featured in Anti-Heroine Chic, SisterShip, The Moon Magazine, Soft Cartel, Pen in Hand, and others.
|
In Praise of Flash Fiction
Tom Ball
What is needed, for all books is to just summarize the plot in under 1000 words. If you do that to Shakespeare, the result is mediocre. But the plot is the essence of a story.
People don’t have time to read long novels.
And poetry is just pretty language, not much of a plot. And often has many rules which limit the content.
300 Authors could each write a page or two of flash which would be each writer’s best work or best dream or anecdote. That would be a good book. And you could make thousands of them.
Anecdotes, like stories that really happen which you share with friends. Very short stories.
Everyone has a favorite story to tell, especially if they have traveled a lot.
Some say story writing is a craft, and you improve with time, and sure you develop your imagination, but it all comes down to the plot, not empty dialogue.
And some say crazy stories are better and are the way of the future. Most good books have a crazy moment or moments which the plot revolves around, why not make the whole story crazy⍗imaginative?
All is mad in love and war.
But people will keep on studying Shakespeare. And flash fiction remains ignored.
|
An Outrage Against Churches
Tom Ball
In the year 2228 A.D., no one was religious any more. And everywhere churches were being converted to whore houses. Some said to do so was unlucky and ill conceived.
The whores all had an aura of light around them and flew with wings like angels.
The churches were walled into numerous rooms and there were many pornographic paintings on the walls.
I was rich and so could pay for the best “angels.”
|
What the Rooster Really Says
Heath Brougher
Good (motionless bodies along the path to Baghdad,
violent religious uprisings, daily bombings, African children skin and bones,
nuclear warheads armed and at the ready, toxic waste leaking into the Pacific,
a healthcare system where one accident will send you straight to the poorhouse,
the skeletal shambles of the economy, melting polar ice caps, the terrorist News stations,
various diseases one mutation away from becoming a pandemic, politicians spouting
nothing resembling the truth, assault rifles in the hands of maniacs, fracking next door,
flammable tap water, China rising, trans fats and obesity,
hospitals full of infected lymph nodes, a prison of toxic food and pills,
this spurious democracy, and that atrocious possible truth in the back of your head
that keeps telling you there just may be no light at the end of that tunnel) morning.
|
Bio
Heath Brougher is the poetry editor of Into the Void, winner of the 2017 and 2018 Saboteur Award for Best Magazine. He published three chapbooks in 2016 and 2017 and three full length collections About Consciousness (Alien Buddha Press, 2017), To Burn in Torturous Algorithms (Weasel Press, 2018), and The Ethnosphere’s Duality (Cyberwit.Net, 2018). He has two collections forthcoming in 2019. He is a multiple Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net Nominee and his work has been translated into journals in Albania and Kosovo as well as a full length collection Severed Tongues, published in French. His work has appeared or in Taj Mahal Review, Chiron Review, SLAB, MiPOesias, Main Street Rag, Burningword Literary Journal Best of 2018 Special Issue, Boston Poetry Magazine, Third Wednesday, BlazeVOX, and elsewhere.
|
Desperate Times
Heath Brougher
An epic was needed
but all that escaped,
meekly, was a haiku
muttered by the mouth
of a mouse which turned out
to more than suffice
|
Bio
Heath Brougher is the poetry editor of Into the Void, winner of the 2017 and 2018 Saboteur Award for Best Magazine. He published three chapbooks in 2016 and 2017 and three full length collections About Consciousness (Alien Buddha Press, 2017), To Burn in Torturous Algorithms (Weasel Press, 2018), and The Ethnosphere’s Duality (Cyberwit.Net, 2018). He has two collections forthcoming in 2019. He is a multiple Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net Nominee and his work has been translated into journals in Albania and Kosovo as well as a full length collection Severed Tongues, published in French. His work has appeared or in Taj Mahal Review, Chiron Review, SLAB, MiPOesias, Main Street Rag, Burningword Literary Journal Best of 2018 Special Issue, Boston Poetry Magazine, Third Wednesday, BlazeVOX, and elsewhere.
|
Gasmask Anthem
Heath Brougher
Among the de-regulated toxic,
dog-sick, mammalian-sick
greenish-brown skies, a woman
sat in her backyard, strumming a harp,
pouring as much water and music as she could
onto her freshly-planted plethora of oxygenation
she hoped would help to combat the thick, almost-dead
yet once-verdant life sprouting from the cornucopia
of seeds which she had pressed into the soil of her backyard.
|
Bio
Heath Brougher is the poetry editor of Into the Void, winner of the 2017 and 2018 Saboteur Award for Best Magazine. He published three chapbooks in 2016 and 2017 and three full length collections About Consciousness (Alien Buddha Press, 2017), To Burn in Torturous Algorithms (Weasel Press, 2018), and The Ethnosphere’s Duality (Cyberwit.Net, 2018). He has two collections forthcoming in 2019. He is a multiple Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net Nominee and his work has been translated into journals in Albania and Kosovo as well as a full length collection Severed Tongues, published in French. His work has appeared or in Taj Mahal Review, Chiron Review, SLAB, MiPOesias, Main Street Rag, Burningword Literary Journal Best of 2018 Special Issue, Boston Poetry Magazine, Third Wednesday, BlazeVOX, and elsewhere.
|
A Dreadful Mistake
Charles S. Manuel
Arconstan made his way through the crowd that had built up with cheers of congratulations and gasps of shock. He looked up at the raised platform where the man they were celebrating, the man that killed a Wargast Wolf. Everyone was trying to push forward to get a glimpse of the creature that had been killed. He finally pushed his way to the front, looked upon the beast in the man’s truck bed and spat onto the group before clenching his teeth.
“Ah, here is the Wasteland Hunter to verify the fearsome monster that I have slain!” The man said. “The monster we had paid him to kill but failed to do so.”
“Get down from there you moron,” Arconstan said.
Arconstan’s voice was scratchy, almost like a growl when he spoke. It was the result of the large scar that decorated his throat. As he stared up at the man with his one good eye, the other covered in scars and an eye patch, he saw the other laughing and refusing to budge. His teeth clenched tighter before he suddenly grabbed the man’s foot and pulled it front the platform, sending him landing on the ground in a heap.
“Since I’ve come to this town I’ve known you to be an idiot Darrel, but this is by far the stupidest shit I’ve ever seen,” Arconstan said.
Darrel groaned, trying to get up before several of his friends rushed over to help him. Their eyes locked onto him, eyebrows furrowed, some of them moving to surround him with clubs and other tools in their hand. He tapped the pistol strapped his hips but left it holstered, instead drawing his retractable baton. Pressing a button it extended, a flash of electricity coursing down the shaft.
“You boys might want to think about what you’re about to do,” Arconstan said.
They had apparently already had, the first of them rushing forward. He hadn’t even gotten a chance to swing before Arconstan was there, jamming the baton into the man’s stomach, the shock sending him to ground. Another attacked, he got the baton to his head and then to his gut which sent that man down screaming. A third got tripped up landing face first in the dirt before Arconstan jammed the baton into his back. It was then that he saw Darrel reaching for the rifle on the truck. A second later the was a loud ‘BANG’ and then there was a smoking hole an inch in front where the man had been reaching.
“You better stop being stupid,” Arconstan said.
Arconstan held his gun aimed at Darrel until the other backed away from the truck. He kicked the friends on the ground while putting away his weapons. They all groaned but moved back within the crowd. The Wasteland Hunter moved over to where the beast was and easily confirmed what he had been dreading. Behind him Darrel’s voice rose over the murmuring crowd.
“What is your problem Arconstan?” Darrel asked. “Are you jealous that I was able to kill this creature with such ease?”
“You and your town hired me to kill an alpha male Wargast Wolf,” Arconstan said. “One simple look at this, you should know you haven’t killed an alpha male. First off, it’s female. Second, even the smallest full grown Wargast Wolf is three times this big. You’ve killed one of its pups.”
There were gasps and shouts from the crowd. Arconstan turned and saw that Darrel started at him, an eyebrow raised. The crowd then began shouting at the boy before the mayor of the town walked forward. He hit the man on the head with the cane he carried.
“You idiot!” the mayor said. “I told you to let the Hunter take care of this! Arconstan, is this going to be an issue.”
“It is,” Arconstan replied. “I needed another day to prepare for the hunt. But the problem that its pack will be coming for its pup tonight. The scent will lead them here. A pack of them runs about five or six males and three or four females. If I had time to kill the alpha, there would have been a power struggle where fights for dominance would have been done. They are to the death so it would have thinned their numbers. Then I could have come back with a few more hunters and finished what was left of the pack.”
“And we don’t have the weapons needed to fend off an attack from the pack,” the mayor said. “So are you saying we should run?”
“Temporarily,” Arconstan replied. “I am going to head north and request a few more hunters from Fortress Seattle. You all should head south to the barrier city Tacoma until I send word of the all clear.”
“I understand,” the mayor said.
“One more thing,” Arconstan said. “The wolves will be searching for two scents. The scent of the pup and the scent of the thing that killed it.”
All eyes turned to Darrel whose face had turned pale. The mayor nodded at Arconstan as the Hunter turned and walked over to his motorcycle. As he got on it, he heard the man screaming, yelling and begging. The start of the motor drowned out his screams. Arconstan didn’t look back, as the man suffered for his dreadful mistake.
|
regretful ending
David Boski
let’s yell at each other
and call each other
names
say things
we can’t take
back
cause if we
just go about this
like two mature adults
we won’t
f e e e e e e l
anything
now will we?
so
go ahead
sweetheart
let it all out
call me an asshole
tell me I’m a piece of
shit
tell me I’ll always
be alone
and that I don’t
deserve
your love
or any love
for that matter
but when you finish
it’s my turn
and I have a lot
of things I’d like
to get off
my chest
a lot of things
we’ll both regret
later on
but by then
it’ll be
too late
thanks
for
listening
|
Urine Trouble
David Boski
I awoke to what I thought was a running drain or a leak of some sort, when I noticed her sitting at the edge of the bed.
“You hear that?” I asked annoyed, but she didn’t respond.
she had come to my place wasted earlier that night, and that’s when I realized what was happening.
“Jesus Christ, are you fucking pissing on the floor?” I asked as I reached to turn on the light switch in an angry panic.
The answer was no, she wasn’t relieving herself on the floor but rather the mattress itself.
“Sara, you pissed on the fucking bed!” I yelled as I tried shaking her awake.
“wh...uh...at” she slurred.
“what do you mean what? you pissed on the fucking mattress you fucking cunt”
“oh shit, I’m sorry. I’ll get you a new one” she replied, suddenly awake.
Perhaps due to my yelling or maybe because she was sitting in a puddle of her own piss.
“It fucking stinks, where the fuck are we going to sleep?”
“I’ll get you a new fucking mattress. I’ll send you the money for it!” she yelled back at me.
“no, no, fuck that. you’re done, that’s it.”
“you’re breaking up with me?” she asked confused.
“yes, get the fuck out. I have to get rid of this and sleep on the fucking couch.”
“fine, I’ll send you the money you fucking asshole” she said as she finished getting dressed and putting on her shoes.
. . .
The next day she transferred me the money for the mattress, but I sent it back and I took her back instead.
A month later we broke up again.
But this time
she didn’t
send
any money.
|
A Special Moment in Time
David Boski
I remember she told me
she found
somebody else
how it felt different
how we were done
and how she knew
she had something
special
and that maybe one day
I too would find somebody
special
and if I was lucky enough
to do so
I would know.
and she was right
for a moment there
they were very happy
I’m sure.
they fell in love
and got married
very quickly
and then she got pregnant
but after she did
he cheated on her
the entire time --
not so special
anymore
now
is it?
|
Cartagena
Todd Mercer
The pilot was dead already, probably, the coroner’s report read. I didn’t know that for a fact then, but someone had to pull him from his cockpit seat and fly the plane. Massive heart attack. Pick pragmatism over panic. Am I right? So I hauled his body less gently than his family might wish. I landed us—no prior experience. We missed the runway, bounced hard in short grass, snapped a wheel. Our Columbian friends repaired it. Sky-worthy inside an hour. They loaned us a replacement pilot to fly the cargo stateside. We cashed huge checks, exhaled. I tried to retire.
|
About Todd Mercer
Todd Mercer was nominated for Best of the Net in 2018. Mercer won 1st, 2nd & 3rd place of the Kent County Dyer-Ives Poetry Prizes and the won Grand Rapids Festival Flash Fiction Prize. Recent work appears in: The Lake, The Magnolia Review, Praxis and Softblow.
|
I Hate My Job
K. Stacy
A life wasted on the monotonous years spent as a disinterested staff member.
Clock in.
Work.
Go through the motions of your job.
“How can I help you”, you ask, with a painted smile across your face.
Clock out.
Wasting away to earn a paycheck.
Not giving a damn, like a bird doesn’t care about the car it poops on.
One day: it will end. You will never go back.
Instead, you will drive slowly, hold up traffic on purpose, and drink to the working days of suffering.
When your boss asks if you need, you only think, “I need a new job” or “I need to get out of here”.
The vicious cycle of burnout.
Escape before it kills you.
|
The Loneliness
K. Stacy
And when the loneliness becomes too much to bear, suffocating in the home you share with no one but photographs of the life you once knew, in the expensive bed you picked out together, you realize the shell of your soul has been hiding lonelier than the abandoned puppy on the side of the road, with nowhere to escape, no one to go to, no protection from the downpouring element of sadness. He did not leave, he will come back, you say, lying to yourself to make it hurt less. Unleash the anger from your loss, like a lion roaring at its oppressors. Ignore the “I would do anything if....” For there grows resentment and self-hatred. Grasp the denial and face the truth as a charging bull in the Spanish city. Cry, scream, hold fists to Heaven, shout, but never pretend otherwise. Except that one day, loneliness will only be a bitter choice.
|
To My Dismay
K. Stacy
As I drove home from work, a sense of uneasiness filled my gut. I dreaded the car ride home, because I sensed what had happened. From the street corner, I saw all of my items piled onto the curb. There laid my black couch and my oak bookcase with books thrown throughout the grass. My photographs were blowing away in the wind. Although I expected it, my gut wrenched as I saw my life spread into piles of trash on the side of the road. Drivers slowed as they looked at what I had accumulated throughout the past year, as if they were judging me based upon what I had owned.
I could not bring myself to get out of my car. The thought of rebuilding my life was daunting, so there I sat. For fifteen minutes, I watched, hoping that somehow the situation would change. If I closed my eyes for long enough, I thought that maybe I would open them and have a home again. The tears had not come yet; disbelief filled my head, while heaviness was a weight that tugged at my heart. It was a burdensome heaviness that only the homeless can recognize. Birds landed on my television. Dogs walked up to sniff my items, while owners tugged them away.
Two years ago, college graduates walked across the stage, expecting success. Some found jobs that they love; some come to work and dread what they do. For me, I took an opportunity as a low paying retail manager but hoped for more. I strive to improve myself. During time off, I volunteer as a Center Representative and Museum Docent, hoping to use those as experiences as resume bullets. Jobs that are currently hiring expect experience to top off education, while acing the interview. Nervousness cripples me, because I know that for every job interview that I take, there are hundreds of others competing against me. After walking across the graduation stage, I knew that the easy road was very narrow and that only a few from my graduating class would be allowed on. I never expected my road to be this hard; it is one filled with rocks, snakes who hoped against my success, and now it has homelessness.
My items on the side of the road do not define who I am. My paycheck does not define how hard I work, but it pushes me to work harder. As I stared at all of my belongings, the things that I loved, I decided to drive away. Salty tears rolled down my cheeks, my stomach was doing backflips, and I still could not believe that it really happened. I was evicted. I am homeless. Here I go, rebuilding my life from scratch.
|
Guardian Angel of the Commissary
A. Elizabeth Herting
Two toddlers.
Tami felt an intense flash of deja vu as her younger son grabbed a fistful of peanut M&Ms from the display next to the check out line and attempted to shove the entire bag, unopened, into his mouth. She quickly decided that whomever was in charge of designing grocery stores couldn’t possibly be a mother. If there was any place in the world that gave hell a run for its money in the torture department, it was the candy and gum display at the Commissary with two small toddlers in tow.
The deja vu feeling was making her dizzy, so strong was the memory from just one year ago. Back then, she’d had only one toddler with a bun in the oven and a missing-in-action husband, one booted foot firmly planted out the door.
They’d married impossibly young, Tami sneaking away from her parents home in the middle of the night and throwing herself into his eager arms.
Milo was Army, scooping her up and depositing her onto the base into a perfectly adequate row house that looked like all of the others on their pseudo-block. It was pure infatuation, true love unlike anything she’d ever known before. It was heaven right up until it was hell, Tami being just eighteen years old when they wed in a furtive ceremony at the county courthouse.
She’d found over the past couple of years that while old high-school friends were just beginning to graduate from college like maturing blooms in a garden, Tami was growing her own hothouse flowers. She’d bet it all on Milo and lost, the fires of youthful passion burning themselves out in a pathetic whimper.
It was particularly galling that while Milo was in the process of moving out, Tami gave birth to their second son. The baby was the spitting image of Milo, indistinguishable from his old baby pictures, fate’s way of getting the last laugh.
She may not have her husband anymore, but she would raise his doppelganger right along with his older brother, Liam, who had just celebrated his third birthday.
She closed her eyes and tried to tamp down the familiar feelings of dread as she pried the candy away from Zachary’s needy fingers. Tami turned to the older lady behind her with the apologetic mea culpa of a frazzled young mother, placing her hands protectively over her swelling belly.
Tami’s latest hothouse flower had been from a second hasty marriage, another military man who promised her the moon and left her behind in the rubble. This latest betrayal was still raw and angry. She’d been so certain that she would never stand in the Commissary again, lost and alone, pregnant and trailing a toddler.
No, this time she was pregnant. And alone. With two toddlers.
Tami would laugh if she didn’t think it would set her off on a tearful jag in front of God and everyone, right there in the checkout line. She swallowed hard and gently moved Zachary out in front of her and away from the candy, ignoring the blatant stares from disapproving shoppers. The worst part would be when she broke out the food stamps. The unspoken judgment, hanging heavily in the air, always cut her to the quick.
In another life she would be going to parties, perhaps shopping for the perfect dress with girlfriends or well on her way to getting a degree. Instead, here she stood, knee deep in shameful recrimination, trying desperately to disappear into the tabloid magazine racks.
Tami had just celebrated her twenty-first birthday.
#
Could this line possibly take any longer?
Master Sergeant Otis T. Hudson was not in the habit of waiting. Efficiency was his stock in trade, the young recruits that flowed through the base like so much greenhorn infested water only had so much time before they needed to become real, fighting men. Invincible men in this old man’s Army.
Check that, Hudson, you ancient, crusty old fart. Men AND women. This old man’s Army is no longer just a boy’s club.
Otis had rankled under the political correctness of this latest directive at first, until he had the pleasure of training two of the meanest, nail-spitting women recruits he had ever seen, both of them putting his toughest men to shame. He was believer after that. It was a rarity, but entirely possible.
Besides, he had watched his wife Eliza go through labor for thirty-six hours with his daughter, watching in sheer terror until he was sure he would pass out before she presented him with their precious girl, Elizabeth.
Eliza was cool and confident with their newly-minted daughter in her arms, like they were going to a Sunday picnic. After that, Otis was always of the mind that women possessed a different, deeper kind of strength. It actually scared him a little.
As a black man making his way up the ranks, Hudson didn’t have time for excuses or bullshit. He had scratched and clawed his way up, choosing to do it the hard way, having to work that much harder to prove his merits past any affirmative action or quietly held racism.
Otis would earn it in his own way or not at all. He saw no earthly reason why the female recruits could not do the same, thus changing a firmly held belief in his mind. Actions to him spoke way louder than words.
His wife always said he was as stubborn as a mule with a golden heart. Otis didn’t know about that, but as he approached his final, retirement year he found his patience sorely lacking.
Especially when he had only five items in his cart and he’d been standing here for over fifteen minutes as the old lady in front of him continued to sigh in a fake, over-dramatic fashion.
#
“Excuse me, do you know that your little boy has put that candy into his mouth? There is no way that should go back on the shelf! It is a health hazard!”
“Ma’am, I am so sorry. He doesn’t know any better...”
“Well, he sure could use a dose of good manners! That is sorely lacking in this day and age, why just look at you!”
Tami sunk back, gathering her boys to her side. The random beeps of the scanner causing a fresh batch of panic to break out over her brow. She was raised better than this, deserved better than she was about to get.
Liam screamed, completely unscripted at that moment while Zachary stuck his hands in the candy display once again, flinging packages to and fro. Tami began to do damage control, desperately grasping at the discarded candy bags while her tormentor continued.
“Seriously, you should be ashamed of yourself. A pathetic broodmare sucking off of the public teat. If you had any shame at all, you would just disappear!”
Hot, shameful tears ran down Tami’s face. She may not be much in this life, but she was a human being. No one would put her down this way in front of her sons. She took a deep fortifying breath and turned to face the lady.
“Excuse me ma’am, this old Army man would like clarification on something.”
His voice was deep and sonorous, the timbre of it causing entire generations of recruits to shake in their brand new boots. Tami saw him standing just behind the angry lady, ramrod straight with his arms at his side in true military fashion.
“Madam, I and all of our fellow travelers in this line would like to be enlightened by you. Can you please tell us, did your parents actually have any children that lived?”
The woman’s face turned red as a beet. She stared back at him, incredulous, spitting mad in a fit of imperious glory.
“Excuse me, sir? How dare you speak to me that way!”
“Madam, I most certainly do dare. You will not speak to a woman raising the children of an Army man in such an insulting fashion. In fact, you will speak to her with a civil tongue in your head or you will not speak at all!”
The shoppers all around them burst out in spontaneous applause as the old woman extricated herself from the line in a righteous huff. Tami felt weak in the knees as the older Army man approached her, his voice softening as he shepherded Zachary back towards his frazzled mother.
Otis noticed that she had a smattering of freckles across her nose, just like his Lizzie. The boys looked up at him in astonishment. They were fine boys, Otis could envision them at about eighteen or so, standing in front of him in a long line of fresh recruits. This was a young mother who needed a helping hand, such disrespectful behavior towards her would not happen again. Not if he could help it.
“Thank you, ma’am, for bringing up the next generation. If I could, would you allow me to assist you today?”
Hudson handed the checker his credit card and loaded her bags into her cart, his own five items completely forgotten in the process. He walked her out to the parking lot, speaking in soft tones as she told him about her life and boys until he found himself inviting them all over to the house for dinner that night. He had a feeling Eliza would approve, she was the one with a heart of gold, not Otis.
Neither one of them could know it at the time, but their encounter in the Commissary would grow into a life-long friendship. He and Eliza would become an integral part of their existence from that day forward, throughout many years. They would even be there with Tami as she was delivered of her third son, an adorable little guy with freckles on his nose that Tami named Otis.
Master Sergeant Otis T. Hudson became the central father figure in the lives of her boys, seeing Liam off to boot camp when he reached his eighteenth birthday, a rash of proud tears running down his kindly old face.
#
Tami was crying with relief as she pulled away that day, incredibly grateful to her guardian angel of the Commissary. The boys each gave him a sideways salute as he helped them into the car and Otis found himself thinking that maybe he wouldn’t retire after all. Eliza would probably kill him, but she would understand. Eventually.
An old Army man’s work was never done.
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About A. Elizabeth Herting
A. Elizabeth Herting is an aspiring freelance writer and busy mother of three living in colorful Colorado. She has had over 40 short stories published and also has a collection of short stories called "Whistling Past the Veil" for publication by “Adelaide Books” in April 2019.
For more of her work/contact her at https://aeherting.weebly.com, https://twitter.com/AeHerting or facebook.com/AElizabethHerting.
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Untitled Meditation
R. Riley Turner
I awoke in the cold, perhaps because of it. The hearth across the floor from me smoked lightly, a charred remnant of last night’s flame. Today was the day. I knew it when I opened my eyes and breathed the first breath of morning. It would still take time, I pondered, before I could begin, but definitely today. After dressing and quickly devouring the leftovers of yesterday’s revel, I set out into the forest.
I moved as lightly as possible. Disturbance is the habit of the inconsiderate. I left the birds to rest for a while longer before sunrise brought them to life. It was several moments, maybe several hours, after I set out that I found the proper space to begin. A quiet bend in the river, clear lines of sight to the sky, still starry. I stood and breathed deeply before beginning.
Firstly a divining rod, to be found on sight. I selected a waterlogged branch from the bank of the river and hung it to dry in the morning air. Next, as the divining rod prepared, I removed and accounted my implements:
Sage to cleanse the air of foul spirits.
Labradorite, to relieve stress and channel energies
Amethyst, to enhance the senses
Opal, for clear foresight
I placed my foci, arranged as I was drawn to arrange them. The divining rod is ready. Looks, after drying, to be a cedar. I draw deep channels in the loam with the cedar rod, connecting my foci in combinations of triangles and hexes, sacred geometries. I sit central, letting myself absorb the liminal space I’ve created. The sage burns in front of me, lifting my spirit and spreading it around the riverbank with every lazy spire of smoke.
After some time in the wild, the trees relaxed enough to speak with me. I stood, and decided upon a fallen old growth fir. I stepped closer and invited it into my company, it invited me to stand upon it and gaze out at the river. We spoke of it’s passing. Every droplet of water, exiting our perception as quickly as it had entered.
“Everything goes, quickly as it comes, down the river.”
“Maybe.” I reply. “But I haven’t yet laid down my roots.”
We sat together for a while then, only the sound of the current filled our ears. Time passed and we stood still. Morning dew came and rose the riverbank, swallowing the sage and pulling it down the river, pulling me with it. As birds returned to the clearing, singing the last of the stars to sleep, I left that place. Returning to my hearth I pondered the impending sunrise on the day I become old growth, before this moment floated downriver with the next.
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A Cherry Tree
Stanley Zhao
Vibrant crystals of white snow,
Waltzing in wake of the chilly breeze,
Fluttering back and forth, right and left,
Towards the reaching hands of a lone cherry tree
The cherry tree, a soldier in a worn, barren land,
A survivor of the most fearsome winds,
The most daunting rains, the most playful children,
But its soul lingers
At the hands of the worst of winter.
Branches lie naked, trunk sits stiff,
Roots rest hungry, leaves remain absent.
But
In a shower of snowflakes,
The cherry tree regains its beauty.
The snow adorns the tip
Of the slender, wooden arms
With twinkling lights
And sprinkles the knarled fingers
With icy confetti.
The chilly wind crowned its head
With a glittery veil
And the snow blankets the lonely roots
And embraces them in a cool, friendly kiss.
At sunset
Each snowflake reflects the soothing light
Of the sun,
Basking the cherry tree in a golden glow,
Comforting the cherry tree,
And making it beautiful.
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Never Mind
Copyright 2019 John F. McMullen
I probably have bought
More books from Amazon
In the last few years
Than most folks have
Read in their lifetimes
So it was not surprising
That I got a package
When I wasn’t
Expecting any
Sometimes I pre-order
What was a big surprise
Was that the two books
Were both on
Real Estate Investing
Something in which
I have neither interest
Nor the necessary funds
The books had cost $42
And the invoice was
From Barnes & Noble
I don’t think I ever
Bought books from
Barnes & Noble Online
I was livid
It was obviously a scam
And the package came
From Amazon Fulfillment
The invoice said that I
Could mail them back
Within 14 days if
I weren’t satisfied
I wasn’t satisfied
By any means
But I wanted to talk
To someone to rail
I noticed that the bottom
Of the invoice contained
The last 4 digits of the
Credit Card charged
So I checked it against
Mine – hmm no match
Then I looked at the top
Of the invoice and
Noted the name
Hmm
I’m not Marc Crudo
And I don’t live in
Falls Church, VA
So it was incompetence
At the Amazon warehouse
And not a scam
As the Church Lady
Always said
Never mind
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bio
John F. McMullen, “johnmac the bard”, is the Poet Laureate of the Town of Yorktown, NY, a graduate of Iona College (BA – English Literature) and the holder
of two Masters degrees from Marist College (MSCS – Information Systems & MPA – Criminal Justice), a member of the American Academy of Poets, Poets & Writers, the Hudson Valley Writers Center, the Mahopac & Yorktown Poetry Workshops and the Mahopac Writers Group, the author of over 2,500 columns and articles and eight books, six of which are collections of poetry, and is the host of a weekly Internet Radio Show (over 280 shows to date). Links to the recordings of all radio shows as well as information on Poet Laureate activities is available at www.johnmac13.com.
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The Heart of the Matter
James Hold
“I think it’s about forgiveness.”
They were dining in the patio garden of the new Galleria Hotel when the call came. The hotel was several weeks into its grand re-opening following renovations brought about by last season’s hurricane and the food court had raised not only its flooring but its prices as well. Rosie felt it was much too expensive, but the girls insisted on treating her, knowing the difficult time she’d had getting back on her feet after her husband deserted her.
Rosie accepted the invitation with humility, well aware that beggars can’t be choosers. In many ways she was still a beggar. It had taken a long time to recover her health and her sanity after what she had gone through. Fortunately her folks were able to take care of the kids on weekdays while she slept in a cheap efficiency a half-mile’s walk from her job at the Galleria. She’d been fortunate there as well. Her employer put her on medical leave and took her back when she was better. Even so, she was quite the mess. Her wardrobe was shabby and she was much too thin from the stress she’d undergone. But she had friends who understood and day by day her health, her mind, and her outlook were improving.
But then came the phone call. That damn phone call. Rosie hesitated before answering it, knowing it could only be from her parents, or from...him.
“Hello?”
“Rosie?”
It was him.
“Rosie? It’s me Don.”
She sighed, sad to discover he was not dead.
“Rosie, listen; we need to talk. I know I was bad but I’ve changed and...”
She tuned him out as she rose from the table and sought a corner. All the pain came flooding back. The spending, the gambling, the drugs, the cheating. The times the bills were due and there was no money to pay them. The times he forgot to pick up the kids from school while she worked extra hours to keep a roof over their heads. The times she found him passed out on the floor with powder rimming his nose. And worse, the times she found him in their bed with skinny teenage crack whores while the children sat hungry in the next room. Skinny crack whores? Hell, by that point she was practically a skeleton herself from going without food so the kids could eat. Until the day he finally moved out, taking what little was left in their account, and leaving her to fend for herself.
Yes, Don, she told herself, you were bad. And it was only by the grace of her parents taking in the kids, and a women’s shelter giving her a cot on which to sleep that she pulled herself together, recovered her health enough to return to work, and found a cheap place to live. And now, just when things were starting to look up...
She gave her attention back to the phone where Don was still babbling.
“But then I met a man who told me about Jesus and how God forgives...”
Blah, blah, blah, on he went. The Grace of God had washed free his sins and he was reborn and he wanted to come back and be a family again.
“After all, we’re still married, and you are my wife.”
True, Rosie reflected bitterly, we are still married, and I’m still your wife. But there are two reasons for that. One, I can’t afford to get a divorce. And two, there’s still that insurance policy on you. And the hope that someday the police will tell me they found you dead and you will finally prove to be worth something in death that you never were in life.
And there was something in the way he said “my wife” that did not sit well with her. Some scars take a long time to heal, while others never do.
“So I was hoping we could get together and...”
“Where?” she said at last.
“Huh?”
“Where would you like to meet?”
Don hemmed and hawed a bit. She would have to come to him. He did not have transportation. He was using his last quarter to call her from the payphone outside the Y. Maybe they could meet in the park across from it?
Rosie thought it over, so long that Don worried she might have hung up on him.
“Rosie? Are you still there?”
“Wait for me,” she told him. “I may be an hour or more but wait for me.” Then she hung up.
“Are you okay?” the girls asked when she returned to the table. She told them yes but she was a little tired and would they mind if she left early? She asked for the remainder of her meal in a take-out box and left, thanking them for all they had done.
Once outside, she crossed the street to a car rental agency. Her folks had lent her a debit card to be used in emergencies. This to Rosie qualified as an emergency. An hour later she pulled up by the crosstown Y and glanced around. It was a seedy neighborhood where a person could get mugged anytime. Across the street was the park. Overgrown, unkempt, rundown; like the dregs what haunted it. Rosie walked toward it. Several drunks lurched in her direction but she avoided them with sharp blows from her purse. In the dim light by a bench someone stood up.
“Rosie?” he called.
She froze.
“Rosie?” He came closer. It was Don, looking dirty, disheveled, thin and wasted. She did not look much better herself.
“Rosie!” He rushed forward; arms outspread to take her in his embrace. “Rosie, darling, I knew you’d come.”
She stood silent, letting him approach. Waited until he was inches from her before pulling out the steak knife she’d taken from the diner. Then she plunged it into his selfish rotten heart, over and over until he slumped to the ground with a questioning stare in his dead eyes.
“It’s like this, Don,” she spoke over his corpse. “All the time you were asking God to forgive you, you forgot to ask whether I would. But I think you know now what my answer would have been.”
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BIO
Mr Hold is the author of INCIDENTAL CONTACT: THE WEIRD MENACE ADVENTURES OF O’RYAN AND HIS OSTRICH and the ongoing OUT OF TEXAS adventure series, all available in Kindle and paperback form from Amazon. His short stories and poetry have been in Childrens, Churches, & Daddies; Down in the Dirt, Eskimo Pie; and Frontier Tales magazines. He lives in Texas with his wife and any number of cats. He loves rock‘n’roll music and firmly believes he will someday receive posthumous recognition as one of the greatest writers of the century.
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My Siblings’ Father
Judge Santiago Burdon
other children feared monsters under their bed
i feared the one living under our roof.
his hair was nimbus black
with a storm’s thunder in his voice.
his fists were freight train brown
ball bearing knuckles
frostbite blue was his touch
with empty icebox eyes
his smile untrusted
growling words spoken like tangled spaghetti
he was my mother’s husband
my siblings’ father
a childhood of baseballs never thrown
bruises and shattered bones medicated with lies
happiness diluted with tears
in a house with screams undetected
when asked what i wanted to be
i testified “far from here”
now, fiber optic home front news
faceless words
cancer eating away at your life
with the fury of a piranha
your disease now my champion
fighting with the courage i was unable to muster
your epitaph written in my adolescence
while plotting your midnight homicide
again you leave
unaccountable for your actions
i’m left to wrestle with the demons
not the strength to forgive
my memory too scarred to forget
i’ll keep the battle lines drawn
your monument
let the puzzle piece fall where it may
good bye old man
you’ll be missed like a pit vipers bite
your pain can no longer touch me
from the grave.
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Short Stack
Judge Santiago Burdon
The Restaurant Menu has a picture.
Three golden Brown Pancakes
A large corn colored slice of butter
Melting on top running over the sides.
Griddle Cakes doing their best Nathalie Wood impression
In a sea of thick maple syrup
Cartoon like ribbons of aroma rising upward.
The old man made them every Sunday morning before church.
Which he never attended
Black hair slicked back
Partially stained white Dago-Tee
Cigarette dangling from his lips.
The ash worming longer with each Popeye exhale
From the side of his mouth
Large bowl on his left hip
Attacking the batter with grunts of enthusiasm.
Tattoos on his arms flexing larger then smaller
Giving the appearance that they were dancing.
Tatted when he was a Cook in the Navy
During World War II.
I imagined him storming the beaches of the South Pacific
With spatula in hand
Don’t need to cut’em with a damn knife.
Use your fork
He’d holler while wrestling the butter knife from my hand
Then throwing it into the sink.
Slapping the back of my head in anger
No Waitress wait!
I’ll have the Waffles
With strawberries if you have them.
Yes, Waffles
We never had a Waffle Iron.
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Hieronymus
Milenko Županović
Images
of horror
grab my neck
They want
to free
the canvases
where eternal
darkness shines.
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Biography
Milenko Županović was born in 1978 in Kotor (Montenegro). By profession he is a graduate marine engineer, but in his free time, he writes poetry and short stories. His stories and poems have been published by many magazines, blogs and websites, mostly in the Europe, U.S. and in Latin America.
In 2010 he wrote and published his first book, a collection of stories, and he also written and published few collections of poems (ebooks).
In 2015 he wrote and published his second book , a collection of stories and poetry.
In 2016 he wrote his third book , a collection of poetry (published in USA, project “Poems for all”)
His books “Martiri” and “Simboli Segreti” were published in italian language.
Milenko is an ethnic Croat and lives in the town of Kotor (Montenegro) with his wife and 3 sons.
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Once More the N Word
Andrew Miller
A bunch of us was in the church basement to plan the weeklong trip to Camp FairView: about twenty parents, most of the troop, couple a new kids that didn’t have their uniforms yet, me and two other Eagle Scouts, plus Lawson Jefferies, Scoutmaster, Harvey Jameson, his assistant, and four guys from the Black Creek Deer Camp, one of them short, little on the beefy side, wearing an outdoor vest buttoned tight over a red shirt. He was chewing tobacco, spitting into a cola can. Not sure why him and the other deer camp fellas was there, except it might of had something to do with them giving us access to their hiking trails. Lawson was up front, running the meeting and we was getting near the end when he says, “Now we need a cook that can be up to FairView all week, and that’s a lot to ask of Harvey and me—and especially the boys—since me and Harvey can’t cook.”
That pretty much cracked everybody up and Lawson, who’s led this troop for about 10 years, stood quiet while they guffawed, but I knew what he was about to say: that they would hire a couple of the ladies who worked in the school cafeteria or who volunteered at church, pay them actual wages you know, but this guy from deer camp, the one wearing the vest and chewing tobacco and spitting in the cola can, raised his hand and called out, “Hey Lawson.” But Lawson didn’t hear him because of the commotion, so he tried again, “Hey Lawson,” and there was still a bunch laughing, so he stood up and yelled so everybody could hear: “You ain’t got no problem—up to deer camp we got this nigger cook that’ll do a fine job for the boys.”
When he said that, the church basement got super quiet real quick, and Lawson and Harvey looked at each other, eyes bulged out, mouths dropped open, and most of the parents, especially the ladies, slouched down in their seats and even the kids got a just-smacked-look on their faces. Lawson started to pump his hands up and down, fingers spread way out, like he was trying to smother a fire with a tarp or a blanket and said, “Jimmy, Jimmy, that’s fine, that’s fine, but we’ll get somebody from the school to do the job, I’m pretty sure,” just trying to get the guy to sit down and be quiet and not use the N word in the church basement, especially with ladies and kids there. Some of the dads in the front row turned toward Jimmy and shook their heads, put fingers to their lips trying to shush him, but Jimmy must of mistook this to mean they didn’t believe the lady could cook, probably because she wasn’t white, so he kept at it and yelled: “You gotta believe me, she’s a damn good cook, this nigger lady, she’s damn good, she’s been with us for years, her biscuits are lighter’n feathers, she cooks up greens to die for.” And Lawson’s face got redder n’ red, and a bunch of the mothers bowed their heads like they was about to pray, and two of the ladies got up and sprinted for the back door. When Lawson saw that his strategy pretty much backfired and that Jimmy wouldn’t shut up, he still couldn’t think of nothing different to do, so he kept pumping his hands up and down and shaking his head, his voice getting louder and louder: “Jimmy, Jimmy, please, please, let the troop handle this.” But Jimmy got more agitated, still thinking nobody believed him, so he shouted, “Come on, you gotta believe me, she’s the best damn nigger cook in all of Mississippi. The kids’ll love her fried chicken—nothing like it—and she’ll work cheap too, so long as you pay her cash.”
Now Lawson looked like he might throttle the guy, and I seen him uncorked a couple a times, sometimes over dumb stuff, and didn’t think this would have a good outcome, but one of the parents in the back row got things back on track. He yelled, “Thank you Lawson and Harvey—thank you for all the fine work you’ve done on behalf of Troop 132!” And he started to clap extra loud, and other folks started to clap, and then everyone scooted for the back door.
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All The Beauty in Plain Sight
Marlon Jackson
Where the eyes spotted
it doesn’t always see
where true beauty is
And it’s not always externally
It’s revolved differently just for you
to wait and see.
It speaks to you differently and internally
asks of you, “Please understand me.”
When the sun shines in the sky look for/
the light, and you’ll see the beauty in plain sight.
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Asphodel
Susie Gharib
She found children burdensome and had it not been for the established belief that they yoked a husband to marriage, she would have altogether done without conceiving them. Winter and Spring were halcyon seasons for they banished her two kids out of sight to a private school that required attendance mornings and afternoons, but Summer and Autumn brought spiritual fatigue because her seven-year old girl was too mature for her age and could comprehend the slightest derailment of the usual proceedings of the day. Asphodel patiently waited for the school-break when she could play with her little brother in a garden designed to entertain. There were also little visits to the beach, waves to be braved and little chateaus to be built.
The irreversible sentence was pronounced as Asphodel was trying her new bathing suit, a Christmas gift on which her eyes had been feeding throughout the winter spell. She was to spend her summer holiday with cousins in a mountain resort away from the sea and her sole playmate. She took the news with a strangled tear since a demonstration of grief would invite the ugliest smile to her mother’s face, whose every muscle she could read. There were no girls her age and the boys preferred the company of males as they could be accused of unmanliness if they played with holders of dolls and rings. She followed butterflies but soon tired of the pointless chase, walked up and down the hill until her feet ached, sat on a big slab of stone and shed hot tears. When it got foggy, she watched God’s breath veiling both sky and trees, then longed for the only pals she had, her brother and dad.
There was a spot that attracted a crowd of boisterous boys that day. Asphodel waited for them to disperse and approached the hole that provoked such historic stoning. A heavy pile of little rocks blocked the way. She arduously threw each away and began to empty the hole of its hail of stones. In the bottom sat a frog whose body turbulently heaved. It was unharmed but must have been shell-shocked by that raid. She comforted her new friend with words and a sprinkling of tears. She wished she could speak its language. She sat by the hole all day to protect it from the ‘men’ who shunned her company. A rapport was established between two outcasts who never comprehended humanity’s ways.
When Asphodel thought that she and the frog had duped the aristocracy of Sleeke, the worst happened without further delay. She stood before a pyramid of venomous stones that stared her in the face. Her heart sank with each weight she raised and eyes, unseeing, searched through the chinks, but no frog was to be seen when the hole was emptied. She did not know whether to cry or smile. The only friend she had was gone but if not dead, forced to leave for the same reason Asphodel had been banished from her bed.
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Bio:
Susie Gharib is a graduate of the University of Strathclyde with a Ph.D. on the work of D.H. Lawrence. Since 1996, she has been lecturing in Syria. Her poetry and fiction have appeared in multiple venues including A New Ulster, Crossways, The Curlew, The Pennsylvania Literary Journal, The Ink Pantry, Mad Swirl, Miller’s Pond Literary Magazine, Down in the Dirt, Peeking Cat Review, and Adelaide Literary Magazine.
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IV Moment (1998)
Pawel Markiewicz
The moment flies like wind.
It always ends.
You can only remember it
in thoughts, dreams and tears.
The moment does not die,
but it stays in its heart.
In the bird and in the animal
leaves ribbons,
the ribbons of memories.
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IV Moment (2015)
Pawel Markiewicz
Everyone is momentarily.
It is existence and time.
Only the poet can ignite the spirit.
His poetry only listens to him.
Laurels burned.
These poems are lost.
Hold the moment like Hercules grove.
Be eternal like the gift of Zeus.
A moment is a wind breeze.
It is the pity of all kinds of muses.
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The Swim
Chris Cooper
The door let out a slow creak as I dragged it behind me. I stopped right before I closed it to glance at Kelly as she slept on her side in our bed. She held the end of the comforter close to her chin as she snoozed; her ruffled blonde hair lay in all different directions. We had argued almost the entire night while the kids were in the other room. My reclusiveness and inattention to her and the kids and her lack of ambition to empty the dishwasher or even try to prepare dinner for us all were the catalysts for our recent quarrel.
I crept down the hall to the girls’ room. They were sleeping in their bunk beds as the white noise from the TV lulled. I pulled the covers up over Riley as she slept on her tummy. Her Dork Diaries book sat beside her. I brushed the hair off of her cheek and kissed her. I knelt down and saw Chloe laying face up with her mouth open; my oldest looked like a miniature version of Kelly with her brown eyes and golden hair. I kissed her on the cheek, “Good night girls,” I said as I made my way out of their bedroom.
I wondered if they had heard us arguing. The girls were only eight and nine years old, so they were always asleep by eight. But I imagined our shouting had to have echoed through the walls. The yelling was getting worse. Our marriage was deteriorating, but it had been for at least a year or at least since my agency started tanking. I guess falling out of love was fitting; all of my top clients were also falling out of love with my work.
I snuck down the stairs and into the kitchen. The moonlight peered in from the deck glass doors, illuminating the entire room; you could hear the faint crashing of the waves from the ocean in the distance. As I opened the closet door to get my sneakers, a big stack of beach towels fell. Trying to keep my cool, I took a deep breath and placed the towels back on the shelf. I walked over to the couch to put my sneakers on and unwittingly sat on Riley’s iPad. I jolted up, huffing as I refrained from screaming obscenities. The shore house was just a mess. From the laundry stacked on the stools and center island to the kids’ electronics, the place was uncomfortably cluttered. God forbid Kelly actually kept the house clean for once.
I kicked the couch before plopping myself down on again. I bent forward to tie my sneakers. Pulling one string with my right hand and yanking it around the other string in my left hand, I tied a tight, forceful knot. We hadn’t even had sex in 2 months; it’s not like she didn’t have time to fucking clean the place a little bit. Maybe she knew I cheated. I jumped up from the couch and headed out the back.
As I slid the glass door open, I was met by the lustrous glisten of the moonlight off of the dark lagoon water. Standing on the deck, I took in the gleaming sky with the water lying beneath it; I was really going to miss this place. This was more than likely going to be the last summer we had this house. I imagined I’d lose it once they came to repossess everything. I walked up the street to the dock, extending my arms over my head and twisting my torso to the left and then to the right to loosen up. I checked my Fitbit and started programming in my upcoming swim. My 1,000 meter time had been improving, and I really needed to win at something tonight.
Leaving my comfortable full-time job at a Fortune 500 company to start my own advertising agency was the biggest risk I had ever taken, and it had paid off for a few years. Acquiring two homes, multiple cars, and having my wife as a stay-at-home were just several things it netted me. I felt like the epitome of success. But it also created a habitual spending tendency. From MacBook pros to marble home surfaces and sports line luxury cars, we found ourselves purchasing everything and anything that was premium, even if it wasn’t necessary. And maybe I should have had us cut back on our Amazon Prime or our eating out, but once you grow accustomed to that lifestyle, how do you stop? How do you stop without accepting the fact that you’re a failure?
“Creative taglines,” I whispered to myself as I kicked my shoes off to the side and stood at the edge of the dock. The light fog danced along the water, taunting me to dive in. As I splashed into the abyss, the instant coolness of the water made me tense. The water had been a creative cleanse for me the past few times, and I really needed to piece together a gripping campaign for CoolChefs, my only client left. The creative juices were non-existent when I was at home; from the kids running and screaming to Kelly watching her mind-numbing Bravo TV shows on full blast, my home was just one big distraction.
Each stroke guided me along the darkened waters as I focused on pacing my breath. Timing my arm strides with my paddling feet, I glided through the quiet waters. ‘A cooler way to cook’ I thought to myself. Maybe I’d show a chef wearing sunglasses and looking cool as she cooked over a high-flame burner?
“Think!” I spurted out while turning my head to gasp for air. I continued along my quest, but it was impossible to think; it was impossible to be creative. It’s hard to do anything when your life is falling apart. 200k in credit card debt and 6 months behind on both house payments was the only thing that echoed in my head. Not to mention the fact that until I started having to pay for it, I hadn’t had a blowjob to completion since I was in my thirties. I should have told Kelly what was going on. Is there anything more depressing than knowing you’re worth more dead than alive?
I sculled forward in the water, each powerful stroke after the other. I could hear the faint ringing of my Fitbit, but I pushed on. ‘Cooking’s never been cooler’ I pondered. Maybe I’d show a chef with his arm across his chest as he fired up a filet mignon? It was all trash though; every idea that came to me lately was total shit. Maybe I needed to stop with the alliteration?
Taking in waves of water, I continued on my swim. Ferociously tossing water with each stroke and stride, I swam. I swam because my life was falling apart. I swam because maybe I should have never gotten married. I swam because I should have never brought kids into this world if I was just going to fuck their lives up. I swam because I couldn’t remember the last time I was happy.
‘Today’s recipe calls for coolness’ I contemplated. Maybe I’d switch the focus from the chefs to something a bit more ambiguous. But would that even convey chef apparel, or would it just sound like some shitty meal delivery service? Ugh, I thought to myself; my mind was so fucking myopic.
I powered forward in frustration, venturing on through the lagoon currents until my lungs began to burn and my limbs started to sting. As I poked my head up from the water, I realized I was way beyond the lagoon water and had made my way into the ocean. The dismal lights of the other shore houses stared back at me in the distance. I was far out, and I could feel myself begin to panic. I was exhausted, and my heart continued to palpitate. Each beat was a thunderous strike in my chest against the cold, unwelcoming ocean water. “Fuck,” I shouted as I dove back under the water to commence my swim back.
Putting my total body into motion, I began shoveling swells of ocean water as my legs kicked. My arms and legs began to cramp, and I could feel my breath shortening. I looked up from where I was and realized I hadn’t made it much further at all. The ocean currents were pulling me out. The bitter cold tears began to fall from eyes, becoming one with the dreary water. The shore house lights became pixilated as I viewed them through misty eyes, and each breath became harder and harder as I felt more and more constricted.
Trying to collect my breath, I closed my eyes; I tried to calm my nerves. The waves of panic swam up and down my body as the incessant waves of the ocean smacked against my face. Expending all the energy left in my body, I desperately fought to keep the currents from bringing me under. I tried to imagine myself swimming back. I took another deep breath and told myself it was going to be okay. I could feel my nerves settling. I could feel an immense warming sensation overtake me. It was a deep warmth; a warmth within my soul. I remembered feeling it vividly on my wedding day. Before the chaos of kids and money complicated our lives, an eager, youthful Kelly stood across from me at the altar, peering into my eyes with genuine love and hope for us.
I opened my eyes and no longer saw the dim shore house lights nor unrelenting waves of water, but instead I saw a vision; it was of Riley and Chloe with Kelly. They were all much older, as they sat around our flickering fireplace in our home. They all had embracing smiles, and they all looked so gorgeous.
And at this depth, I thought maybe I was much too far out all my life, and if I kept sinking, maybe a beautiful calmness would overcome me, and I would finally be happy.
Originally published online at Across the Margin.
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Cucú, Tras, tras, photography by Daniel de Culla
Gestures
Michaiah Vosberg
I stumbled into the kitchenette praying someone had the decency to make a fresh pot of coffee. Bile from last night’s cheap beer and plastic-bottle tequila still clung to my throat. My teeth felt chiseled from cinder blocks.
Chase was working at his laptop. I couldn’t fault him for pussing out early on the party if it meant waking up at a civilized hour and brewing that sweet, black elixir.
After rinsing out one of the random, blue Solo cups decorating the kitchen (and indeed, the entire fraternity), I poured myself some warm and deliciously bitter coffee.
“Still alive, I see,” Chase said.
“Barely. I passed out in the bathtub.”
“I wish you’d used it while you were there. You’re making my eyes water.”
“I actually might have tried. I don’t remember a lot from last night.”
I did remember some things.
Juliette.
The breakup.
Fist through the cupboard.
Chase didn’t respond. I could see he was sucked into some newsletter he was writing.
“I don’t know, I guess the whole thing with Juliette got me pretty messed up,” I tried.
“I didn’t know there was a ‘thing,’” he said.
“It kinda’ just happened.” I really needed someone to listen to me and it was driving me crazy he refused to make eye-contact. “The whole thing has me depressed, you know?”
“Depression is an affliction. You aren’t depressed, you’re just sad. It’s an emotional response to the situation. And even though it feels all-consuming, it’s a state of mind that will pass.”
“I think she broke up with me because I was depressed from the beginning. She was frustrated that she couldn’t make me happy.”
“Happiness is also a fleeting emotion. It’s a response. That’s a ridiculous reason to break up with someone.”
“You’re really helpful, thank you.” I threw my cup in the sink and left before he could respond.
I wanted a full-body scrubbing. My shirt stuck to my pits, my crotch itched, and my mouth needed a blast from a fire hose.
As I stumbled into my room, I heard a curt gasp. Someone was in my bed. I recognized her from the group of freshmen we recruited from the sororities. She looked disoriented like she’d just woke up, but there was something else in her eyes, like the look a sheep gives to the wolves.
“Hi,” I said, as disarmingly as possible.
“Is Drew around?” she asked.
“I haven’t seen him. Want me to call —”
“No! No, I just... I just need you to leave.”
“This is my room.”
“I need you to leave,” she said again. “Please.”
I struggled to identify the ache growing in my chest. I wasn’t mad at her and I wasn’t scared, but it was that familiar sensation of dread when the universe slips out of your control.
“Are you hurt? Do you need me to call someone?”
“No, don’t call anyone. Just —”
She started to get out of my bed but quickly retreated, pulling the covers tighter to her chin.
She was naked, or close enough, but only just realized this. I scanned the room for her clothes. Nothing.
Drew did this, sometimes. Like a prank. Not in my bed, but I’d heard stories. In his 1980’s Hollywood mind, maybe he thought they would own their walk of shame.
I dug a pair of athletic sweats and a hoodie from my laundry basket and set them on the foot of the bed.
“Clean, I promise.” I pointed to another door. “Bathroom’s through there. It’s shared, so... you know. I’ll leave you alone.”
I stepped into the hallway and called Juliette. Straight to voicemail.
A minute later, I tried again. She picked up.
“I’m done talking about us,” she said.
“This isn’t about us. I need your help.”
I told Juliette the story of my bedroom visitor.
“I don’t even know her name,” I said. “Something bad happened, but what do I do? Call the board of directors? Beat the shit outta Drew?”
“Stop. Just, stop. This feeling of you trying to step in and save her is macho bull-crap and it will only make everything worse. You can’t play hero because to her, you’re the villain.”
“But I didn’t do anything.”
“It doesn’t matter because your brother did. You live in the same house, wear the same colors, chant the same pledge. That’s how she sees you.”
“So, I do nothing? Isn’t silence consent?”
“You’re all about that ‘Greek life’ but it comes with the stigma. You want to be a writer? Write an article. Change the perception. Fix the culture. Be proactive instead of reactive.”
###
I didn’t know our talk helped anything. By the time I returned to my room, it was empty. I half-hoped for a thank you note but also realized I shouldn’t need gratitude for the gesture of simply not being a monster.
After my shower, I wandered back into the kitchen. Chase was gone. The house was quiet. I poured myself another coffee. It was cold and sour.
Juliette was wrong. I wasn’t all about this “Greek life.” I’m just following Dad’s footsteps but I really couldn’t give a shit. Maybe I write an article and maybe it goes viral. Maybe I could actually change the perception of how a fraternity is supposed to behave. Maybe the entire school just ends up hating me forever and I end up dropping out.
Maybe I ignore it like I did the times before.
My phone chirped and I pulled up a group message.
It was a video from Drew. The freshman. My bed. He made a face into the camera, sticking out his tongue like some rad snowboarder landing a sick jump. She looked too drunk or drugged to open her eyes.
Or maybe I burn this madhouse down.
In the group reply, I typed:
You’re a sick-fuck rapist
My heart raced. I drew in a heavy breath. They’ll crucify me for this.
Send.
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About Michaiah Vosberg (2019)
Michaiah Vosberg is a student at Full Sail University, studying Creative Writing in Entertainment. He hosts the “Tales and Anecdotes“ writer’s blog and is the author of “Flashpoint: Five Slices,” available on Smashwords.com.
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choke
Janet Kuypers
haiku 2/15/14
Trapped, she felt a chill,
like a goose walked on her grave.
She chokes with his touch.
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Visit the Kuypers Twitter page for short poems— join http://twitter.com/janetkuypers.
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See YouTube video (S) of Jenene Ravesloot reading the Janet Kuypers haiku choke in the “Partial Nudity” book release show 6/18/14 at Chicago’s the Café Gallery
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See YouTube video (C) of Jenene Ravesloot reading the Janet Kuypers haiku choke in the “Partial Nudity” book release show 6/18/14 at Chicago’s the Café Gallery
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See YouTube video
of the Janet Kuypers book release feature “Partial Nudity” (S, CONTAINING THIS POEM) live 6/18/14 at Chicago’s open mic the Café Gallery
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See Vine video of Janet Kuypers performing her poem choke (in her books Partial Nudity and 100 Haikus) live 12/3/14 at Chicago’s open mic the Café Gallery (Canon)
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See Vine video of Janet Kuypers performing her poem choke (in her books 100 Haikus and Partial Nudity) live 12/3/14 at Chicago’s open mic the Café Gallery (Sony, crop & color)
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See Vine video of Janet Kuypers reading her haiku choke from Down in the Dirt’s Scars Publications book 6 Feet Under as a looping JKPoetryVine video 5/30/16.
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See a Vine video of Janet Kuypers reading her twitter-length haiku “choke” from Scars Publications’ Down in the Dirt collection book “a Stormy Beginning” as a looping JKPoetryVine video 8/20/16 (this video filmed in Austin TX from a Samsung Galaxy S7).
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See a Vine video of Janet Kuypers reading her twitter-length poem “choke” from Scars Publications’ 2016 collection book “the Chamber” as a looping JKPoetryVine video 12/23/16 (filmed in Austin Texas from a Samsung Galaxy S7).
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See YouTube video of Janet Kuypers 12/17/17 reading every poem in her “100 Haikus” book reading at the AIPF booth / 2017 Awesmic City Expo, including much, out, can’t get you, of his thirst, know, pleading, coincidence?, found haiku, close, defenses, destroy, floor, hold, forever, jumped, study, Even with no Wish Bone, addiction, stagger, everyone, last, bruised, organs, choke, ends, explosions, fit, fought, heaviness, extinct, feel, escape, opening, pant, strike, civil, found, need, kill, kindness, run, pet, John’s Mind, humans, mirror, elusive, keep, greatest, instead, Arsenic and Syphilis, life (Periodic Table haiku), life (2000), timing, Two Not Mute Haikus, He’s An Escapist, Ending a Relationship, nightmares, knife, free, years, groove, errors, job, jobless, out there, gone, console, form, knowing, oil, cage, evil, faith, guide, behind, sort, barbed, difference, predator, blood, easy, existence, judge, fog, upturn, Translation (2014 haiku), sting, enemies, Deity Discipline (stretched haiku), Ants and Crosses, energy, knees, force, you, this is only a test, misogyny, ourselves, key, scorches (Lumix 2500).
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See YouTube video of Janet Kuypers 12/17/17 reading every poem in her “100 Haikus” book reading at the AIPF booth / 2017 Awesmic City Expo, including much, out, can’t get you, of his thirst, know, pleading, coincidence?, found haiku, close, defenses, destroy, floor, hold, forever, jumped, study, Even with no Wish Bone, addiction, stagger, everyone, last, bruised, organs, choke, ends, explosions, fit, fought, heaviness, extinct, feel, escape, opening, pant, strike, civil, found, need, kill, kindness, run, pet, John’s Mind, humans, mirror, elusive, keep, greatest, instead, Arsenic and Syphilis, life (Periodic Table haiku), life (2000), timing, Two Not Mute Haikus, He’s An Escapist, Ending a Relationship, nightmares, knife, free, years, groove, errors, job, jobless, out there, gone, console, form, knowing, oil, cage, evil, faith, guide, behind, sort, barbed, difference, predator, blood, easy, existence, judge, fog, upturn, Translation (2014 haiku), sting, enemies, Deity Discipline (stretched haiku), Ants and Crosses, energy, knees, force, you, this is only a test, misogyny, ourselves, key, scorches (Lumix T56).
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What’s the difference between respect and fear?
Darren Mileto
I could see it on his face. A tired expression. A weariness around the eyes. Sure he was drunk and screaming at me, but I still took him to be a man resigned to anger because it was the only thing that vaguely resembled the dignity he once had.
“Come on Bruce. Why do you let her get to you like this?” I asked, believing I could still reason with him. But one might as well try and reason with a truck that’s merging into your lane, oblivious to your being there.
Even in a good mood, Bruce is an intimidating man. Squat, with massive shoulders and back muscles, he has the build of a tree trunk. He used to tell stories of fights that he won and bar brawls he had been in and I never had any reason to doubt that they were true. I was sweating and my legs were doing the adrenaline shimmy, but I stood my ground, trying to look genuinely confused and upset by what he was talking about.
“Fuck you Rick!” He swore. “I caught you in a lie.” His finger was inches from my face. I backed up a bit, hoping someone would walk by and intervene. Unfortunately, the street was deserted. Odd for that time of day. Odd that he had found me at all. Terrible luck on my part, I guess. “Now I’m hearing from Lauren’s friends that you two went out for dinner and drinks. That you took her home!”
This isn’t strictly true. I did go out with her, but there were other people with us. I never had any intention of it being a date, or sleeping with her for that matter. She’s not my type. Too soft. Too heavy. She’s nice though. Flirty. Carries herself well, and she looked good that night.
We were having fun. All of us were having fun. After dinner we went to a bar where they were playing great music, and it was dark, and loud and you had to lean in and shout to be heard. She kept moving closer to me, positioning herself at points in the conversation so that her thigh would touch my leg, and the smile she was giving me, and the way she was laughing at my jokes a little too boisterously. I could feel her heat. That reckless need some women have. I was reluctant and trying to keep a little space between us, but by the end of the night she was drunk and all but curled up in the crook of my arm. It had been too long since I’d gotten any, and I was feeling good, allowing myself to imagine what I would do with her, even though part of me knew I shouldn’t.
“We went out with a group of people. You could’ve come.” I said.
“Really? How the hell could I have gone when nobody invited me?”
“I thought you had been. I wouldn’t have...”
He was hearing none of it and shouted at me with that cement mixer of a voice he has, “Bullshit! And you both told me different stories trying to cover up what happened. But I found out.” His mouth was stretched into the large, malevolent smile of the criminally insane.
The situation was escalating too quickly. I searched for the minutest indication of doubt in his voice. A layer of emotional paint I could scrape away at, but I detected nothing. He’s a man who understands only one type of pain and he was looking to inflict it on me.
“Nothing happened. I swear on my honor. You know she plays these games. She loves the attention and the drama. And you feed into it.”
“Man, that’s my girl! I know she plays games! I know it, but I love her. I had her. Then you come in all smooth talking, all cultural and shit, and with your, with your car, and you can take her out to dinner at a nice place, and what? Where am I? Looking like a chump.”
He said ‘chump’ like an ax striking wood. Involuntarily, I flinched.
I wanted to say to him, ‘I don’t think you love her. I don’t think you know what love is’, but with my serial dating, who am I to say what love is? I haven’t been in a relationship that’s lasted more than a month in three years, so maybe he’s right. Maybe love is a jealous, possessive need. Something that you would do anything to protect, including having to smash the face of someone who as of a week ago you considered a friend. “It was nothing. Nothing happened I swear!” I replied, getting desperate.
“It’s not nothing to me! You have no respect mother fucker! No respect! And I’ll be good God damned if I’m going to roll over and let you take her away from me.”
I’d never been in a fight before. I could always avoid them using my charm and uncanny knack for telling people what they want to hear, but that was not working. Besides, he was right. I don’t have respect for much of anything. That’s what some people seem to like about me. But I never really understood the difference between respect and fear. Had I known he’d find out and react this way, I would’ve avoided the whole situation, and in the ensuing short moment I began to think how maybe I should just take the ass kicking. Maybe I’ve had one coming for a long time.
He swung at me and I ducked away slightly, avoiding the majority of the damage but the force was tremendous. He followed up with a barrage to my body that turned me into a human Tilt-a-Whirl ride.
I threw an overhand right that connected flush on the jaw. He didn’t even flinch. I followed it up with a straight left that all but bounced off of his shoulder. He hit me again and I fell backwards, dizzy. I was down on my side in the gutter, head reeling, covering up to try and protect my ribs and face from the follow up blows, when I noticed a big chunk of the curb that had broken off from the sidewalk sitting there within reach.
I grabbed the chunk and swung it at his knee, hearing a wet crunch as it connected. He cursed, falling forward a bit, and while he was off balance I hit him with a reinforced uppercut to the jaw. This time his eyes rolled back and he collapsed, his head smacking against the pavement.
I stood there amazed. Trying to catch my breath and clear my head. Let me tell you, God defends the righteous but the devil must love a son of a bitch.
Bruce moaned and began to stir. Blood running out of his mouth as he turned his head. His jaw already swelling where I hit him.
The dumb animal. Why couldn’t he just let it go? And all over a woman like Lauren? I wouldn’t be surprised if it was Lauren herself who “accidentally” put something in his head to make him suspicious.
Well, to hell with both of them. I hit him a few more times, kicking him in the ribs and shoulder. “You stupid jack off mother fucker!” Then I made a run for it, knowing if I was smart, I probably should’ve just killed him. That he’ll be looking for me now and the consequences just got a lot more severe. Fortunately, neither he nor Lauren knows where I live. I mean, there are, after all, good reasons why I keep friends like these at bay.
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Shattered Glass
Jon Brunette
Having just pedaled through the Tour de France, I wiped the oily sweat off my forehead, exhaled loudly, and painfully, and, finally, yanked the refrigerator door off its frame. It opened with a pressurized whoosh that sounded like the kind made by the seal of the Space Shuttle. The chilly arctic air slammed into me like a hard hand to the face. I found the half-opened bottle of Gaterade, and slurped the lemon-lime as quickly as Dracula guzzled blood from a virginal neck. It couldn’t have seemed more like ice, sliding around my mouth, and my hoarse Adam’s apple. The thin fluid made me shiver; I couldn’t help but feel as though I had become someone from a Miami, Florida, who had arrived recently in Alaska, wrapped in no more than stylish flip-flops and a frayed pair of denim jeans.
I could admit that I should have paid more attention to the window, though I couldn’t have foreseen any reasons why I should have, the curtains opened, and humid sunshine blistering the weedy pavement; I could see that the early morning dew had evaporated, as it always did in the middle of the summer.
As quickly as a bullet shattered a fragile skull and blood gushed from the jagged wound, shards of glass sprayed my linoleum kitchen floor, pelting me, my solid maple table and chairs, and my mirrored appliances; they thundered and echoed as loudly as Niagara Falls always did, though unexpectedly. Glancing around the gravel walkway, I could also see bubbles of heat shimmer like invisible waves off a small bubbly fry-pan, and the lawn seemed in some kind of shocked state of silence. I could see no one outside, so I had to assume that the perp had blown it and jumped from the scene like rabbits chased by massive German shepherds.
Knowing that it would rain in a manner that would feel similar to wind-blown pine tree needles, I shimmied around the narrow brick lip, feeling wet around my arms and pecs from my strenuous exercise, and, my profession as a window installation master in mind, jimmied the pane off another window, sliding the glass from their plastic molded frame. Only then did I see George Neufeld, who had always appeared taller than me, his square-jawed face, and massively thick eyebrows aimed squarely at me, or, so I assumed, make moves that should have seemed impossible.
He jumped higher than someone electrocuted, but his weird reaction didn’t come from me. I remained behind his bushy shrubbery, their leaves crinkling like tissue paper, as it seemed to climb their walls like mold, and, near them, I thought I would remain invisible. He didn’t see me, hanging off the pane by my fingers and rubber soled cross trainers; so, instinctively, I lowered my head, my wide eyes, and stared into his small eatery. I could see his crimson-tiled floor, gloss shining like small red mirrors made of fresh paint; I discovered my manly nerve, in that moment, and scurried through my unit, and dialed 911 on my land line. Like mine, his linoleum should have appeared yellow, their styles in appearance of some old-fashioned disco floor, and, also like mine, had been installed so many years before that it couldn’t possibly have shined like mirrors anymore.
When the uniformed and plain-clothed officers nailed their pieces in place, their crime scene had seemed like some style of jigsaw made by some weird morgue technician. Suddenly, their well-informed officers had found the same things that I had discovered—with his wife below six muddy feet of sand, George Neufeld would have inherited the money that his newlywed wife, Linda, had been allowed from her family will, and, with his window shattered, he could have convinced those officers that some amateur burglar had murdered her.
Stabbed, I hardly believed that someone who might have adored her could have pulled her body as brutally as he must have. One reality had been made clear inside the county courthouse, his civilized jury placing him in jail for life rather than lethal injection, though he should have lain placed there as quickly as Charles Manson and John Gotti should have; their courtroom appearances had slid them off of the hook, with life sentences, without possible parole.
With my neighbor in the hold of their steel handcuffs, I assumed that I could hold my fury, forged from the Tour, and, so, I had felt no need to pound him. Still, I did wonder if I could pound anyone, adrenaline ebbing, and flowing, from my small frame. I did still have that shattered hole in my window, and, remembering Linda on her glossy floor, her hairless feline beside her, her appearance as if asleep in the chill of the evening sunshine, I had slid their window into their flimsy frame before I had dialed the police.
I realized that I should stall before the police had come and gone before I removed their window, and jammed their frame inside of mine, so, when the police did come and leave one more time, I did.
Where George had been concerned, my neighborhood friend in jail, and found “Guilty” of his murder of his wife, Linda, as he should have been, announced by their brassy sirens, I realized that Linda had a lot more than money on her side; she also had fortune, in a manner that didn’t include dollar bills, since, after all, her husband had smashed my window by mistake, killing his robbery defense, and, eventually, placing him in the same place as his wife. He would also be nailed inside the some hollow, airless, coffin, buried beneath the same six muddy feet of rock and sand.
As the years would pass, I would believe that his curly-haired Linda would approve.
Eventually, I imagined, she had, and I smiled as I jammed carnations that smelled like high-priced perfume inside the fluffy grass that stood before her chipped, and cheaply-made, yet, still, somehow, priceless metal marker.
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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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It’s Happened
Warren Paul Glover
It’s happened.
You never thought it would.
He’s not like that!
(And in front of the children too)
Will he do it again?
Why did he do it in the first place?
Am I a victim now? You ask.
Have I become...a statistic?
Are you at fault somehow?
Are you failing?
(him? The relationship? Love? Truth? Your vows?)
Flailing, certainly.
Trying to make sense of the incomprehensible.
The indefensible.
When did his love turn to hate?
Why did I not see it coming?
If I leave, will I have to keep running?
I feel sick. Am I to blame?
This has never happened to me before.
It always happens to someone else.
Doesn’t it?
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A Man Tries to Get Back In
Warren Paul Glover
The man’s crumpled face wore a haunted look, like he hadn’t slept for days. His black eyes, set in red rims, scanned the long corridor for signs of life. He swallowed hard, his grizzled jaw chewing at the dryness in his throat.
Crouching down he took a tentative step, creeping forward like a shy crab alert for the danger of shadows. His fingertips felt their way along the darkened hall before a sound, the click of a door handle, sent him scuttling back around the corner from whence he came. He flattened himself against the wall, held his breath and listened to the galloping of his heart.
A cough, a rustle of a plastic carrier bag and a shuffling sound told him they, whoever ‘they’ were, headed towards the lift. He let out a slow sigh and closed his eyes. The bristles on his chin scraped as he rubbed at them. Blinking his eyes open he turned to spy down the corridor again. Moments later, reassured that all was still, he licked his lips and set off once more, one felt footstep after another.
Hunched down, he felt slightly ridiculous. His mind took him back to the games he played as a child. He could be a commando, using stealth to advance upon the enemy before delivering a fatal blow. The floorboards creaked under his weight, scuppering that fantasy. He stopped and listened. A classical piece of music, Debussy perhaps, wafted through the wall. And he could now smell cooking. Was someone really having boiled cabbage for dinner? Hunger reminded him of its presence by biting him in the stomach, its pang pleading with a grumble.
A small dog barked from behind a door and he hurried on. He was almost there, just another ten yards or so. As he reached his destination the light bulb over his head flickered, crackled then gave up the ghost. The man, cloaked in gloom, gently rested his ear against the door to the apartment. The familiar tick of the clock in the hall, a metronome of melancholy, squeezed yet more sadness from him. His shaking hand shot out and clutched the doorframe. Beyond the ticking of the clock, a wedding gift, there was nothing. When he opened his eyes again he was blinking back tears.
The gulping sound he made as he swallowed seemed to come from some deep place inside his guts. He fumbled in his pocket for his keys. He cursed as he saw them fall, spiralling in slow motion as they dropped to the floor. There was a metallic clatter, an ominous little thunder. His face flinched as his flailing fingers made a fist.
He listened for a reaction, his temples throbbing and his back wet with sweat. No sounds came. He relaxed, and noticed the picture on the wall was crooked. The face in the portrait appeared to be staring at him in disapproval. He tore his gaze away and bent down to retrieve the keys. Crack! The sharp sound of a sharp pain. He yelled out, his cries echoing along the corridor like a scream down a canyon. The osteopath had warned him against sudden movements.
He heard a loud click and the creak of old hinges. His neighbour, an elderly woman, stood in the doorway opposite, looking down at him as he crouched in his crab-like pose. She had heard the noise and had come to see what all the fuss was about. He smiled nervously at her.
“I thought your wife had thrown you out,” she said.
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Eleanor Leonne Bennett Bio (20150720)
Eleanor Leonne Bennett is an internationally award winning artist of almost fifty awards. She was the CIWEM Young Environmental Photographer of the Year in 2013. Eleanor’s photography has been published in British Vogue and Harper’s Bazaar. Her work has been displayed around the world consistently for six years since the age of thirteen. This year (2015) she has done the anthology cover for the incredibly popular Austin International Poetry Festival. She is also featured in Schiffer’s “Contemporary Wildlife Art” published this Spring. She is an art editor for multiple international publications.
www.eleanorleonnebennett.com
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Boots in the House
Sam Norman
1.
Boots in the house!
Navy moms joyfully proclaim
when their sons or daughters are home on leave.
At O-three-hundred hours,
December 31st, 2018,
Ben walked through our door, unexpectedly.
He had driven 163 miles,
through the middle of the night,
after a twelve-hour watch,
to surprise his grandmother,
on her birthday.
I was up, coincidentally,
and we ended up talking
and playing video games
until O-eight-hundred.
Boots were in the house!
2.
When she woke that morning at O-nine-hundred,
Ben’s mom, Teri, bellowed,
Boots in the house!
Ben groaned and put
the couch pillow over his head.
At sixteen-hundred-thirty hours
I was asked to make dinner.
Ben set the table and we joked
about what a barbarian he was
because he put the napkins
on the wrong side of the plate.
Seventeen-hundred-hours,
we all sat down
for our New Year’s Eve dinner,
the last one.
3.
We went around the table telling each other
what we were most looking forward to.
When it was his turn, Ben said, “I’m getting married.”
“Shit, Ben, you win,” I joked.
Because he had set the table,
he didn’t have to clear —
so at eighteen-hundred-and-one
he texted Conner — On my way
At sixteen-hundred-and-two,
Asia texted Happy anniversary
And he was out the door.
4.
At eighteen-hundred-hours-and-nine,
the first responders found him.
They pulled him from his car.
He had broadsided a telephone pole,
and soon after was pronounced dead.
5.
His boots, which he had kicked off immediately,
for more comfortable sneakers,
are still next to the door,
toes facing outward,
next to the basket of laundry he was hoping
to do the next day.
Boots are in the house!
Boots will always be in the house
from now on.
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Big Dipper
-from The Death of the Heart
-Elizabeth Bowen
Sam Norman
Walking with Paul down the trail at
Camp Kirkham in a 3-degree January evening,
hoping for a clear sky.
I look up and there it is,
perfectly framed,
the Big Dipper.
The trees line the trail,
and the big bear is standing
perfectly on its tail,
in between the frozen limbs.
Ben loved looking
at the stars.
Paul taught him
the constellations.
The next morning
I find Ben’s winter jacket
in the lost and found.
It fits me perfectly.
I am wearing the boots
that he hiked the Appalachian trail in.
His gloves, his hat, his jacket.
I am wrapped in my son.
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Fault
Sam Norman
on some socked in fault line
a light never goes out
terror lives there
even when we’re together
we dig in our heels
refuse to budge
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The Majestic Theater
Sam Norman
The Majestic Theater is abandoned.
Its gilded scrollwork faded and peeling,
the sagging façade in the midst
of a years-long collapse,
Inside are projectors seized and rusted,
next to stacked rolls of celluloid,
heroes long forgotten in the dust.
The velvet seats are worn smooth and shiny;
they’re musty and moldy,
and the curtain droops heavily, aged.
The floorboards are warped,
slow wooden waves
curled by dampness.
Here where the tide
is always going out.
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Scripted Voices
David Wyman
An oboe concealing Planet X in sirenic melodies.
Where we believed in the reign of fire and chaos.
Till Shakespeare murdered sleep.
Filling out forms simply may silence gunfire.
Our movement lacking erotic zeal,
our movement creeping backward, whistling,
running from aliens, Blue Meanies & drones...
Who said only the police can tell if we’re lying?
Who said they saved Planet X electronically?
Their scripted voices wailed, your tea’s ready.
The villain is always winter. This
is where the nine who never sleep are welcomed
onto the wreck where they become weightless.
O, we have witnessed space stretching like nylon.
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Ennui
Susi Bocks
something
someone
please
push me
over the edge
of my disillusionment
to something
to someone
inspiring
propelling me
to care
again
back to being in awe
back to wanting more
back to love
it’s empty here
Originally published on “I Write Her 1/12/19”
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Susi Bocks bio
Susi Bocks was born to an American soldier and German mother in W. Berlin, Germany in 1962 before the infamous Wall came down. Most of her years were spent in Wilmington, DE before moving on to the next journeys of her life - marriage, and the birth of two amazing humans. She now resides in the middle of Kansas and identifies as a writer and author. She has published two books - “Feeling Human” in Dec 2017 and “Every Day I Pause” in Dec 2018 Primarily focused on writing poetry, she continues to contribute all her thoughts at “IWriteHer.com”.
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for my Car or my Life
Janet Kuypers
10/16/98
I never once had the chance to grasp
that anything ever happened to me
for me it wasn’t until after the hospital,
after what seemed like an endless stream of weeks.
Was I expected to move to another house and
move in with unexpected people and
face the fact that I had to move and
I had to put all of my belongings in storage,
that my car was gone
Was I expected to
go through all of this? That insurance
companies wouldn’t even attempt to
fix the car. They gave me enough money
for my time, but not for my car or for my life
No one has paid me back for
all the time that I have now lost
I had planned to take my time off to travel, to
take my car and do what I wanted
to do
Now I have no car, no time,
no chance
who is going to pay me
back for all that I have lost?
There is no one to pay me back
There is no one to even apologize to me, and
I have no one to forgive for all of this
They couldn’t even give me that much
So who is going to pay me back
No one.
I knew that when it happened, when I was
angry, when I resigned myself to losing
anything that I used to value
There’s nothing I
can do to get all of that back
It’s gone
I’ve never before thought that anything could
happen to me, because nothing did. I was
in the intensive care unit to the hospital,
I was on a respirator, I could say more of
the same, but I’d just bore you with the details
The problem is that I have to deal
with all of this happening to me, and there
is no one around that can answer for all of
what has happened
I just have to let it
still sit inside myself, I still brood about
it, and I could hope that time is supposed to
heal all wounds
I don’t know if that works
though, if time does in fact heal all wounds.
That’s what people keep telling me
I don’t know how time could help me with this one
Ask me in a few years
if I forgot
and everything is better
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True Happiness
in the New Millennium
Janet Kuypers
February 1998
“I ain’t never found peace upon the breast of a girl
I ain’t never found peace with the religions of the world
I ain’t never found peace at the bottom of a glass
Sometimes it seems the more I ask for the less I receive
Sometimes it seems the more I ask for the less I receive
The only true freedom is freedom from the heart’s desires
And the only true happiness this way lies”
- Matt Johnson
I’m here to usher in a whole new millennium
I’m the new savior the savior of science
the savior of strength the savior of survival
survival of the fittest survival of the best
and I’m here to tell you we’re starting anew
so fasten your seat belts hang on to your hats
place your seat trays in their upright and locked position
for it’s a bumpy ride, and I’ll tell you why
I’m here to usher in a whole new millennium
the millennium of reason and logic and strength
and I don’t want to hear about your self-destruction
I don’t want to hear your whining, psychosis,
your depression, suicide, alcohol and drugs
and just what made you think that playing with needles
and escape would make things better somehow
God, I’ve always hated needles anyway
what is it with you people
well, you need a leader and I’m stepping up to the plate
you keep asking for a big brother and I’m here to set you straight
you want someone to wipe your noses for you
well, pick up the damn tissue and do it yourself
because when you give up your rights, you take away mine
and we’re not having any of that
I’m here to usher in a whole new millennium
and you say to me you need crystal meth
so you can stay awake through work
and you say to me that you don’t need to drink,
that you just like the taste
and you say to me that with all your escapism
you still don’t feel any better
and you say to me that sometimes suicide
is the only answer
I’m here to usher in a whole new millennium
I’m here to usher in a whole new generation
so stop asking for things and start working for things
because X is for ecstacy as long as it’s fast
and X is for extra but there’s always a cost
and ecstacy doesn’t come without extra work
no matter how many corners you cut
and you know, X is for X-Ray and I see right through that
they say that Eve ate from the tree from knowledge
but you know, she shouldn’t have stopped just then
cause the loggers are raping the trees of knowledge
the loggers are raping the forests of talent
the forests of ability the forests of reason
of skill of logic perseverance and life
we’re letting them rape the forests of excellence
and you know it’s now time to take it all back
because I’m here to usher in a whole new millennium
and I’m here to tell you how it’s going to be done
you’re looking for peace in all the wrong places
you’re asking your leaders to save you from yourself
but your leaders are losers and they’re worse off than you
I’m here to usher in a whole new millennium
where it’s time to take charge and it’s time fess up
only you can deliver you from your own sins
but first you must know what sin really is
it’s time to make choices and it’s time to lay claim
to everything we’ve been blindly giving away
because I’m here to usher in a whole new millennium
take charge of yourself, and I’ll take charge of me
I’m my leader, not yours, so wipe your own noses
take it in to your hands, people, mold your own tools
this is the new millennium, and this is your chance
because no one should be showing us how to fail
people mastered that feat a millennia ago
so set your own rules and do something fast
cause it’s time to take charge and it’s time to be alive
I’m here to usher in a whole new millennium
And I’m waiting for you to usher in yours
Because true happiness this way lies, my friend
and I won’t wait long if you lag behind
cause I’m setting my rules so step out of my way
I’m here to tell you there’s a new sensation
and I’m here to tell you there’s a new salvation
and that true happiness this way lies
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Order this iTunes track: 
from Chaots in Motion
(a 6 CD set)...Or order the entire CD set from iTunes:
CD:
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Order this iTunes track:
from the poetry audio CDetc.
...Or order the entire CD set
from iTunes:
CD:
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Listen  to the CD recording of this piece used with the show Death Comes in Threes 03/18/03, or download ANY track off the CD “Death Comes in Threes” @iTunes.
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Listen to The DMJ Art Connection, off the CD The DMJ Art Connection Disc One - or order ANY The DMJ Art Connection Disc One track from through iTunes.
|
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...Order this on oh. — the audio cd!!!
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Watch this YouTube video
live at the show Questions in a World Without Answers 10/05/04, Chicago
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watch the full Questions in a World Withough Answers video live, including this poem in Chicago 10/05/04 (~21:56)
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Watch the YouTube TV film
(10/03/06, the Lake County Poets Society, on TV 4 times 12/06)
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Order this iTunes track:
from the Chaotic Collection
...Or order the entire 5 CD set from iTunes:
CD:
|
Watch the YouTube video (Urbanation, 3:39, 02/22/04)
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Watch the YouTube video
(4:48, live at Chicago’s “The Spot” 09/04/06)
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Watch the YouTube video
(3:39) Live at the 11/09/07 show at Hokin Gallery The Turn of the Word, Chicago
|
Or watch the complete video
of The Turn of the Word live
11/09/07 Chicago’s Hokin Gallery 7:54
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Listen: (5:30)
to this recording from Fusion |
Listen to the full show
or the poem read live as the final scheduled feature 08/26/06 for the Society of Professional Journalists show thru Chicago Poetry Fest ‘06.
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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
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Watch this YouTube video
(3:49, of just the poem) 03/05/11 in Lake Villa at Swing State, live in her “Visual Nonsense” show Letting it All Out
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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 video
(34:48) to the Letting it All Out show, live in Lake Villa’s Swing State 03/05/11 with this piece
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Watch the YouTube video
of Kuypers reading this poem 10/16/11 on WZRD radio (filmed from the Canon camera)
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See the full YouTube video
10/16/11 of the Janet Kuypers appearance on WZRD radio, with her talking about and reading poetry, which includes this poem performed live (filmed from the Canon camera)
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See YouTube video of Janet Kuypers reading her “Changing Gears” chapter 14 poem “True Happiness in the New Millennium” from her interview/journal/poetry book “In Depth”, then her poem “Objectifiable” from the proof copy of the v5 cc&d boss lady poetry collection book “On the Edge” 8/5/18 at Recycled Reads (Panasonic Lumix 2500).
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See YouTube video of Janet Kuypers reading her “Changing Gears” chapter 14 poem “True Happiness in the New Millennium” from her interview/journal/poetry book “In Depth”, then her poem “Objectifiable” from the proof copy of the v5 cc&d boss lady poetry collection book “On the Edge” 8/5/18 at Recycled Reads (Panasonic Lumix T56).
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Death comes in waves of threes
Janet Kuypers
2003
As strange as this sounds, that was sort of the second death in my trip I encountered.
Have you ever heard people say that death usually comes in threes? It’s a strange thing to say, but when something terrible happens like that, you can almost expect over a short time that these waves of death can come a few times.
Almost to make sure you get the point.
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Princess Diana, 1 Year Later
Janet Kuypers
8/31/98
what is it like to lead a near-perfect life
to have servants clean up after you
or to prepare all of your meals
what is it like when you hate everyone
including yourself
don’t eat food
without throwing up or gaining weight
what is it like to not leave your home
because you might be photographed
what is it like to have anything you want
and you can’t have anything you want
is that what it’s like to be royalty
to feel important all the time
could they ever feel anything other than their pain
you hear from everyone that you were perfect
and you still tell yourself you were nothing
when you felt this way, daily,
would you love yourself or hate yourself
what would win the daily battle
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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), KOOP (91.7FM), 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 ISBN# ISSN# 2012 little spiral datebook, Prominent Tongue, 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# ISBN# hardcover art book life, in color, Post-Apocalyptic, Burn Through Me, Under the Sea (photo book), the Periodic Table of Poetry (with poems written for every element in the Periodic Table), a year long Journey, Bon Voyage! (a journal and photography book with select poems on travel as an American female vegetarian in India), 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 her 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). In 2018, Scars Publications released “Antarctica: Earth’s Final Frontier” and “Antarctica: Wildlife” (2 Janet Kuypers full-color photography books from the first passenger ship to Antarctica in 2017), performance art books “Chapter 48 (v1)” (2009-2011) and “Chapter 48 (v2)” (2011-2018), the v5 cc&d poetry collection book “On the Edge”, and the interview/journal/poetry book “In Depth”.
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