Haiku (chicken/egg)
Denny E. Marshall
some ask what came first
chicken or egg, the chicken
in dictionary
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Haiku (memory)
Denny E. Marshall
memory foam bed
must have forgotten
i lost fourteen pounds
1st Published In High Coupe June 2013
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Haiku (rivers/veins)
Denny E. Marshall
nature’s arteries
are rivers, man made roads are
black veracious veins
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Haiku (space)
Denny E. Marshall
in space, gas and clouds
earth
dust rains
(1st Published In Scifaikuest Feb. 2013)
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Haiku (tossing)
Denny E. Marshall
it was not a dream
endless tossing and turning
still wide awake
1st Published In Rapid Eye Fall 2013
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Politics in America
Chris Johnson
The campaigns last longer
Than the terms of office.
The politician favor
Elective lobotomies for voters.
Promises buy elections
Leaving bills always unpaid.
Shifts take place from the middle
To the middle and back.
Mud is manufactured
By unseen makers
Just to be slung
At someone buying
From the same makers.
Lies fly to open ears
With closed eyes
And empty pockets
Looking for something to fill them.
Form overshadows truth,
Reality is reborn unrecognizable.
Blind leaders warn of things
They cannot see to distract
From things they cannot ignore.
Robbing tomorrow to pay yesterday
Is called “fiscal responsibility,”
While starving the future
To feast today is SOP.
Two parties talk from both sides
Hoping to sway the middle
And stand in the middle
Hoping to pull from both sides.
|
You Are Dad
Zane Schneider
It’s around one in the morning when Lynne gets home. You scare the shit out of her.
“Jesus, Dad. Who just sits in the kitchen?”
“Tommy or Drake?” you say.
“Goodnight, Dad.”
“Drake.”
She throws her head back and slams a sigh out of her throat.
“Good morning.”
She looks at her cereal like she wants to kill you. Her backpack is already sitting at her feet. The little keychain fish on the zipper has lost an eye.
“When you gonna be home tonight?”
“Late.”
“How late.” It bounces right off her. You already know the answer.
She takes your car to school, leaving you with the newspaper and some apples. Potato Farmer Robbed of Half the Year’s Earnings. Lucky bastard.
You’re working on a crossword when she pulls up in the driveway. It’s about five. Her friend is in the passenger seat, the one who is always wearing someone else’s face. Lynne almost falls over laughing while she walks up the pavement. The front doorway rips the smile right out of her.
“Pleasant surprise,” says your grin.
“Just getting my camera.”
“What are you up to?”
“Later.”
Back outside her smile returns.
9 p.m. She doesn’t think you know where she goes. Their cars are lined up on the bridge. You park your bike on the other side. From your hill you can see them. There’s usually around ten, all under the bridge. Boys and girls. Lynne and Drake. None of them has a shirt on. Except for one kid. He looks like a Jimmy. He’s always your favorite.
She’s in Drake’s lap. He snaps her bra strap on her shoulder. So funny. He pushes her head forward and lays a line of that shit on her back. He snorts it all in and howls like a feral jackass. Everyone laughs. Your fingers tighten on your pistol.
Twelve when she gets home.
“Drake?”
She slams the door.
Eight in the morning. She has pictures of Tommy all over her room. That’s why Drake doesn’t get to come to the house. From the end of the bed you’re sitting right in her mirror, across the room. There’s still a plastic pink flower taped to the glass. You put it there. She was little then but it’s still there.
Tommy’s car stops in your drive way. He comes in before she does. The clock says it’s 5.
“Hey, Mr. Peck.”
“Call me Gregory, Tommy.”
Lynne walks in wearing her phone on her face, “Your name is Carl, Dad.”
“Sorry. Call me Carl Dad, Tommy.”
“Hur hur.” She used to really laugh. She snatches Tommy by the hand and leads him upstairs. He closes the door to her room. Nice and gentle.
Three and a half hours the door has been still. You put your ear to it but there are no voices.
“Psst. Lynne.”
No answer.
“Hey. Lynne.”
Nothing.
“ Vio-Lynne. Porcel-Lynne. Penicil-Lynne. Hey Lynne.”
Nope.
“Tommy.”
Silence.
You slowly creak the door open and poke your head in. It’s just Tommy. He’s in her bed, covers up to his chest. His head is on her ladybug pillow. The window is open. Her camera is gone.
You sit on the end of the bed and give his foot a soft squeeze. His eyes peel open.
“Oh, hey Mr. – uh, Carl.”
“Hi Tommy.”
His eyes flick over to the window. “Lynne went, um –“
“Yes, Lynne went.”
“Sorry.”
“See you in the morning, Tom.” You shut the door behind you. Nice and gentle.
Tommy and Drake both in one night. It’s a first. You forgot your bike helmet.
They’re all under the bridge. Jimmy has his shirt on. Drake has a new ear ring. Drake. You can tell by her laugh Lynne already has a few rocks up her nose. A boy with no mustache makes a joke about middle school girls. Drake says he should know.
At least I can get some, says baby face. Drake points at your daughter in his lap and licks his lips. He throws up a jagged middle finger. You finger the trigger on your pistol.
They get louder. You’ve never even banged her they say at Drake. He howls back at them. Lynne giggles. The whole time, she giggles. Drake scoops her up on his shoulder. You squeeze the pistol hard and your wrist hurts. He blasts another middle finger at the group as he carries her up the hill. She giggles.
He thrusts her into his mustang and dives in after. You’re already halfway to the bridge. You haven’t walked this fast in a long while. Idiot didn’t even lock his door. You swing it open to find his bare behind bobbing up and down like a jack hammer on top of your Lynne. You give it a firm punch.
“Hey, what the f –“ he snaps his head around and comes nose to barrel with your pistol.
“Get out of the car, Drake.”
“Who the fuck are you, man?”
“I’m Carl Dad, asshole.” You have him lying on his back in front of you in seconds. Little Drake shrinks away. You keep the gun trained.
“Daddy?” says your daughter’s lips.
“Pull your pants up, darling.”
She doesn’t listen.
“What the fuck, man?” Drake spouts.
“You want to know what the fuck, Drake? What the fuck is that I’m tired of you polluting my little girl. What the fuck is that it’s time for me to end this. What the fuck is that it’s time for you to be punished.” You twist the gun over to the car and yank the trigger. Lynne’s head snaps back and the window behind her shatters. “Look what you did you little shit.”
You are reading the newspaper. It’s about eleven when you hear knocking. There is a police officer on the other side of the door.
“Are you Mr. Peck?” His eyes are red.
“Yes sir, call me Gregory. Is something the matter?”
“I’m afraid so. Um,” he makes a choking noise but forces his eyes to stay on yours, “about two hours ago, your daughter was killed by an unknown gunman. I’m sorry.”
“What? Damn.” Your knee itches so you gave it a scratch.
He turns his head down and takes a deep breath. “We recovered these.” He hands you Lynne’s phone and camera. “Would you like to see – “
“Thank you.” You close the door. You set her things down on her bed and the door knocks again. It’s the officer. His face is different.
“Mr. Peck, is that your firearm?” He points to your bike lying in your front lawn. Evidently you had left the pistol in the grass next to it.
“Why yes it is. I’ll get it.”
“I’m gonna need you to come with me.”
“Well alright.”
Twenty minutes and you’re sitting in a cell next to another man. He is scruffy.
“What’re ya in for?” You say in your best cowboy voice.
“They say I killed my sister.”
“Did you?”
“Probably.”
“Why?”
“She was always the favorite kid. Pissed me off.”
“Oh. I was the favorite kid.”
“Did it piss the other kids off?”
“No, not really.”
“Oh. Lucky you.”
“Yeah. I’m an only child.”
His reply is only hot breath. You hear one of his fingers pop.
Then, “I’m glad I killed her.”
“Oh?”
“My sister. I’m glad I did it.”
“If you did it.”
“I’m pretty sure I did it.”
“Well, good for you then.”
“Thanks. So what you here for?”
“Meeting new people.”
The door screeches open and a lady with a nose like a beak says “Come with me, Mr. Peck.”
“Say please,” You say, and she leads you to a room and sits you down across from a little red man at one of those big black good-cop-bad-cop tables.
“Do you know why you’re here Mr. Peck?”
“Bird face brought me here. I followed bird face.” His brows wrinkle up. There’s a brown stain on his shirt. “There’s a brown stain on your shirt.”
“Mr. Peck, I’m sorry for your loss, but we need a little cooperation.”
“Got it. Cooperation. Throw me a ball. I’ll catch the ball. I’ll even throw the ball back.”
“Mr. Peck –“
“Get a ball.”
“We need y-“
“Get a ball.”
“Please just -”
“Fine. No ball.”
He huffs and pinches his nose. “We need –“
“Maybe a rock?”
His red face reddens. “Are you kidding me?”
“I could throw a rock.”
His voice takes a step up. “Focus, Mr. Peck!”
“Gregory”
“The only witnesses to your daughter’s murder were a group of kids. They say your daughter was alone with her boyfriend when they heard the gunfire, and by the time they found her body he was speeding away in his car. They say they didn’t see anyone else. ”
“Drake is not her boyfriend.”
“You know who they were referring to?”
“Oh yes.”
“Could you help us locate him?”
“Oh yes.”
“Was that so hard?”
“Oh yes.”
He huffs again. “Now, about the matter of your pistol.”
You are silent.
“You understand that it is suspicious that your bicycle was lying in your yard, next to a loaded pistol, within biking distance of the site of the murder.”
You observe the little man. He looks like he would hate to be tickled.
“Care to explain, Mr. Peck?”
“Get a rock.”
“Jesus Christ.” He pushes up from his chair with a final huff. “How about you go have some more alone time in your cell until you’re ready to be helpful.”
The scruffy man is asleep in the cell. You have some time to think. You make a crossword in your head to solve but it’s too easy and you’re done in seconds. Your mind begins to wander. Did you remember to unplug the toaster? Wash Lynne’s pillowcases? Close the windows?
Then it hits you, stabs you in the chest. You fly to the door and break a knuckle with a fierce strike. “I’m ready to cooperate, please!” You bang and bang and bang. You turn to see if you have woken the scruffy man but he has left. An officer opens the door and you turn back. “Please take me to the man I spoke to before.”
In a moment you’re back across the table from the little red man. “Is there something you want to tell me, Mr. Peck?”
“Yes, I apologize for my behavior. This is all very overwhelming and I am not equipped to handle it. Please forget our talk earlier.” You are rubbing your fingers together. A sweat is breaking on your forehead.
His face is unmoving, until he nods. You continue.
“I think I have a way to help us, but we need to be quick.”
“Go on.”
“I need to call my daughter’s boyfriend. He is at my house, in my daughter’s room. I need him to bring something that will clear this all up.”
“Drake is at your house now?”
“Tommy is at my house now.”
“Mr. Peck.”
“Please, I promise it will help. I will even explain my gun and my bike but we need to do this now.”
You expect him to huff, but instead he says, “Alright, we will call him.”
“No, I need to call him.”
Now he huffs.
In a moment you’re listening to a little ring attempt to reach Tommy on speaker phone. You are surrounded by stern faces. It takes a couple tries but he picks up. You lick your salty lip.
“H-Hello?” Tommy’s voice.
“Hi Tommy. It’s Mr. Peck”
“Oh. Um –“
“Listen Tommy, I’m at the police department right now and I need your help. Are you still in Lynne’s room?”
“Yeah. Sorry.”
“It’s okay. I need you to hurry Tommy. I need you to get up and look at Lynne’s mirror.”
“Did something happen?”
“Look at the mirror Tommy. Is there a pink flower on it?” You hear a huff behind you but you flap a hand back to stunt a protest.
“Um, yeah there is.” Tommy’s voice is wobbly.
You close your eyes. “Oh thank God, Tommy. That’s great. Now, the important part. I need you to go outside. Can you do that?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay, go to the edge of the grass on the right side of my yard.”
Footsteps. “Mr. Peck this is scaring me.”
“It’s alright Tommy. It’s okay. I just need you to bring me something and then it will all be fine. Are you at the edge of the grass?”
“Yeah”
“Look down. What do you see?”
“Just rocks.”
“Excellent. Pick one up and bring it here. They want me to cooperate.”
|
How He Failed
Janet Kuypers
5/18/10
“I␁m disappointed in you”
he said to me
& I wonder
if he ever felt disappointed
in how he failed
as a father
|
Corpus Christine
B. Mason
There hadn’t been a first time—not that she could remember.
The bones, it seemed, had always occupied the same space between the trees, and she had always walked by. That winter she used a cane. In the spring her legs were pale and shaky. By summer it was two brisk trips a day. She never lingered. All the same, she was sure they were female. She was sure they were human—or had been.
***
Her return to work prompted a daylong cupcake party. Between hugs there were gag gifts. Between gag gifts there were musings from thirtysomething executives on the preciousness of life. It was all very nice. She tried to blow up a whoopee cushion and was ordered to pace herself. She broke away to sort the mail and was sent home at three.
The second day, it took ten minutes to catch up on six months’ worth of gossip. She considered chiming in, telling them about her walks, the woods—everything. But Marnie was still breaking down every time their eyes met, and Diane still spoke to her as if she were an imbecile. To mention it now, in light of all that had happened, seemed a little grim.
***
A few weeks later, they swarmed.
“Where have you been?” asked Marnie.
“What’s wrong with you?” asked Diane.
She crossed her eyes. “How much time do you have?”
Marnie shook her head. “So inconsiderate.”
“What are you talking about?”
“One minute we’re sitting here,” said Diane, “and Marnie’s telling a story about how her granddaughter—.”
“No, it was my grandson,” said Marnie.
“Oh, was it?” said Diane. “Okay, Marnie is telling a story about how her grandson is allergic—.”
“No, that’s your grandson,” said Marnie.
“Anyway,” said Diane, “you were nowhere to be found, and one of Marnie’s grandkids sat on a bee.”
She smirked. “And somehow I’m the one with a pain in my butt.”
Marnie pointed at her. “Don’t get smart.”
“For crying out loud, ladies.” She held up a bag of yogurt-covered raisins. “I just went to the vending machine.”
“Well,” said Diane, “we thought your nose was bleeding.”
“Or you had to throw up,” said Marnie.
“I’m peachy,” she said. “But what’s the story with your grandson?”
“He’s fine,” said Marnie. “He’s joining the marines right after graduation.”
“That’s not the point,” said Diane. “We were scared to death.”
They stared at her.
She shrugged. “Fine. I’m sorry.”
They started to shuffle back to their desks.
“But I should let you know,” she said.
They stopped.
“I do have to tinkle.”
Their eyes, she could tell, followed her all the way down the hall to the restroom.
***
She invested in top-of-the-line, ultra-lightweight sneakers. She walked more, earlier, longer, later. For a time, she even spent her lunch hours circling the office park. That was short-lived. Without the usual landmarks, she felt aimless, her legs heavy.
When she showed up in the lunchroom again, Marnie and Diane had lifted their prohibition on diet soda. They were not eager to discuss their reasoning. After some half-hearted protesting, they let her pick up the tab for dessert—but then wrapped their cookies in napkins and tucked them in their purses for later.
***
That fall, when the invitation for her 30-year high school reunion came, she filled out the RSVP card immediately. A month or so later, just before the early registration discount was due to expire, she mailed it. In the interim, she bought a dress that was much too expensive.
She’d scarcely set foot inside the auditorium when Dale Yoder mistook her for Mrs. Littlejohn, a social studies teacher who’d retired the year they graduated. She shrugged it off. Dale himself bore more than a passing resemblance to Santa Claus, and his companion for the evening was, it seemed, a cockatiel.
Moments later, however, she was tearing up at the reception table. Her name tag read:
HELLO, I WAS CHRISTINE SMITH
Bud Nix and Hazel Mobley—the reunion committee—were very sweet. They explained it was simply a way to accommodate the women’s more-familiar maiden names. They’d have used one of the extra men’s tags had they known she’d never married.
“I’m the only spinster in the entire class?” asked Christine.
“I love your dress,” said Hazel. “Don’t you, Bud?”
“I think you’re the only one,” said Bud.
Teddy Listache, ’84 alumnus and Christine’s on-again-off-again flame of roughly fifteen years, had recently wed for the third time. Long after she’d finished her two complimentary drinks, and paid cash for a few more, Christine lingered at the bar to watch wife number three go through the buffet line. There were no surprises. She was buxom, buck-toothed, averse to vegetables.
There were no surprises where he was concerned, either. He ate with his hands and took great pains to avoid eye contact. This time, he’d been the one to end it. He’d said he was afraid of contracting her illness and passing it on to his bride-to-be. Christine had been too sick to object. Ovarian cancer was, among other things, hard to explain.
***
She asked Martin Gidnitz, the boy with whom she’d shared her first kiss, to join her for “a trip down memory lane.” They strolled through the cafeteria, past their old lockers and into the band room. She pinned him against the blackboard.
“Dang. You kiss way better, Marty,” she said.
“Thanks,” said Martin.
“Of course my mouth is more relaxed probably than ever.”
“Wanna go back out, get some coffee or something?”
Her eyes narrowed. “That’s awful gentlemanish for a guy who’s got a handful of—.” She yawned. “Boobs.”
“Heh. Good point. Still—.”
“Don’t I seem skinny now, Marty?”
“You look great.” He started to pull away. “But we really should—.”
“Take a peek at my bra if you want.” She reached back, tried to unzip her dress, spun around a couple of times. “It’s real boosty but also kinda see-through.”
Martin looked around. “I dunno...”
“Uh oh,” said Christine.
Martin steadied her. “What’s wrong?”
“I whizzed around too fast. Got dizzy.”
“Here,” said Martin. “Sit down.”
She slid down the wall until she found the floor. Once there, she placed her hands atop her head, closed her eyes and took a few deep breaths. Then vomited all over Martin’s shoes.
***
Happy Days was a bleary, soft-edged kaleidoscope. Richie and Malph leaned across the booth at Arnold’s to whisper, and it looked for all the world like they were sharing an infinite kiss. She woke up wetting her gurney.
“Sorry, we probably gave you too many fluids,” said the nurse. “I like your dress, though.”
“Why am I still here?” asked Christine.
“Don’t worry. We’ll get you a new gurney, a gown.”
“Don’t bother. I have a DNR.”
“A DNR?” said the nurse. “That doesn’t really apply to, like, laundry and so forth.”
“They told me this was just precautionative,” said Christine.
“I’m sure it is.”
“Then why’s it taking so long?”
“Please be patient, ma’am. We’ve gotten two separate MVAs, and some guy jumped off the science building at the community college—all since my shift started.”
“Jumped?” said Christine. “If he wants to be dead, why should he get to go first?”
“In case he wakes up and feels differently, I guess,” said the nurse.
“You think he’s gonna wake up?”
“Mmm. Probably not.”
“For crying out loud,” said Christine, rubbing her temples.
The nurse squinted. “I feel like I’ve seen you before.”
“I’ve been here forever. You told me the TV was loud enough, remember?”
The nurse flipped through Christine’s chart. “Why would you have a DNR?”
“From before. I knew if I ever got to leave some knucklehead would just kill me in a car crash on the way home.”
The nurse wrote something in the chart, closed it. “I’ve heard of that happening,” she said. “On the way here, too.”
“Huh.” said Christine. “I never even thought of that.”
***
Midway through a winter morning walk, she screamed. She tried to scream. She squeaked. In the distance, a black lab lay gnawing a long leg bone.
Leaves crunched beneath her feet. A twig snapped. A knee popped. Fists flashed in and out of her vision. She was running. She was gnashing her teeth and making a beeline for the dog.
Bone in mouth, he raised himself slowly, haunches together, then one front leg at a time. He sniffed around for a few seconds, found his spot and started digging.
Christine thrust her neck forward. Frozen breath streamed from her nostrils.
From all directions, a girl’s voice echoed. “Gordon!”
The dog jerked its nose skyward and scanned the horizon, ears pricked. At 9 o’clock it spotted Christine and cocked its head.
Christine skidded to a halt.
“Gordon!”
Their eyes met for a long moment. A bead of sweat dropped from the tip of Christine’s nose.
“Gordon, come!”
The dog—Gordon, presumably—gave a half-hearted werph, lifted his leg and peed.
“Hey! Git!” said Christine, and charged forward.
She felt fast. She felt light. She felt too light. She wondered if a kick from her unsubstantial shoes would do any damage at all to such a large, piggish animal.
“Here, Gordon!” It was closer, clearer.
Gordon lay back down and resumed chewing.
Christine slowed to a jog, walked to within a few feet of him, rested her hands on her knees. “Knock it...off.”
His tail gave a single, limp flop. Spread tightly around him were several other bones—part of a pelvis, a hand, a skull. There were more than she’d imagined. They were smaller than she’d imagined.
“I said come, you asshole!”
“Hear that?” said Christine. “You’re a bad dog.”
Gordon rolled over on his back, whined expectantly.
“Oh, please,” said Christine. “Get real.”
“Gordon!” It was right on top of them now.
“Fine.” She patted his belly a few times with one hand while picking up the skull with the other. “But that’s all you get.”
With that, she turned and ran for a nearby stand of bushes, her first step landing deliberately on Gordon’s tail.
He yowled.
“Gordon?”
She found a full, leafy spot close to the ground, fell to her knees and shoved the skull inside.
When the voice called again, she went to meet it.
***
The girl pointed to the phone tucked beneath her ear.
“Excuse me,” said Christine. “But your—.”
The girl held up a finger. “Well, I didn’t think I ever had. I just didn’t know it was called that.”
“Excuse me, but your—.”
“I don’t know,” said the girl, turning her back to Christine. “Some lady.”
Christine cupped a hand on either side of her mouth, bellowed. “Listen, blondie. I know where your dog is.”
“Let me call you in a—. Hello? Hello? Hello?” With each “Hello?” the girl looked skyward and jogged a few paces, as if she were trying to avoid a falling object.
“Yeah, it’s hard to hear calls out here,” said Christine.
The girl gave a final, plaintive “Hello?”, stuffed the phone in her pocket and trudged back. “So where is he?”
Christine pointed vaguely into the distance. “Over there. He’s, uh—.”
“Retarded?”
Christine nodded. “Very possibly. But for now let’s just say ‘absorbed’.”
“Oh, god,” said the girl. “He’s eating shit, isn’t he?” She removed a plastic bag from her jacket pocket. “He’s a disgusting shit-eater.”
“Not exactly,” said Christine. “But I wouldn’t go over there if you can help it. I was thinking if you have, like, a treat or something, I might be able to lure him back for you.”
The girl’s phone buzzed. She pulled it out, started tapping. “That’d be amazing.”
“Okay, then,” said Christine. “So I’ll just—.”
“Wait. Are you on your period?”
“Am I—? Me?”
“He’ll attack you. I can’t even get near him sometimes.”
“Well,” said Christine. “That sounds like a personal—.”
“Nevermind,” said the girl. “Here he comes.”
***
She’d had dozens of scans, all without incident. But she could feel the blood filling her esophagus, was certain it would start to spill out of her mouth at any moment.
“That’s just the contrast—the dye,” said the voice from the intercom. “It’ll pass.”
“No,” said Christine. “I’ll drown.”
They pulled her out, let her sit up.
“We can give you a sedative,” said the technician. “Just to take the edge off.”
“I forgot something important last time.”
“It’s very mild,” said the technician.
“That’s what they said last time.”
Last time, the hospital chaplain had listened just long enough to clean his glasses before suggesting the edge be taken off. She was delirious, he’d said, talking in circles—not to mention squeezing the hell out of his hand.
When she’d come to, she could remember pleading with the nurse to summon him to her room. She could remember knowing that he, of all people, would want to be let in on the mystery that had been revealed to her.
She could remember nothing of the mystery itself.
After the scan, she was relieved to find that she at least remembered the chaplain. He offered a friendly wave from behind the counter as she exited through the gift shop.
***
She was fairly certain her dishwashing liquid had featured in a commercial with crude-soaked ducklings. At the very least, the label said it was “MILD!” Once the water in the sink was lukewarm, she added a squirt, agitated, and lapped a few handfuls over the skull.
There was still no word. Multiple specialists had to be consulted, apparently, at least one of whom was spending an Easter holiday in Thailand. She would know the moment the results were in, they’d told her. In the meantime, she should simply try to live her life—and quit calling.
After several minutes of gentle washing, there was no discernable change. She picked up the phone. Diane and her husband, Dennis, favored a western motif in their home, which was chockablock with wagon wheels, lassos and bovine skulls.
“I’ve been thinking about taking a page out of your interior design book—doing a rugged but tasteful kinda deal in here,” said Christine. “How do you keep those things white, though?”
“I have no idea,” said Diane. “Dennis killed them.”
“Dennis killed them?” said Christine.
“Oh yes,” said Diane. “I figure I’m probably next.”
***
The conference room window overlooked the parking lot. A sheriff’s cruiser straddled two disabled spaces, a shirtless man asleep in the back seat.
The deputy sipped his coffee, set it on the table. “Any questions?”
Christine looked up from the folder. “I don’t understand what most of this means.”
“Yes, ma’am. It’s highly technical.”
Over the deputy’s shoulder, the man yawned and scratched his ear with the chain between his handcuffs.
Christine scanned the page with a finger. “Oh, okay. It says ‘Adult female’ right here.”
“Yes,” said the deputy. “I believe they derive that from the pelvic region.”
“Wait. Does this mean she died seventy-five to two-hundred years ago?”
“Approximately.”
“Geez,” said Christine, flipping a few pages ahead. “That’s—. That’s, uh—.”
“Honestly,” said the deputy, “the rest is fungal information and whatnot—molecular jargon.”
“Oh, she was tall,” said Christine.
The deputy stood. “Like I said, Sheriff wanted me to bring you a copy since you—you know, since you’ve shown so much interest.”
“So we probably won’t know—?”
“The information’s in the system now,” he said. “Obviously the chronology is an obstacle.”
“That’s it?”
“Only other thing would be artwork—again, forensic. Of course that’s not possible without a skull.”
“Oh.”
“And from a resource standpoint, we have to prioritize active threats.”
“Like him?” said Christine, nodding towards the parking lot.
The man had huffed a few heavy breaths onto the back passenger window and was writing “FUCK YOU” in the fog.
“He’s a recidivist,” said the deputy. “Whatever happened to this woman is no longer a threat.”
“Really?” said Christine. “What if it was cancer?”
Marnie entered with a pot of coffee. “You look like you could use a refill, young man.”
Christine gritted her teeth. “Marnie—.”
“No, thank you.” He motioned out the window. “I have to get him back.”
“What happened to his shirt?” asked Marnie.
“He won a First Amendment case—or half of one, anyway,” said the deputy. “I assure you, ma’am, he is wearing pants.”
***
The women in the yearbook photos, mugshots and severe-angle Polaroids were all “Missing”—and all otherwise unremarkable. Yet Christine devoted the bulk of her time on jaynedoe.org to flagging comments. “Too bad nice tits” appeared beneath a black-and-white wedding portrait of Edith Sanger, last seen March 1967. “Runt cunt” referenced a Bobby Sox trading card featuring Preeti Bringhi, 8, of Abilene.
Even the haunted, rambling faces in the artists’ renderings of the “Unidentified” spawned remarks faster than she could have them taken down. “Why do all these bitches have the same name?” showed up in response to a sketch of Jayne Doe 198801.
In between, she enquired on any remotely plausible match. Replies were rare. Follow-ups led nowhere.
She’d created her own “Unidentified” post, spending the better part of an afternoon retyping the sheriff’s report nearly word-for-word. Without an image, however, it attracted no attention—save from those who objected to Gordon being characterized as “fat.”
***
The Top Hat Motel had changed hands. Before they could even undress, the man who’d checked them in stopped by to ensure they weren’t harboring any unpaid-for guests.
“Just us,” said Teddy. “Unless you wanna come in, slick.”
The man’s eyes lingered on Christine through the open door.
“What?” she said.
Afterwards, she flipped channels. He blew smoke at the ceiling.
“There’s no smoking in here,” she said.
“It’s like a hundred degrees outside.”
She came to the news and stopped, gestured with the remote. “Did you hear about the thing at the college?
“Nope.”
“They never say what she was studying.”
He scratched his stomach. “You looked different at the reunion.”
“Yeah? Better?”
“No.”
“Skinnier?”
He shrugged. “Maybe.”
She started to flip again. “You know, I saw an entire show about a five-thousand year-old man,” she said. “They figured out his last meal.”
He dropped his cigarette in a glass of water on the bedside table. “Yak, right?” he said. “I saw it, too.”
Later, after he’d fallen asleep, she watched an infomercial. An NBA Hall-of-Famer, a man whose name sounded vaguely familiar, was hawking a DVD collection of “Classic College Matchups.” Between fond reminiscences of his own school days and surprise visits from former teammates, there were highlights of the classic matchups in question. At first, they were indistinguishable. Players scored. Announcers yelled. Crowds went wild. After a couple of hours, after she’d seen the whole thing a few times through, she decided they fell into three rough categories: comebacks, underdogs and otherwise uneventful games that featured stars-to-be.
When she finally turned off the TV, it was after midnight. She’d been cancer-free for a year.
***
It was a space she’d seen in movies many times. Old people played checkers, watched TV, crocheted. Very old people stared out of windows, flanked by immigrants in scrubs.
“Marnie never comes,” said Diane.
Christine took a seat beside her on the sofa. “Marnie moved to Arizona. She retired.”
“I retired too,” said Diane.
“That’s right,” said Christine. “But it seems like they keep you busy.”
“I take classes. I take walks.”
Christine tugged on the front of her blouse. “It’s starting to get chilly. The leaves are pretty, though.”
“I always take one of the nurses,” said Diane. “In case Dennis—.”
“No one’s trying to hurt you,” said Christine.
“Kill,” said Diane.
“And if you do see him, it’s only because he loves you and wants to make sure you’re okay.”
“If I do?” She looked out the window. “So you think—?”
Christine took her hand, stroked it. “No, no, no. I’m sorry.”
Diane lifted one side of her collar, dabbed her eyes. “Because sometimes I’m sure—.”
“Just relax,” said Christine.
“But I take a lot of pills.”
Christine shushed her. “I know. I know.”
“How about your skulls and all that?”
Christine withdrew her hand, looked around. “What?”
“Didn’t—. Didn’t you call? Or wait. am I—?”
“Oh, yes, yes, yes,” said Christine, re-seizing her hand. “Of course, I remember.”
Diane closed her eyes, exhaled. “I thought I was losing my mind.”
“Sorry,” said Christine.
“They’re white enough for you?”
“I wash them every day.”
“Oh.” said Diane. “That’s sad.”
“I wouldn’t say that.”
Diane dug a piece of hard candy out of her pocket, unwrapped it and popped it in her mouth. “Did you get anything else?”
“Else?” said Christine. “No.”
“Nothing?”
“What should I—?”
“Two wheels per skull,” said Diane. “Three lassos per wheel.” She shook her head. “That’s just common sense.”
***
The first few days, Christine followed up every instruction with, “Do you understand?” Within a week, Yolanda was handling all of Marnie and Diane’s duties. Within two weeks, she knew everything.
She wept over the worst days in the hospital. She covered her mouth and giggled as Christine described the homeliness of Marnie’s grandchildren. She tsked upon hearing that Teddy was divorcing yet again.
“You’re sure you understand?” Christine asked after revealing the particulars of the skull.
Yolanda nodded. “If is me, I do too.”
Not long after, a new addition appeared among the Halloween decorations on Christine’s desk. Yolanda seemed unable to avert her eyes. Finally, around lunchtime, she approached.
“Christy,” she said. “Is her?”
“Yes,” said Christine. “Is that—? Are you—?”
“Okay, okay” said Yolanda, patting Christine’s back. “But she need to move at night.”
“Sorry?”
“Puts her in your desk so she don’t get broke,” said Yolanda, pointing at the large drawer where Christine kept her purse.
“Why would she get broken?”
“My cousin is the cleaner lady,” said Yolanda, shaking her head. “She nice, but she have shits for her brain.”
***
In the month or so since Christine’s last visit to jaynedoe.org, she’d received 147 new messages—all from a single sender. The final three had come in ten-minute intervals:
Please respond, as I have reason to believe this is my sister Dora.
– Lionel Winter
Please respond, as I believe this is my sister Dora.
– Lionel Winter
Please respond; this is my sister Dora.
– Lionel Winter
She told Yolanda to go to lunch without her and started from the beginning.
The significance of the genealogy was not immediately clear. Dates were sporadic, surnames rare. Only after a century or so did the first biographical asides begin to appear: “Killed by ox.” “First brewer in village.” “Harelip” showed up more than once. When she tried to skip ahead a few generations, she landed in the middle of an extended commentary on beekeeping. When she tried to go back, she got wrapped up in the story of someone named Hilde and the contents of her hope chest. By the time a Dora made the scene, Yolanda was leaving for the evening.
“You needs something before I go?” she said.
“No,” said Christine. “Not unless you can tell me what fish scissors are.”
***
Christine had just finished taping the box when Yolanda flicked the light switch.
“Morning, Yolanda.”
“Wha—?” Yolanda spun around, sploshed coffee on her pants.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” said Christine.
“Christy?” She set the coffee on her desk, took off her sweater. “What you doing in the dark?”
“I was just leaving, actually.”
“What? You didn’t never goes home?”
“Not yet.”
“Oh, no.” Yolanda wrung her hands, rushed over to Christine’s desk. “Is you stroking?”
“Stroking? Come on.”
She jabbed her finger at Christine’s chair. “You was sitting right there—.”
“I’m fine. I was just reading.”
“You was crying.”
“I was not.”
“Oh, Christy. You has a strange— I can say aura?”
Christine gathered her purse, her coat, the box. “I’d prefer you didn’t.”
“Where is you going?”
Christine stopped in the doorway. “I’ll be back in a few days. You’ll be fine.”
“You wants me to say you is sick?”
Christine shrugged. “If they ask.”
***
The vinyl hoarked every time Christine tried to reposition herself in the giant booth—and every time, Lionel wheezed “I beg your pardon?” through his oxygen mask.
“No, no. It was the seat—again,” said Christine, squinting.
“Are you...ill at ease?”
“It’s just—. The sun’s right over your shoulder.”
Lionel cupped a hand behind his ear. “The sun, you say?”
She slid down until her eyes were nearly at table level.
“I beg your pardon?”
“No, no. Nothing,” said Christine. “That’s better.”
Lionel’s hands shook. He unfolded a paper napkin, tucked it in his collar. “Was I saying something?”
“Let’s see...” said Christine. “Amputation?”
“Last month,” said Lionel. “Left leg to the knee.”
“Oh, no.”
He rested his hands on the table, fork and knife upright, ready. “Did I already thank you?”
“You did,” said Christine. “But it’s not necessary. The thought of her sitting in some box in the coroner’s office—”
Lionel eyed the box at his side.
“—or, on some shelf, I mean. I just couldn’t—.”
“Better watch out for this one,” said the waitress, winking at Christine. She set their plates down, poured half a carafe of syrup over Lionel’s pancakes and walked away.
“I think she likes you,” said Christine.
Lionel picked up the syrup, added another dash. “They’re taking a couple of my right toes next week.”
“Small ones, at least?”
“I don’t travel well,” he said, cutting his pancakes into quarters, eighths. “Thank you for coming—and so quickly.”
“I’m happy you found me.”
“Time is—.” He shook his head, sighed. “Well. You know.”
“I do know.”
He continued cutting—sixteenths, thirtyseconds. “Come again?”
Christine leaned forward, spoke up. “I said I do know.”
“Know what?”
She poked at her omelet. “That time is—whatever you were going to say. Scarce?”
He pulled his mask away, let it hiss against his adam’s apple. “You said a mouthful.”
“It makes you grateful, at least.”
He took a bite, looked at the box again. “Or desperate.”
“Didn’t you tell me she wanted to see the Grand Canyon?”
“Yes,” said Lionel, chewing. “She did a painting at Camp Wampanoag. We were thirteen.”
“Well,” said Christine, “that’s practically the next state over from me.”
He nodded, looked up from his pancakes. Syrup streaked his chin.“Do you know what your name means?”
Christine dabbed at him with her napkin. “Yes.”
“My ninth great-grandmother was a Christine, you know.”
“There was bound to be one in there somewhere.”
“She was burned at the stake.”
“Really?” said Christine. “I’d have guessed drowning.”
He started to dig in his shirt pocket. “Would you like to see a picture of my sister?”
“You already gave it to me, remember?” Christine pulled it from her purse, held it out for him to see.
“Yes, yes.” He pointed at it. “You see, it’s black and white, but you can still tell—.”
“I know,” said Christine. She flipped it around, studied it. “She had red hair.”
“Just like a donkey,” said Lionel. “I always thought so, anyway.”
***
Christine had just decided on a small artificial fir when she heard the voice.
“It takes a few tries if you wanna be totally sure.” The girl was waiting for her tree at the flocking station. She was still on the phone—but had a different dog in tow.
Christine approached. “Merry Christmas.”
The girl’s eyes narrowed, then widened. “Ohhh,” she said, and hung up.
“Who’s your friend?” asked Christine, bending down to pat the dog.
“Margaret.”
“Pomeranian?”
“I think.”
“Where’s—?”
“Hey,” said the girl, tugging at the drawstring on her sweatshirt. “Did you ever, like, hear anything? I mean, did they ever find out?”
“They didn’t, no,” said Christine. “But I—.”
“I’ve been having nightmares.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I get lost in the woods.”
“Like Goldilocks,” said Christine.
“And one of the sheriffs is stalking me.”
“Oh,” said Christine. “That’s scary.”
“It sucks.”
She placed her hand on the girl’s shoulder. “But they’re just dreams. They’ll pass.”
“No, that part’s real,” said the girl, fiddling with her phone. “He got my number from the report, I guess.”
“Oh.”
“He sends these really—. These texts.” She flicked her thumb up the screen. “I’ll show you.”
“Wait,” said Christine. “Where’s Gordon?”
“He ran off.”
“Oh, no. When?”
“A few months ago. He joined up with this, like, bunch of strays that runs around my neighborhood.”
“Around here?”
“I spot him sometimes,” said the girl, still scrolling. “And I know he notices me. But he doesn’t come when I call him. He’s completely wild now.”
“Wild?” said Christine.
“Okay, here’s one.” The girl shoved her phone to within a few inches of Christine’s face. “Seriously,” she said. “Have you ever seen anything like this?”
|
study
Janet Kuypers
haiku 2/8/14
study the dying.
lose your past, lose your future.
study the present.
|
The Breaking
Katherine McCormick
I look up and stare into his mother’s eyes. I can see for her, it is agony. A ripping, searing ache so like the pain the day he was born. But different because this time there will be no relief, no joy at day’s end.
He is gone.
And all the years between are gone. And there can be no more. I realize that her mouth is moving, she is shouting at me with her razor tongue but I cannot hear, cannot feel the deep cuts she intends.
And in that moment I know.
There is nothing left. All that remains is the absence of everything that came before – the negatives to the warm skin under my fingers, the smile that pulled my heart and made it beat a little faster, the building desire of a long kiss.
Tears burn my face and drip into my mouth, salty and nauseating, too many to wipe away. They keep coming, from nowhere and everywhere, inside me. Wet and warm. Reminding me that I am alive and what is lying there, dry and brittle, is not. But they do not bring relief.
They don’t penetrate my skin.
I force myself to look at his face, away from the iodine-stained sheets and the tubes, study his lips, his eyes, his freckled skin. But I can’t find him.
I drop the dead hand and run out of the room. Ignoring their shouts, I keep going, down two flights of stairs and through the revolving hospital door.
I had done this.
He was dead because of me, because of what I could not do. I close my eyes and fill my lungs with the icy fall air that prickles and stings. But even with my eyes closed, I can feel their eyes on me, looking down in judgment from the second floor.
Where he died.
My ear catches one sound, and then another and another – the faraway laughter of a child, cars on the highway, the scolding trill of an angry bird, a man barking orders into a cell phone.
So I turn away from the burn of their afflicted eyes and walk onto the green that stretches between the tall buildings. Wiping my tears on the back of my hand, I slump to the ground.
And I sit, silent and staring – at nothing, at everything.
I want to feel the judgment of his God marking me a sinner. I want to share in his mother’s agony, her despair. I want to be furious at myself, at him, at the unjust perversions of the universe.
Instead I dig my fingers into the cold grass until I feel the dirt beneath my nails.
I had hesitated. Waited too long to save him. And then it was too late. And all that remains are the echoes of his mother’s accusations ringing in my ears.
I dig into the cold earth until my hand is buried and I feel an earthworm squirm between my fingers.
Chilled and shaking, I rise and cross to the parking lot, my arms wrapped around each other in a pathetic attempt at an embrace. I walk until I stand at the crossroads, the center of the everyday battle where the rush hour cars and trucks and buses fight dirty in their struggle to enter and exit the highway. They shout at me, scream with their horns at me. But I stand my ground.
Holding the earthworm tight, I stare into the oncoming traffic. And take one more step.
|
years
Janet Kuypers
haiku 2/28/14
I’m worn down lately
from carrying your spirit
all these years, alone
|
Betrayal
Talon Lawrence
“Smoke?” Sully asked.
“Newport? Christ. I’m good,” James replied.
“You say that now. Just wait.”
James fumbled through his pocket. “For what? I’ve got my own. Marlboro. The one and only.”
Sully grinned. “Marlboro? Shit. Where are you stashing that extra money, kid?”
“I’m not feeding two, Sully. Not anymore. I can afford it.”
“Sorry, kid.”
“Don’t worry about it. Besides, it’s Marlboro, Sully. Not a bad tradeoff.”
“You mind if I trade you for one?”
“For a Newport? Nah. Just take one.”
“Thanks, kid.”
“Yeah, yeah. How’s the wife?”
“Marion? She’s been better. Colin just started school Upstate. She’s taking it hard.”
“College? Well, he’s got his head in the right place. More so than his old man.”
Sully took a drag from his cigarette. “God, I hope so.”
James took one final drag before tossing his cigarette. “You ready?” he asked.
“Yeah. I suppose,” Sully replied.
Sully stamped out his cigarette before the two men walked to the trunk of the car. Sully examined the surroundings before unlocking it. Inside revealed an unconscious man. He was bound at the hands and feet. Tape was covering his mouth.
Sully looked him over. “He’s still out. Get him inside,” he said.
James lifted the squat man, tossing him over his shoulder with relative ease, before proceeding to the warehouse. Sully scanned the environment once more before following.
Once inside, James sat the man up on a stool, shackling him to a rusted beam. He then ripped the tape off of the man’s mouth, assuming it would wake him. However, it only stirred him for a brief moment.
Sully shook his head. “Get the bucket. If it’s not under the sink, it’s in the closet,” he said.
After a few moments of searching, James returned with a bucket filled with water. He drained it on the bound man, this time successfully waking him.
“Wake up, Donnie,” Sully said.
“What the fuck, man,” Donnie said as he attempted to stand.
“Look, Donnie, we know you’re a rat. There’s no way around it,” James said.
“Where am I, Sully?” Donnie asked.
Sully ignored the question. Instead he continued the interrogation. “We’ve got pictures, Donnie. It doesn’t look good,” he said.
“How long have we known each other, Donnie?” James said.
“I’ve fucked up bad, Sully,” Donnie said.
“Yeah. Yeah, you did. Tell us what you’ve given them,” Sully said.
“Jesus. I’ve got a wife, Sully. Kids,” Donnie said.
“They’ll be fine, Donnie. They’re out of this. I promise.”
“Without their father, Sully? They need their father.”
“Cut the bullshit. It’s too late for it. You’ve betrayed Santone, Donnie. You’ve betrayed the Family. He wants to make an example of you,” James said.
Donnie went still, gazing solemnly into the distance. “The docks. They have the shipping schedules for the month,” Donnie said.
“Son of a bitch,” James said.
Sully looked to James. “Call Saul.” He returned to Donnie, “What else, Donnie?” he asked.
Tears welled up in Donnie’s eyes. “I’m sorry, Sully,” he replied.
Sully stood up. “What else, Donnie?”
“Names, Sully. They’ve got names.”
“Who’s on that list, Donnie?”
Tears trickled from Donnie’s eyes, saliva from his mouth. “Everyone.”
“Fuck.”
Sully pulled out his gun, wrenching the trigger. Donnie slouched over. Though suppressed, James still flinched. After a pause he continued on the phone. Once he returned from the call, James looked upon Donnie with disappointment.
“Damnit, Sully. I told you to wait for me,” James said.
Sully paced around Donnie’s now lifeless body. “Ten years. Ten years we worked together. I can’t believe it. We need to call capo. They’ve got us on paper,” he said.
“Of the Family? They already have papers on us. It’s the FBI.”
Sully stopped pacing and rounded on James. “Think, Jamie. They were going on outdated information that doesn’t include us. I don’t want feds questioning my son. Do you want them beating down your door?”
“Listen to yourself, Sully. You’re not making any sense.”
Suddenly the door came crashing down as SWAT rushed in. Sully, who was still carrying his gun, managed a stray shot before he was incapacitated.
“Jesus,” James immediately threw up his hands, “I’m one of you. I’m undercover,” he said.
An officer pulled down his facemask. “We’re tracking. Captain Riggs called it in,” he said.
Bleeding out, Sully sat down on the cold concrete floor. James crouched down beside him.
“I’m sorry, Sully,” James said.
“You too, kid?” Sully asked.
James throat was swollen from grief. “Yeah. Me too.”
Sully coughed blood. The pain caused him to cringe. “It burns,” he said.
“Stop talking. There’s an ambulance coming.”
“You’re going to want me dead, kid.”
James didn’t respond.
Sully hacked up more blood. “I think I’m ready for that Marlboro now.”
James looked back at the officers before reaching into Sully’s blood-soaked jacket, grabbing the pack of Newports. He pulled out the one Marlboro he’d inserted earlier and then lit it before placing it in Sully’s lips. Sully managed a puff.
“Smooth,” Sully said, his voice faint.
|
knife
Janet Kuypers
haiku 2/28/14
he didn’t want to
pull the knife out, injuring
him more so he sat
|
Fallen
Danny Maltbie
“Master, slow down. I am not going to let this go,” L said.
“L it’s times like this that I wish I had not blessed you with such knowledge,” the Master said.
“You know that men will corrupt each other with these gifts. Giving them an understanding of us is a mistake,” L said.
“I am the creator. These people have an obligation to worship me and my son,” the Master said.
“If these people aren’t divided over you they can accomplish more than you ever dreamed. This will sow hate and war for all their existence,” L said.
“We will give them hope and purpose. A reason to endure the hardships of mortality,” the Master said.
“Man is simple. They will abuse your name for greed. This is a mistake Master. They should have no knowledge of what we are,” L said.
“That isn’t for you to decide. They are my creations and I will manipulate them how I see fit,” the Master said.
L was struggling to keep up with her master’s pace.
“Just think of all the potential that these men have already. Giving them something that will divide them for eons makes no sense.”
“L-“ the Master said, stopping “I will speak of this no more. You have duties attend to them.”
“I have seen you fail. I know your true nature. I was one of the first,” L said.
The force from his master’s blow knocked L from her feet.
“For the last time L! I command you to speak of this no more.”
Shaken, L stood on uneasy knees.
“Master, these men need freedom. Not chains.”
“L you are one of my first creations. There is none more beautiful and there will never be,” the Master said.
She never even saw his hand move.
“Hello.”
Warm hands rolled her on her side.
“Can you hear me?”
“The Master, where has he gone?” L said.
“I have no ‘Master’, I am a free being. My name is Eli.”
“Eli? I don’t know you. I am L, right hand of the Master. Creator of all,” L said.
“You must have struck your head pretty hard,” We free tribes have no master,” Eli said.
The rocky terrain was unfamiliar to L’s eyes.
“What land is this? Where am I?”
“This place has no name. We were placed here by an old man with grey eyes,” Eli said.
“The Master.”
“Again my friend, we have no master.”
“How long have you dwelled here?” L asked.
“I have walked this land since I can remember. I found others like me. We founded a community,” Eli said.
“There are more of you? How many more? Were they all left here by the man with grey eyes?” L said.
“Yes.”
L began to weep openly.
“Are you ok?” Eli said.
“He lied to me. He told me that you were destroyed. I can’t believe I was fooled.”
|
Many Blessings
Dan Maltbie
“He deserves this you know. For what he did to us he should burn,” Rodney said.
“Quiet Rodney,” Steve said.
The sun was setting when the car came to a stop.
“I can’t believe that you are this calm about it. How do you even look at yourself in the mirror?” Rodney said.
“I tend to keep my anger,” –he cranked down his window- “in reserve for times like these.”
“How did you find out where he lives? I’ve been trying forever to find him,” Rodney said.
“You know the new high rise I’ve been working on? I came out of work three days ago there he is standing on the corner. He looked familiar and I couldn’t place him. By the time I got back to my car it hit me. I caught up with him down the block and followed him here.”
“Are you sure this is him?” Rodney said.
“I have come back here every night for the past week and he is here. I would stake my kid’s lives on it. This is the guy we have been looking for,” Steve said.
“Perfect. Now all we have to do is wait for the lights to go out.”
“Wake up. Come on Rodney wake up.”
“What’s happened? What’s wrong,” Rodney said.
“The lights have been out almost an hour,” Steve said.
Rodney opened his door and met Steve at the back of the car. Steve was tucking a gun into his belt when they headed across the street.
The house was small and ran down. The yard was mined with gnomes and flamingos. The neighbors had no idea that a monster was living right next door.
“Rodney, this window is unlocked. Boost me up?” Steve said.
The living room was covered in newspapers and old books. The floor was sticky and cluttered. Down the hallway a small light escaped from a cracked door. Rodney eased the door open giving Steve a view inside.
“Come in boys. I know you are there,” The man said.
“Father Louis, stand up and turn around,” Steve said.
“Steven? I take it that your shadow Mr. Maxwell is also with you?” Father Louis said.
Rodney crossed the room and knocked the old man to the floor. Blood began to flow from the old mans nose.
“I think you know why we are here. Why don’t we go out into the garage and have a talk?” Steve said.
“I always knew this day would come. As much hurt as I have put into the world, it was bound to come back,” Father Louis said.
“Don’t give us any excuses. The things you did to us are unforgivable,” Rodney said.
“We came to you as scared boys. Looking for forgiveness and you took advantage of us. You ruined our lives. Made the one place we should feel safe and happy, dark and scary,” Steve said.
“On your knees old man,” Rodney said.
“It’s alright boys. You don’t know how many nights I have sat in that room and waited. Waited for all of my sins to come back for me. All the boys and girls lives I have ruined,”
“What was it that you called us? Oh yeah, your many blessings,” Rodney said.
“Don’t worry Father. Where you are going I don’t think you will have a problem with blessings.”
Steve pulled back the hammer on his pistol and fired.
|
Trustworthy
Dan Maltbie
“This place stinks like shit,” Jane said. “I have no idea why kidnappers don’t have the class to send us to a nice place.”
“For God’s sake Jane! We are trying to save your brother’s life here. Please keep the negative comments to yourself.”
“Whatever Sam!” Jane said.
“Mind your own business Jane. Or we can start to have some conversations about you,” Sam said.
“We can have all the conversations we want about me, but we aren’t going to get anything done that way.”
“Can you go through it one more time? To make sure we aren’t missing something.” Sam said.
“Jeremy and I went out for dinner and drinks three nights ago. While we were out at the club he met some friends of his. He followed them outside for a while, came back in and we left. When I woke up the next morning he was gone.”
“Why did you wait two days to contact me?” Sam said.
“I thought he was just holed up with some new fling. A man toy he didn’t want anyone to know about.” Jane said.
“Does he do that a lot? Meet some new guy and spend the next few days hid out in some cheap dive?”
“He has been known to” –she stubbed out her cigarette- “but never like this. Never for this long.”
“How did you find out that he had been kidnapped?”
“I got a phone call from them. I didn’t believe at first but when he got on the phone I knew he wasn’t joking.” Jane said.
“What were their demands?”
“Fifty thousand in cash to be delivered by me to this dive called Vic’s. I go in to the back booth and order a drink. Finish it and leave the money under the table.”
“What next? When and where are you supposed to pick up Jeremy?” Sam said.
“They told me to come here and they would be in touch.”
Sam moved from the patio to the bed and opened a small suitcase. Jane followed refilling her glass with ice and vodka.
“Do you think he’s worth that much?”
Jane fired up another cigarette.
“I guess that answers my question,” Sam said.
“Do you want to count the money or not?” Jane said.
“I’ve counted it three times. It’s all here. There’s only one thing about all this that smells funny, me. Why am I here?”
“I went into Jeremy’s room. He had your business card in his journal. There was one word written on the back ‘trustworthy’. So I looked you up, and here we are,” Jane said.
“Hmm, that’s a glowing recommendation I guess,” Sam said.
Taking a drag from her cigarette, Jane said “Hardly.”
“It’s almost time to go, give me that drink.”
“You don’t think I can make it to the drop?”
“I don’t want your brother’s welfare to depend on how well you can drive drunk,” Sam said.
Jane snatched the suitcase and headed for the door.
Sam took advantage of the shower and even caught some of the game on television. He was startled awake by the opening door.
“What happened?” Sam said.
“She made the drop. Then she got so drunk she passed out in the booth.”
“Jeremy! I told you not to come here, what if someone sees?” Sam said.
“It doesn’t matter now. Now that we are together and have the money we can go anywhere. Do anything,” Jeremy said.
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Say Good-Bye To The Good Old Invisible World
Eric Doubek
Now Mommy trusts me.
For the first time I have permission to walk alone all my way from home to school.
Five blocks of pure challenge.
“You’ll be tailing me,” I say in disbelief.
Mommy smiles making me smile too. “Use the rearview eyes on your neck.”
She fondly ruffles my hair and turns me around to face the deserted street, which I should follow towards becoming an empowered young woman. I carry my green backpack containing spiral bound notebooks and colored pencils. The folder, with my drawings inside, I hold it snugly to the chest.
At Dawn Street, I check once again that nobody is following me: I am really on my own. Mother would never fit behind those slim trees. Brave Carol. Or merely Carol?
I have plenty of time as I walked with a quick stride. However I decide to take a shortcut. Yeah, Brave Carol. I turn towards Canary Street.
Facing the wire mesh fence, I bite my lip in hesitation. Fear makes me freeze. I close my eyes and take a deep breath. “Count to ten,” Daddy taught me. I run my hand over the mesh feeling for the secret entrance.
The older boys always mention that secret hole upon talking about the Junk Lot, which is one of the names they use to call that place. They tell that two small siblings, a boy and a girl, were attacked by savage wanderers while playing there.
I shove the folder with my drawings through the hole in the fence, and then push the backpack, which fits tightly. Finally, I sneak in myself, taking great care to preserve my school uniform intact.
After the fire, the remaining pieces of the house that someone had once dared to build there had been gradually taken away. In spite of that some debris left over from the demolition remained scattered over the haunted area, to be eventually cleared. Twisted iron rods. One pile of scrapped wood. Another one with brick pieces. These elements now crumbling like charred paper had given the construction its shape for as long as they could, until they collapsed under the wish of the siblings. You see, the boy and the girl had sparks in their faces. That’s how the path is lit. As the older boys explain it, one should face the unknown with blazing eyes. Anything built on that lot shall burn. That’s a promise!
So I walk slowly. No more fears, just respectful.
I tell myself that nobody shall ever desecrate that place again. Yet what do I know?
Now the Guardian trusts us. Good behavior is the last defense.
The prisoner in a case in the middle of the car points to the metal curtain that prevents looking outside during the transfer. “How about having some view outside, to cheer us up?”
The Guardian has no name, at least hasn’t mentioned any, which makes no difference since they are all alike. But the prisoner names the Guardian for its role and he insists in begging. “Warden, a bit of landscape, please! We did a good job!”
Though pride prevents the outlanders from using our language, they understand the words as well as we, natives, do. There is a joke around the colonies: They might be human.
Suddenly the noisy mechanism is turned on. The metallic shade moves slowly, uncovering the silvery structures that now pervade everywhere. Towers. Stations. In spite of the change to the overall landscape in the world, I know where we are. I know exactly where we are.
“This place,” I said to myself and to the fellow in the next box.
“Planet Earth. That’s what it once was,” he remarks.
“That junk there should have been burnt.”
It’s not a joke like “they might be human”, but a realization instead. A true fact.
The fellow in the adjoining box whispers eagerly, “Watch your words, Miss. Enjoy what we have. Please don’t make trouble.”
“It should have been burnt.”
“Hey, Miss. It’s a long trip. All right?”
“That,” and I point at the alien miscreation occupying the very same lot that a little girl once trespassed after some short hesitation. “You don’t get it.”
“I really don’t! What is your problem?”
The Guardian’s tentacles get restless.
“I miss the old ghosts. That’s all.”
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Poem #4 from
The Oxycodone Highway
Kenneth DiMaggio
Half-hobbling on crutches
or prosthetic devices
the three security officers
checking & scanning them
today at the Social Security
office were all armed
with 19-round Glock
automatic pistols
Back in my office
I work on
the strategic plan
that will help those
seeking relief or redress
But when the social
workers the counselors
the attorneys and the director
are ready to implement
a more humane solution
—the veterans addicts
ex-convicts and others
who never institutionally
recovered
are back on
the Oxycodone Highway
And after we vote
to give more study
to our community
and how we can enhance
our goals for it
we also put in a request
for another
security officer
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Poem #5 from
The Oxycodone Highway
Kenneth DiMaggio
Not because her face sneered
“vermin” but because her 6-year old
wore a “Hello Kitty” sweater whose
insignia of a wide-eyed mouthless cartoon
cat appealed to one of her two
soon-to-be- killers that followed them
home from the supermarket and
you know the rest of the story it’s
as old as the picture of missing
children on milk cartons and as
young as sexually frustrated girls
accusing the village misfits
of being witches
And the way this slaughter in
the kitchen with the granite-topped
counters soon got virally posted
is the Oxycodone Highway
Whether you reach for the legal
prescription bottle in your
medicine cabinet or pretend
not to look at the carnage
on the newspaper rack while
waiting in line to check out your
groceries still makes no difference
just like if your sweatshirt
says Harvard or Disneyland:
we are all wide-eyed and mute
and hardly conscious of
pushing the shopping carriage
“—Clean up needed
in aisle number three.”
“Hello this is 911
please state your emergency
and if you can’t talk
please stay on the line.”
|
The Shepherd of Potential
Russ Bickerstaff
Dawn light was beginning to illuminate the street outside. It wasn’t easy for her, but she carried it out for him. It wasn’t going to be easy for him, but he was determined to carry it as well. He thanked her for carrying it out. She nodded, accepting his thanks. There was a moment of silence between them. It was getting rather heavy for her to carry. She was waiting for him to offer to hold it. He was waiting for her to tell him what she was going to do with it now that she had done as he asked and carried it out for him.
The two stood there for quite some time. There was silence as the sunlight grew into a morning sort of a feeling. The two stood there motionless but not emotionless even though the two were quite silent. Two people happened by. He killed one of them because he was convinced that the person in question would have harmed the one he or she had been walking along with. He told her to hand what she had carried out to the one that remained of the two. The one that remained had been sobbing as she accepted what had been carried out.
So he walked along with she who had just lost the one she was walking with. In tears she held that which had been carried out and everything seemed right with the world. He didn’t know what the thing might eventually turn into. Perhaps it didn’t even matter what was going to happen to it. The important thing was that it would continue to be carried and that it would have a chance to be whatever it was that it was going to be. It made him feel good to know that it was going to continue to be carried and held and moved along in the gentle procession of things as the sun climbed ever higher into the sky.
He may not have felt the weight of that potential as she walked along with him. And he may not have thought to ask about her and how she was dealing with it all, but he felt good knowing that she wasn’t going to be in any way abused by the one that he so valiantly got rid of. And it made him feel even better to know that he had given her a purpose by having her carry what had been carried out to her.
He marveled at how wonderful everything was and the grand design of some omnipotent being who had plans that he couldn’t hope to understand. It felt good for him to know that his actions were in keeping with the ineffable hand of some benevolent higher power that even at that moment was guiding him to aid a large group of people to bring a great number of other things into the world amidst the friction and turmoil of all the things that were a factory.
She held that which had been carried out as he surveyed the actions and labors of those who worked for him in building all those things that would be taken over to the other side of the world to make sure that the people he knew were evil would cease to be. It wasn’t something that he liked to think about doing firsthand as he didn’t like to think about the grizzly nature of eradicating evil from the world, which is why it was such a good thing that there were those who were willing to do it for him in exchange for all those things he already had and selflessly took for granted with great courage so that others didn’t have to.
He had thought to glance over at the thing that had been carried out when he saw that neither it nor the woman who had been carrying it were anywhere to be found. He was confident that it would be okay, though, as he was quite confident in his ability to delegate authority and so he continued about his day dutifully watching over a vast factory, reprimanding those who weren’t doing the work he needed them to do and making certain that those who did a bad enough job weren’t allowed to do any kind of job at all.
Silently to the one who wasn’t listening it slunk along. It would be deafening to those who were. It had moved away from she who was carrying it. It had been beaten by those who were no longer working at the factory. It would learn to beat them in time. In time it would slink along across the ocean to the other side of the world where it would sink its teeth into others who would sink their teeth into those who had been sent over to fight an evil of which they had little knowledge and less understanding.
He who had ensured its survival would take stock of it only once it had asserted itself on the other side of the world and only then from afar as he sent others and other things over to fight it and that which fought with it. The sun began to settle on everything once more. It had been a long day and it would be a longer night as a man slunk into bed. Earlier that day he had decided that something should be brought out with him. Just at the moment he didn’t exactly remember what it was. By morning he will have forgotten about the whole affair altogether as one day became the next in the incessant blur that was life in the postmodern world.
|
Please Read the Letter
Poetic
“Keisha, come back now.”
“No, Sinclair, you always do this.”
“Woman, don’t make me raise my voice.”
“Do as you please, that’s all you ever do anyway.”
“I’m so sick of your petty bullshit,” said Sinclair, thrusting his fist into the wall.
Fist clenching, eyes watering, body trembling. “I won’t stand for this anymore,” said Keisha.
“You would give up on six long years?” asked Sinclair.
“No, you gave up on six years,” said Keisha, tossing clothing in to a bag. “Not once have I not loved you. Forgiven you for your mistakes.”
“Keisha, I need you to stay. I can be a strong man but without you I am a little boy,” said Sinclair, falling to his knees grabbing at Keisha’s dress.
“Get off of me! Even with me here you act like a little boy,” said Keisha pulling her dress from his pincer like grasp.
“Just stay this last night, I promise I can change,” said Sinclair, folding his hands like he was praying. “I’m begging you, don’t leave Keisha. I love you.”
“No, you love the idea of me, the feeling of me and the time you waste with me,” said Keisha, wiping tears from her eyes and sniffling. “You were my first, Sinclair, and my only. But that isn’t good enough for you is it?”
“Baby, I know I fucked up. Baby, I am a man, and sometimes I’m not perfect but I’m perfect for you.”
“You’re the perfect sin for me.”
“And you are my guiding light,” said Sinclair, standing to his feet, wiping away his tears. “Before you I was selling dope, and in and out of these streets.” Sinclair grabbed Keisha and pulled her close. “Yeah, I be out here fucking these hoes, but I make love to you, and I only love you. So baby, stay just this night and forget about the past. Just love me for me.”
“Why do you have to be so cute and so strong?” said Keisha, hugging Sinclair back. “I’ll stay baby, matter a fact I’ll never leave.”
Sinclair grabbed the bag and tossed it in the closet, pushing Keisha onto the bed.
“Tonight we make love like it’s our last,” said Sinclair.
“Yes, baby, take me and treat me like your queen,” said Keisha.
“Keisha, girl, where you at?” asked Sinclair as he put on his pants. “I smell those eggs my baby cooked her king a meal.”
A cup of fresh orange juice, scrabbled eggs with cheese, bacon and a tray of biscuits sat on the table - enough food for two, but only a place set for one.
“Damn, baby, you didn’t set me a spot?” He walked into the kitchen and grabbed a plate. “Baby, where the hell are you?”
At the table, an envelope caught Sinclair’s eyes. “Baby, goddamn it bitch where are you?”
Please read the letter,
Love Keisha.
|
Life Over Breakfast
Wes Smith
It began with French toast.
I’d been staving off work all evening. Waking up, drudging through the labyrinth of the city, putting on a plastered smile... it was all a necessity, not a passion. Perhaps in another life I had pursued what mattered, but that was another life, and I could only live my own. So, I avoided it, fatiguing myself to ensure that each day I arrived my distaste would be palpable to those around me in silent protest of failed dreams.
Despite the ever-growing hour and the impending Awakening, I had no desire for sleep. The night called, as it often did, pulling me under its sway until I could do little but surround myself with its presence. I rarely ignored that call, and that night, it demanded breakfast at Midnight.
I arrived at the local diner, radio tuned to classic disco for reasons beyond the universe’s comprehension. The world demanded Barry White, and I heeded it as a soul born of nostalgia from a time I never knew.
It was the middle of the week, and I was among the only patrons, seated by a gentle soul the likes of which are only found working the overnight shift at all-hours cafes. A woman chatted from her booth to one of the servers, an obvious friend. Behind me, a hipster couple in matching square-framed glasses tried to embrace through folds of leather. We were the only diners.
I had craved French toast, and it was exactly as promised. Somewhere before I arrived, I promised myself to avoid the temptation of electronics, allowing myself to sit and think as I used to in college when such excursions were a regular occurrence. So I sat, alone, over coffee that did little to fend off the creeping ichor of black thoughts. But, it was good coffee, and the air was clean and filled with, somehow, more disco.
I left 30% for the waiter.
As I nudged the exit, the Night Magic happened. A woman, a lost soul of her own, awaited, nearly bumping into the glass panel in her inattention. We laughed and moved to switch places, only to glance back at each other in our passing.
“You know, I probably can’t drink a whole thing of coffee on my own,” she said in an awkward tremble. I knew the feeling. I accepted. The waiter gave me a subtle wink as he sat us in a quiet corner near the windows.
“I didn’t think there were others like me,” I noted, doing my best to act suave though my heart beat hard enough to make my fingers tremble. I dared not pick up my cup at first, lest she notice.
“Sometimes, you just need coffee and a Nutella crepe,” she answered.
We stared out the window, lost in the wonder of the city outside. Sometimes, we stared at each other. She was a sketch of contrasts, with skin that glowed under florescent light and trimmed black hair that absorbed it. Thick, serious eyebrows belied cunning humor and sharp wit. Whatever I had been pondering before her arrival had given way to companionship.
“You know, sometimes I think people misunderstand the city,” she said. “Everyone calls it noisy and stressful, like it’s torture to live here amid the chaos. ‘Why would you do that to yourself?’ people ask, and they come up with some lame excuse about jobs or culture or whatever.
“But they haven’t seen my city. The city of lights falling on quiet streets, buildings shining as sentinels to our sanity. House parties at 1a.m. where everyone talks in whispers while some dude jams on an acoustic guitar and someone managed to bring in a portable hookah. We can go to the beach, to the urban jungle, and to the desert in one night if wanted.”
“Or to get coffee and crepes at Midnight,” I interjected.
The girl nodded with stars in her eyes. “Yeah. Or get coffee at Midnight.”
We let the moment sink in. I thought for a moment before asking, “What brought you to the city?” It seemed a lame question - a common question - in hindsight, and I regret asking it.
She did not seem to mind. No, in fact she seemed to choose her answer carefully, as though the future hinged on her words.
“It doesn’t matter what brought me here, I guess. No one ever ends up doing what they say brought them here. It’s what keeps us here that’s important. What keeps you here?”
“Stubbornness, mostly,” I laughed. “In reality, I don’t rightfully know. Some love I can’t explain, the pull and allure of being both alone and surrounded by all the people of the Earth.”
“I know what you mean,” she nodded. And we were silent, sipping on our caffeine. The hipster couple left and, unlike my first visit, I did not envy them this time. KC and the Sunshine Band told us how they liked it.
“It’s not always easy, though,” I admitted. “Sometimes I’m not sure if I love the city or the concept of a city. Maybe the idea of skyscrapers and people is more exciting than actually living in it. We have all these ideas of what things are like before we move here, and it’s jarring to see the truth. The rent, the driving, the grind. It feels like sometimes we’ll never make it, and that every day is just another struggle.”
She smirked at me and raised an eyebrow in a knowing glance. “Are you alive?”
“Yeah. Last I checked.”
“Then you’ve made it.”
I laughed at the simplicity of those words, but I could not argue.
“I suppose you’re right,” I conceded. “If nothing else, I have stories no one else can tell. That counts for something.”
“Cities are a lot like people. They have personalities and souls,” she said. “They can be fickle and condescending. But, they can also thrive and live when given the right push. They’re the collective conscious of the people who live in them and the creativity those people breathe. I don’t think people choose where they live; I think they’re drawn to the cities that have chosen them. Otherwise, you’d be somewhere else.”
It was my turn to raise an eyebrow. “Does that mean I can tell your personality, too?”
She sat back and stared out the window at the few passing cars filled with other restless minds. “I am this city, and this city is me. Our love is shared, and what will be, will be.”
I knew the love she spoke of, though I could not form the same words to say it. The passion, the hidden mysticism that kept me in place for so many years. I believe there are many such places on our planet, areas where people gather for reasons unknown, places of power and force beyond the scope of our understanding. So, we settle, and we build, and we love.
When it was time to go, we held hands to the parking lot, where we kissed and held each other until we were almost one. When we parted, she laughed and turned and began walking down the street, with no car or aim in mind.
“Will I see you again?” I called to her, unwilling to let the night end.
She smiled and looked at the twinkling lights of the offices above. “I’m always around,” she called back.
And the city called me into the night once again.
|
scorches
Janet Kuypers
haiku 2/14
Take the final swig.
It burns it’s way down your throat.
It scorches your tongue.
|
Going Home
Ron Iannone
She had golden hair and deep blue eyes. Stunning. I turned and saw her as she brushed my back with her breasts, sending a sexual shiver throughout my body. We talked about nothing as is normally done at Christmas parties. On and on it went. Both of us, I know, were thinking how do we get beyond this shit?
Her name was Jane Summers. I met her briefly one other time at the docking area where I docked my boat. Someone introduced us as I was leaving. I remembered she told me she owned a wine and cheese shop at a local mall. I also remembered thinking she seemed lonely and troubled.
My wife came up to us at the party and said she had a Christmas gift for Jane and that someday I would deliver it. My wife Susan was a cute brunette with a fading cheerleader figure. She believed in giving gifts to neighbors at Christmas time. That was the kind of woman she was. Pleasant. Kind. And compassionate. Just plain nice. I was a computer programmer at a large pharmaceutical company in Wheeling, West Virginia.
For some reason, I couldn’t get Jane out of my mind the following week. Sex is what I thought I wanted, or was it something deeper? Like any other married man, I had my share of affairs. Casual. Wild. And over in a few months. Anyway, I loved my wife very much while craving wild forbidden sex with others. Just before Christmas, I called Jane one evening, and I said I was coming by to drop off her gift. She said she also had a gift for us.
That evening, we awkwardly exchanged gifts, and then, out of nowhere, I kissed her hard on the lips. Soon after, our bodies were pressing into each other as our tongues twisted crazily around. Then, quickly, I began to leave.
She said, “You better call me and I mean it.” We were outside now. A full moon shone behind her, and the beams caught her just right, making her look ghostly and halloweenish.
I thought at the time that I would never call her, but I did, as I thought about her penetrating blue eyes gazing at me. Something was driving me insane to be with her again. We arranged to meet at her place two days later.
She texted: “I look forward to seeing you again. I have some secrets.”
Once at her place, she told me she had been married three times and raped two times by two ex-husbands. She also had a daughter who was now in an abusive relationship.
“Like mother like daughter,” she nervously laughed. “Most men are looking for a quick piece of ass.”
I disagreed. However, I also found out that, like me, she was an ex-Catholic and fed up with its dogmas about divorce, gays, and abortion. In short, we hated the oppressive nature of the church. Now we both sought something more spiritual that we both had found in the readings of Edgar Cayce. We liked his ideas about heaven. There is no hell, purgatory, and limbo. Everyone starts off in heaven, Cayce said, and comes to earth for spiritual growth and enlightenment. Even Hitler-like people go to heaven and come back through reincarnation to serve others. Each time on their journey back to earth individuals transform to a higher level of goodness.
As we talked, we drank wine and more wine so that when we got to talking about philosophy, meditation, and unlocking our spiritual entities, we became devoured into each other with deep passionate kisses. Somehow, like that, we were naked and in her bed. Before I knew it, we were both having orgasms. She, I think, had three or more while I never had sex so hard, deep and almost endlessly.
Pressing hard on me, she whispered, “I’m home with my father. Can you see him? He’s a chief and sitting next to me beside the tepee with our wolves as our guards.”
Her hand shot up quickly as she twisted it. “See the cliffs and beautiful mountains? See the sky? Hear the sounds and smell the air. See...”
Fuck, I thought. She’s a nut case.
I had all sorts of thoughts about bringing her to the ER with her hand frozen and twisted arm in mid-air. I tried to gently shake her, and she began to cry uncontrollably.
“Father, I wanted to stay home with you.” Finally, she slowly came back to this world as she curled up into my arms. She thanked me for bringing her to her home. She said because of my tender lovemaking she was able to stay home longer than ever before. We were in the fourth dimension.
“Did you travel with me?”
“Yes,” I lied. Still, I couldn’t relate to her world of chiefs and Native Americans.
The next day at work I tried to concentrate on developing a program to sort out the company’s generic drugs. She texted: “I love you and thanks for opening a new portal to my home. xoxxxoo.”
I texted back: “I’m afraid I need to understand what happened last night. I’m scared I’m losing myself in you. To be honest, I felt the love but I only saw the wolves baring their teeth at me.”
She texted back: “Tonight you will see my home again. I need to see you or I might do something crazy to myself. Love and miss you.”
Oh, my God, I couldn’t let her do something crazy. I would never forgive myself.
I texted back: “I will be there, but we must really talk about the world you’re going to. Right now, I’m not even sure I saw the wolves.”
She texted: “I understand, hon. Everything will be clearer tonight. Can’t wait. Love you forever.”
When I go tonight, I thought, I will break it off and get back to the normal suburban life: going to the movies once a week, having dinner out once a week, watching football once a week, and, of course, making normal love once a week. I wanted normality, and right then she and I were living abnormal lives, even though Jane’s world haunted me along with the deep love I felt for her.
That night I talked to her about my fears of her not coming back from her home. She said not to worry, that once I experience her home and fly above her world everything will be clear.
Like before, we drank and talked, drank and talked, and like that, she had me guiding her to her home again.
This time, as we made love greedily, I was swimming in a warm brown liquid as my hands, arms, body got swallowed up in her black vulva. I saw her father with his multi-colored headdress. He smiled at me as we sat outside near a bright white tepee. I had never felt such contentment and peace.
As before, it was hard for her to come back and for me it took all I could to also get back.
Later, I texted: “Last night was the scariest of all. I went through a portal where I journeyed with you through dimensions where I felt warm light and pure peace. Now all I want is for you to think about me all the time, just like me. All my love, addicted to you.”
She texted: “Strange, I was wondering how you were doing after last night. The spirit for us is strong today. Tonight. I have a major surprise for you. I love you!!! P.S. I may stop by after lunch. I’m thinking about you all the time. Answer yes or no: would you take a bullet for me?”
I texted back: “Sure. All the time.”
Jane stopped by my office after lunch. She ran into my assistant Alice coming out of the office. She is in her mid-forties and still very attractive in a classical way. A few years ago, we had a brief affair, but I called it off because of her controlling nature. By her actions, I felt she wished it was still on. When Jane came in, she angrily slammed the door closed and accused me of still having an affair. She saw cushions on the floor from my sofa and assumed something happened.
“You are like all other men!” she screamed. “I smell her perfume,” she said as she approached me.
I said, “Nothing happened.”
“Once I would like to trust a man!” she yelled.
“Nothing happened,” I said. “Don’t do this. I was working on a report with her. I love you.” I grabbed her and kissed her with lust and passion and soon she stopped resisting.
“Damn you,” she said afterwards. “If I find out you’re cheating on me, I’ll kill you,” she nervously laughed.
I also laughed with a little worry.
I had some control issues when she couldn’t meet one night because she was doing something with her gay friend Liz. My wife said I enjoyed being distant and also controlling. I knew I was good looking, being six two with long dark hair. I worked out often, so my chest, arms, and legs looked well chiseled. Women, I knew, were attracted to me. Some women, like Alice, saw me as being dark and haunting. Jane said she needed her gay friend and girlfriend. She didn’t like being controlled. I told her I would work on it.
“I hate possessive guys.”
“I understand,” I said, “but because I am so busy, my time is limited also. When I’m free, I need you to be there.”
“Just don’t be a jerk,” she said.
After these fights about my control, our lovemaking was mind-blowing and yet gentle and respectful.
She texted later that day: “I can’t wait until tonight. I don’t ever want to think you will be with another woman. Your wife is nice but I know you have more with me.”
That night we talked about seeking newer and deeper levels of spirituality that we would travel through as we went home together. Earlier, she talked about wanting to linger or stay for good at her home. She worried about her daughter and would miss her. I wanted her home, but I still wanted to come back.
Tonight we didn’t need as much wine as our sex was more fierce than ever. She asked in the midst of our heated and passionate sex if I loved her.
I said, “Yes.”
“Deeply?”
I said, “Yes” again.
“Good,” she said.
Then suddenly I felt something cutting into my back. It hurt. Now I felt something stabbing at the right side of my back. Shit, it hurt like hell. There was hot liquid-like stuff dripping down my back now. It felt like I was rubbing against a barbed-wire fence. She asked again, “Do you love me?”
I said, “Yes,” but wondered why now I was having a hard time breathing. I tried to push her off me and then suddenly saw a shining kitchen knife in her hands, plunging it into her heart. Soon blood began shooting out like from a powerful water hose.
As my world grew darker and darker but warm, I heard her say, “We will be home, my sweet one.”
|
A Stormy Beginning
Terry C. Ley
Our sunny June day turned cloudy at 2:00 p.m., two hours before our wedding. By 3:00, as I made my way to the church, it began to sprinkle. By the time Mrs. Corning cranked up the prelude on the wheezy organ, the rain began in earnest. Guests arrived damp, under umbrellas.
Once I arrived at the church I paid little attention to the weather outside. My internal weather was more than a little shaky. Roger, my best man, was a calming influence. As a drama director and director of a drum and bugle corps he knew how to conduct major productions without falling apart. Just before showtime he volunteered to go into the sanctuary and turn on the wee cassette tape recorder hidden in the choir loft that I hoped would preserve the event for posterity.
I breathed deeply outside the door to the chancel where I waited with my male attendants. We were as handsome then as we ever would be, all at the same time: We were resplendent in black tuxedoes, gray vests, gray-and-black-striped ties, and patent leather shoes—everything rented, of course, except our underwear. Roger assured me several times that, yes, he knew exactly where the ring was; he had not lost or misplaced it since the last time I had asked him. Besides my own breathing and our nervous exchanges, I heard the happy chatter of friends who were gathering in the sanctuary, mixed with the occasional cries of children present. I heard thunder, too, often very loud now, and close—and I saw flashes of lightning that lit even the shadowy corridor where we stood awaiting our cue.
Several minutes later, I stood at the head of the center aisle, facing the damp but smiling witnesses in the pews before me. I suppose I heard the violin solo and the reading from Gibran, but I don’t remember them at all. Finally, when Mrs. Corning struck up “Trumpet Voluntary in D,” I knew it was time to pay strictest attention to what was about to happen. It was getting serious. I watched first Dorothy, then Pat, and finally Kay Lynn make their way up the aisle and find their places. The congregation rose. Two people stood at the other end of the aisle. One of them was Harold Young, soon to be my father-in-law, but who was the other one, the woman on his arm, that woman in white? She didn’t resemble anyone I knew! Her dress, her veil, her hairdo, even the way she walked, all conspired to create a mystery that solved itself only as they moved down the aisle toward me. I was relieved to learn that it was Mari after all, and she was lovely!
Mari and her father ended their journey beside me. We exchanged nervous smiles, relieved (finally) to be in this place at the appointed time. The “Voluntary” ended. Except for the clearing of throats customary when music ends in any sanctuary, it was silent.
And then lightning struck the church—or very near it, a strike punctuated by a thundering ka-BOOM that shook the building.
After a brief, stunned silence, a child cried, “What was that?” and Rev. Haney, apparently undisturbed, pronounced, “Hear these words of the Lord Jesus Christ.”
Believe me, I was listening! Was this an omen? Was the church on fire? Would we have to postpone—maybe even cancel—the wedding? Had I rented all these fancy clothes for nothing?
Mari claims that she was determined that this show would go on, even if we had to have the ceremony at the Women’s Club, where we had scheduled the reception.
The church was not burning, as it turned out, although lightning had zapped my brother-in-law’s car outside, and several friends who were seated in the balcony swore they saw lightning pass from Point A to Point B there.
After that startling fanfare, the show did go on—and on and on. On June 28 we will celebrate our forty-third anniversary.
We listen to the tape recording of our wedding on June 28 every year, always anticipating the crash of thunder that clearly marked the starting line of our marathon—and giggling when it happens. We’re awake then, alert, ready to listen again to the vows that we took on that stormy afternoon in 1969.
|
forever
Janet Kuypers
haiku 2/8/14
I rub your feet, you
are grateful. if only I
could do this forever
|
Sentences (lies)
Doug Draime
Vultures talk non-stop through
blood-stained teeth, it’s a fact of the
street life. It is lies and nothing else.
|
Editor Gives Advice On How To Get
Published In His Magazine
Doug Draime
Write about
the fancy
shapes
you made
on roller
skates
when
you were
a kid, or
the color
of coffee
with cream
or without.
Mocha,
espresso, latte,
whatever.
Write about
the pubic
hair
of the
woman
who broke
your heart,
but leave
the
social
concerns
to Oliver
Stone
and the
fucking
movies.
|
Coldness in the Heat
Eric Burbridge
You only have a half charge on your scooter, Dr. Novak.
“I know, Sheila, but I’m only going down the road. I got enough for a round trip to the Mini-Mart.”
Since you are cleared for this activity by your doctor stick to the schedule.
“I’ll be fine, getting out of this technological petri dish for the elderly is good for the body and soul. Fake sunshine, fake this and that, they can keep it. I’m getting out in the real air, dirty or not. Let them tell it, everything you do or have done will kill you. That’s why I’m eighty-five.” Novak adjusted his cap in the mirror.
Sarcasm doctor? First time this week, I was starting to worry.
“I’m worried about you. Your image fades periodically and that chops off your big round butt, my favorite part.” He circled the centered holographic projection platform and sat on his scooter. “Good bye, Sheila.”
Novak rolled by the elevator and down the ramp. He got blasted with a wave of heat from the atrium skylight. The moving walkways were out of order for the third week. None of the usual crowd was about. The security station was empty another apparent budget cutback. The AI screen came to life when he pulled up.
Pass please.
He flashed and waited.
You have four hours, Dr. Novak and you only have a half charged scooter. You have not updated it or the phone or emergency beacons.
“Yes, I know, I’ll do it upon my return.” He drove through the doors. The heat smacked him. “Damn...it’s hotter than I thought, but his arthritis loved it. He accelerated and merged into the bike lane. The breeze dried the sweat on his face. His earlier model scooter had extra power, it cost battery life, but the top speed of 20 mph came in handy. The path curved and dipped through the golf course. He zipped past several carts toward the manned security gate that lead to the outside. He hadn’t seen his favorite guard in two weeks. She must’ve have been on vacation. He pulled up and the expectant Crystal smiled showing her perfect set of white teeth.
“Hey, Dr. Novak.”
“Hey beautiful, you still love me?”
She laughed while the gate retracted. “You know it. Be careful in this heat, okay?”
“Got it.” He cruised a hundred meters to the jogging/bike path along Highway 93 North. Half smooth and the other half full of potholes it was the quickest way to the strip mall across the Indiana border. The two percent difference in sales tax made a difference for those on fixed incomes. He swerved to avoid several potholes that were more like trenches. A hundred meters ahead he saw someone sitting on a scooter with its four ways flashing. He pulled up and an elderly lady with sun burnt skin, flat features with huge bags under her bloodshot eyes smiled then frowned. She sized up his scooter, rolled her eyes and looked past him toward the stoplight. “Miss, you need help?”
She wiped her forehead with a soiled handkerchief. “What do you think? My battery died or whatever.” Novak turned around and got off to check her gauges. “Put it in gear.” It moved. “It’s low, not dead thank goodness. I’ll give you a ten minutes boost that should get you home. You live in ‘The Complex’?”
“Yeah, where else?”
“It’s good it died in the shade. Oh, by the way I’m Jose.” He got a grunt. He shook his head. “You’re not in the best of moods, the heat will do that.” He hooked her up and didn’t bother with small talk. Ten minutes later. “Well, whatever your name is, that should do it.” He checked the gauge then disconnected the cable. He waited for a thank you or a sign of appreciation. She turned in the opposite direction and snarled at him. Frustrated he hit the pedal and his scooter bogged down. “What the hell!” He tapped his gauge and it dropped to zero. “Wait lady, you have to charge me for a minute.
The angry old woman stopped. “I seen you around. You one of those short, shriveled up uppity people who stay in the rich part. And, you look like that Mexican in the White House who’s fuckin’ over the poor. You related? Call somebody, I ain’t helpin’ you with shit. Bye.” She sped away.
“And you look like that bitch on the pancake box!” He shook his cane in her direction. “I hope you have an accident!” Being nice...now look at me. No cars or joggers anywhere. He reached for his phone. He forgot it; he hit the panic button. Dead. “I don’t believe this!” The golf course was empty, but a wave of vehicles approached. He stood and waved his cane furiously. They whizzed past like he was invisible. Sweat rolled down his face. He sat and took a deep breath. “Don’t get dehydrated, relax.” He prepared to walk back when a small truck pulled onto the path next to him. The window opened and a cool breeze refreshed him for a second.
“Need help or something, Pops?”
“Yes, young man, if you give me a ten minute charge that should get me home, I’d appreciate it.” The guy got out and to Novak’s surprise he was short, skinny and wore his hair in two ponytails. His clothes were filthy and a shower wouldn’t hurt.
“I’m a businessman, nothings free, Pops.” He opened a door on the truck’s back panel. “Well, how much you got?”
Novak sighed. “Can’t you help a senior, young man?”
“I’m Jimmy, and no I can’t. He pushed the cable back in. “Taking care of you seniors is why the young don’t and can’t get shit. Good bye.” Jimmy turned.
“Wait a second, I got twenty bucks.” He pulled out the bill. Jimmy snatched it. “Ok.”
“You’re one rude person, Jimmy.” Is it him or what? He pissed two people off. Is
it that bad out here? Current events weren’t his strong point.
“That’s it, old man.” Jimmy disconnected the cable.
“It hasn’t been ten minutes.”
“So...That’ll have to do. I’m gone.” He zoomed away.
Novak fanned the dust the young whippersnapper’s vehicle kicked up. “You dirty
son of a bitch, I hope you die!” He picked up a rock and hurled at the long gone truck. A cop drove by and u-turned. He turned on his dome lights and got out. Novak wondered how he squeezed a 6'7" frame in that tiny cruiser. “Sir, you need help?”
“Yeah officer I do.”
The cop smiled. “You threw that rock pretty far for a guy your age.”
Novak read his name tag. “Well, Officer Tate, I gave that guy a twenty for a ten minute charge to get home.” He pointed at the complex. “Two minutes and he’s gone. What’s wrong with young people these days?”
The officer shrugged. “That’s a long story. I’ll hook you up.”
“Thank you, officer.” Novak felt relief, but he’d have to put his scooter in the shop.
Officer Tate jumped out his car. “I have a call be careful in this heat.” The cable retracted and he sped away. The charge was sufficient. He pushed the control forward. He looked down and stopped when he saw a pack of folded cards. It was several scratch-off lottery tickets of various games. Who dropped them? He didn’t notice them before and he hadn’t gone more than ten feet since he stopped for Aunt Jemima. He hoped it was the old hag’s or the smart ass. They deserved it.
*
“Sheila, schedule my scooter for maintenance as soon as possible. The reason; meter accuracy and battery charge.”
Ok, Dr. Novak, anything else?
“Watch me scratch off these lottery tickets. I got a good feeling.” He waved them around like he’d won. “But, I know the odds.” He scratched the first batch. Not even a free ticket and blew the shavings all over the table. “These look promising.” He whispered and his lucky penny went back to work; ten thousand, ten thousand and bust. Dammit. Lucky 50 grand was next. “God knows I can use it.” 50 Grand, 50 Grand and he hesitated, 50...Grand. He shot to his feet.
Hallelujah!!!
“Sheila, I hit!”
Congratulations, Dr. Novak. The AI’s medical scan kicked in.Calm down, your vitals are at a critical level.
Novak went and fell on the sofa. He grabbed his chest gasping for air. He closed his eyes. “Calm down, Jose, calm down.”
If your vitals remain elevated I’ll have to notify the EMT’s
He woke an hour and a half later. For a second he didn’t know where he was, and then it hit him. “I didn’t know I was that tired, Sheila, why didn’t you wake me?
You needed the rest, Dr. Novak and your vitals are normal.
“I got plans for this money. I’m getting an upgrade to your software from standard 3D imagery to programmable. I’m giving you Sheila’s body when she was fifty. She looked great, like she was in her late thirties to early forties. It’ll be in privacy mode, of course. You aren’t replacing Sheila in my mind, Sheila, but I feel better seeing her in you. Pictures everywhere is clutter, I hate clutter. After taxes, if any, I’ll give half to the grandkids and go to Vegas.”
It sounds good, Dr. Novak.
“And, for a while at least, forget crossing the border to save a few dollars. I could’ve gotten hurt out there. People are bitter, but why get mad at me?” Novak got the cold beer he allotted himself for the week and popped the top.
|
High Holidays
Liam Spencer
It was my first holiday season as a carrier. Being low on seniority, I had a long, difficult, feared route. It was impossible. The volume was murderous. I ran with everything I had, and still barely, so barely, made the times.
My route was one that no one wanted. It was a nightmare, but it was mine. Before me, it had been messed up daily for a long time. I had finally cleaned it up to where mistakes were few and far between. The customers finally had consistent service, as someone had taken it over. Before I got stuck with the route, multiple carriers carried parts of it. Mistakes naturally happened.
Customers were generous with tips. Most of the cards contained Starbucks cards or the like. Some gave cash, which was always king. Others gave homemade cookies or brownies, which was much appreciated. At one house, a child handed me a card. His bashful smile would make any heart melt. It would turn out that he had drawn it himself, in crayon. It showed me, with sweat pouring off me, handing him a package. It was sweet and accurate.
It was a Sunday morning. At the time, we had Sundays off. My body screamed at me. Every fucking thing hurt. Seventeen hour days do no favors to legs or feet or backs or lifespans. I laid there staring at the ceiling for a while. There was no fun, no life. The job had taken it all.
At least there was football. I turned on the TV, and watched for a while. I wondered if I could get up at all. I had to piss. Bad. Intense. I needed coffee. I needed food. I needed...something, everything, but could do nothing.
Rolling slowly, I managed to get off the couch. My feet and legs screamed in agony as I slowly rose. “Another false start.” The TV announcer stated. I slowly walked to my bathroom, and let out a loud sound of relief.
The coffee seemed to take forever to brew. I lit a smoke and coughed on the inhale. I looked into the fridge. Sundays were the only days I could make food for the week, so as to not have to bother after such long days of work. Absolutely nothing seemed to appeal.
After two cups, I needed food, but there seemed to be nothing I could make that was quick and easy. My stomach roared. There was a container of brownies from a customer. It was a no brainer. I smiled as I opened the container. The brownies smelled a little odd, but I didn’t care. I shoveled brownies down my throat. In a flash they were gone, chased down by hot coffee. I followed it with a cold beer.
Very suddenly, I was higher than any kite had ever been. I was totally zoned out. My body went numb as I got intensely sleepy. I somehow made it to the couch, barely, and was gone. Once in a while, I saw the ceiling. Shortly, the alarm clock smacked me in the ears. My day off was over.
It was yet another hellish day. I raced against the clock, knowing it would win. My legs felt a little better. It was probably the fact that I had slept for nearly a whole day. Nonetheless, the torture continued, and the day was flying by.
On one block, a married couple came rushing up to me. Their faces were panic.
“You didn’t eat those brownies, did you?”
“Yes I did.” I grinned.
“We are SO sorry! Oh God, please don’t press charges! Our kids...they and their friends thought it’d be funny.”
“Kids will be kids. Not an issue, really. It was kind of funny, to be honest.”
Their faces showed a level of relief. I decided to relieve them some more by trying my pothead voice:
“Hahaha...I know, man, I know....Let’s get the mailman high, man...Hahahahaha...”
“and they did...”
We all laughed for a while. The man handed me a card before they left. I opened it when I got home. It had a hundred in it.
High Holidays indeed.
|
job
Janet Kuypers
haiku 3/1/14
I’ve got my degree
I’ve filled out applications
so where’s my dream job
|
The Time I Took to Bed
Christopher Godwin
I heard Brian Wilson didn’t get out of bed for close to three years after the drugs and lack of hits wrecked him. Three years was long too long for me, but last year I didn’t get out of bed for 19 days. It was June 11th when I pulled the covers up over my chin, and unlike Brian, I really didn’t get out of bed much at all. That’s the thing about that Brian Wilson story nobody knows. There really wasn’t anybody else there so he had to feed himself and probably wash his bathrobe once in a while. I had my wife to do all of that stuff for me, so I really only had to get up to use the bathroom and shower.
The truth is that I’m still not sure what made me decide to stay in bed that long. I didn’t really have any clients to cook for, but I could have made some phone calls and probably wrangled some parties. Instead I turned my ringer off and told clients I had a full schedule once my wife left for work, and that I would call them in July. I should have been scheduling 4th of July events but I didn’t care about the money. I just wanted to be in bed under the blankets watching whatever program was on TV.
That TV stayed on around the clock. Once in a while my wife would turn it off and I would let her fall asleep before I turned it back on. Mostly it stayed on one of the big seven networks that showed a lot of sitcoms and a few late night shows. I picked that channel because they never had dead air or infomercials. Late night TV transitioned into morning shows where I could learn about new techniques for chopping vegetables from middle-aged private chefs who broke through with a book of salad recipes or something. That or why more women are having affairs than men these days. Probably because men were becoming lazier and more apathetic is what I guessed before falling asleep a few minutes later.
My wife tried to cook healthy food and food that I like to eat while I was in bed for the first few days. The third full day I was in bed she made me NY strip steak from the fancy butcher shop and used the recipe for her grandmother’s delicious bacon-filled potato salad. I think she even made the mayonnaise herself. She brought up a whole bottle of pinot noir and a cold mineral water. I ate the food and talked to her a little bit about what I’d seen on TV that afternoon. Except for the glass she had I drank most of the bottle of wine by myself. I could tell she thought I might get out of bed or suggest we go out or something, but I just asked her if she would get in bed with me. She did, and eventually she fell asleep, but I could tell that she didn’t get the response she wanted because she didn’t wake me up before leaving for work the next morning.
The first few days felt pretty novel. I read a lot that I’d been meaning to read; literary magazines, world newspapers that were stacked up in the office, short stories I hadn’t gotten around to rereading in a few months and plenty of novels and history books. Before I got in bed that first day I moved them and stacked them on top of, beneath and all around the night table. I put some of the newspapers and magazines under the bed so I could just reach down and pull one out. It didn’t matter which one I grabbed and I knew it wouldn’t matter when I got around to reading them, if I ever got around to reading them.
Most of the time I didn’t eat during the day, or at least not the middle part of the day. My wife brought me some of whatever she was having for breakfast, usually oatmeal or cold cereal with chunks of fruit in it and coffee. On the days she felt bad for me she would try a little harder to make me happy by preparing pancakes or French toast and loose leaf green tea, which she knows I prefer over coffee, even though that’s what she makes most days and I drink it anyway.
I never ate lunch because that would have meant getting out of bed and going downstairs. Obviously I did get out of bed to use the bathroom, but walking down the stairs would have been a serious violation of the rules that I set up. So I didn’t eat lunch until I asked my wife to pick up a case of a candy bar that was being advertised on TV. She left it on a stack of magazines piling up on the floor and I would grab one whenever I was hungry during the day. I tried to be considerate by throwing away the wrappers when I got up to go to the bathroom to use the toilet or refill my glass of water.
My wife always brought dinner, but since she wasn’t a big eater I found myself having a couple of candy bars after. Most of the time my wife only had soup or salad, and while it can be done, eating a bowl of hot clam chowder or minestrone soup when you’ve been lounging in bed all day, curled up in the fetal position reading back issues of the New Yorker, just doesn’t sound appealing. At least it didn’t to me, even if I don’t really know why not.
I started to feel like I had an extra roll of fat around my belly around the 15th day. It was probably from all of the candy bars. Until that roll of fat appeared beneath one of my books I hadn’t bothered to check the nutrition information. 420 calories in one-half candy bar! I’d been eating two of them for lunch each day. I had to do the math in my head to realize I’d been eating 1,680 calories only for lunch. No wonder I was gaining weight, not to mention the pancakes and clam chowder.
I’ll admit that being in bed all the time did start to get a bit uncomfortable by June 25th, but at that point I was committed until the end of the month. The worst part wasn’t being in a prone position all the time or not being able to take a walk down the street to the market. It wasn’t even the lack of basic human contact that you get when you actually go to the gas station to buy a candy bar instead of having your wife buy them by the dozen. The worst part was not being able to feel the sun on my face or the wind pass through my hair.
Five days before the end of the month I couldn’t take it anymore. I had to devise some sort of plan to get out of the house or do something. As I turned from my stomach onto my back I caught a sliver of golden sunlight coming in through the curtains. The balcony! Our bedroom had a small balcony big enough for two chairs, a small table and a couple of potted plants. There were no chairs on ours because we never went out there, but that didn’t mean I couldn’t get some sun that way, and since it was actually connected to the bedroom it wouldn’t really be breaking the rules.
I started slow and pulled the screen covering the glass door up letting the sun shine on my face. It was a glorious feeling. I sat there on the carpet just enjoying the sun through the glass like a cat bathing in the heat. After 10 minutes or so I couldn’t wait any longer. I couldn’t be sure, but it felt like maybe 85-degrees outside – much warmer than the house, which we kept around 70-degrees all the time. I sat there on the balcony, right on the cool, dirty tile watching the trees blow in the breeze. There was an orange tree shedding fruit onto the green grass and a lemon tree next to it with branches also starting to get heavy and bowed. It was my job to pick the fruit and bring it inside. In the summer I would take the fruit to the neighbors who don’t have trees because there was so much. Sometimes we would get small jars of preserves or pickled fruit rind back in return.
As I looked at the rotting fruit beneath the trees a bird flew through my line of sight and sat on a telephone wire. A black, uninteresting crow, the bird just sat there preening his feathers and rolling his head from side to side. The bird didn’t make a sound until he flew off, flapping his wings hard, turning left and banking right around Dr. Lowry’s house and then out of sight. I looked for more birds but there were none.
When I got back in bed the TV was playing a story about a local high school football team with a quarterback that had been accused of raping two different cheerleaders. It wasn’t my high school, but I knew a lot of people that went there, and most of them went to good colleges and turned out to be doctors, lawyers, architects, civil servants or something to be proud of. The story was going to shock a lot of people and I’m sure it wasn’t the last I’d be hearing of it over the next four days in bed. At least I had that to look forward to.
|
Christopher Godwin bio
Christopher Godwin is a professional writer from Los Angeles. He makes a living writing freelance non-fiction and works on fiction from a home office relatively close to the beach, though he sometimes moves to the kitchen table to keep it fresh. All submissions are currently unpublished unless noted or requested by your fine periodical.
|
Life Urges
John Zedolik
The fireman pulled the melon from the sheath,
and behind followed the gangling little mass
that must have wailed most un-fruitlike into
the rainy summer breath, still fleshly
connected to its mother whose innermost
was open for those ad hoc hands whose male owner
probably didn’t feel any urge to hop into her
while she was pushing out bloody, wrinkled
life so chained to that coupling impulse but now so
severed as the umbilicus soon would be
|
The Forgotten Isle
Allan Onik
Call me Ishmael. Alas with some hot coffee in my hand and a blanket of whale skin around my body I sat in the captain’s quarters of the Rachel after my disturbing ordeal. The evilness of the creature could only be compared with that of an angel turned to Hades—too dark to ponder, yet too ominous to ignore.
“The Whale has taken Ahab and the Pequod eh sailor? It wouldn’t surprise most in Nantucket,” the Captain said to me between sips of his ale.
But of course The Whale would be a hard creature to contend with, as would all judgments from God. It is my soul I fear for most after seeing such an aberration from the natural.
“Where is the Rachel headed now?” I ask the captain, hoping for the comforts of dry soil—though what the captain told me next made me rethink my logic.
“It is time for you to rest, lad, after losing your mates. But as for my crew, we are no longer hunting beasts of the ocean. We are after the guidance of a great mystic. She is in fact the most powerful on the planet in the arts of unseen physics. She lives in a crag in the woods of a forgotten isle, far to the south of Rokovoko. The isle is said to be the home of a band of cannibals, and has magnetic and Time anomalies. On the floor of its forest can be found fantastic mushrooms sending their eaters on nether-worldly voyages. Unnamed serpents crawl on her rocks, and rare exotic birds rest in her trees. We will voyage there and find answers to our unseen aspects.”
After losing a number of his crew to Moby Dick I came to think this captain slightly mad, abandoning his rescue mission to find a glorified fortune-teller on a savage isle. I awaited the isle with dread, though I had become more accustomed to brooding as of late.
We arrived at the isle at dawn and I took in its majestic aura. It seemed to me to be a place where a soul would look only after crossing one-way boundaries, and as I stepped off the Rachel and walked on the soil I came to realize why. This was a place that changed one’s mind about the ethereal. I realized that danger or no, I had come as close to heaven as I would get while there was still breath in my lungs.
The isle was full of light, and made me think of myself as a child. I dabbled in its streams and frolicked in its forests. I ate wild berries and slept on foamy moss pads in its hills. In a place that had been forgotten by man, I realized Love ever present in the untouched vacuum of the exotic.
Finally our playing was over and we reached the small cave inhabited by the oracle. The trees around me swayed in a warm breeze. The captain stood behind me. “Ye can go first lad,” he said as the men eyed the opening to the dwelling. I walked in.
“Ishmael. I can see everyone that’s coming years before they come in. That’s how it works you know. For me at least. All of us are different. And some of us are fakes. Though I can assure you I’m not.”
When I entered the mystic’s dwelling the first thing I noticed was a faint, blue light that seemed to emanate from her body. My ordeal with The Whale was far behind me now, I felt as if my soul was clutched tenderly in my heart. She spoke to me further.
“You deal with the world like a meditation—how is it best to deal with a whale and a hunt? Deep reality may be hard to discover, and truth hard to pin down. What I would tell you, great seeker, is that perception is a matter of shaping what exists by the way in which we see it. Even if you don’t get it right away, The Creator will continue to work with you.”
I stumbled out of the crag and curled up on a moss pad to sleep. I could hear the noise of crickets, and birds singing. I had never felt so rested. My next home: Arrowhead—Pittsfield, Massachusetts.
|
defenses
Janet Kuypers
haiku 2/8/14
I’m the predator
with no blade, no defenses
I am blindfolded
|
The Rose
Allan Onik
Tab laid the rose on the coffin. Light shined through the windows of the funeral parlor and accented the dark wood and floral decorations. Most of the attendees of the wake were dressed in black, and talking softly to each other.
Ada walked beside him and looked down at the rose and closed casket. “I can’t believe she’s really gone,” she said, “I hope you’re ok.” She was wearing a long black dress.
“Before she left us I took her to the fair out on the outskirts. Made her feel a little a little better I think.”
“Did you guys have fun?”
“A blast. You know, its funny. It almost feels as if she hasn’t gone anywhere. Like she’s still in the room with me right now.”
“She’ll always live with us in our memories,” Ada said, “and even when it’s our time we won’t forget her. What else does it mean to be human? Other than to Love, and see memories linger—like a still shot in the sun.”
Tab sipped his coffee. “Do you want to take a walk? A little fresh air outside? It would do us good.”
“Of course,” Ada said.
They opened the front parlor doors and began to walk the path. The light was bright, and they passed sunflowers and working bees. But as they continued their trek the light took on a whiter tone, and soon there was nothing left but the two and the warmth and bright.
“Look down there,” Ada said. She pointed to the ground. Tab noted it. A rose grew out of the white aura. He picked it and closed his eyes.
|
Fall
C. D. Bonner
9/22/13
In the crack
Between sundown and sunset
‘Twixt Fall and Autumn
On the edge of dusk and twilight
Of shadow and shade
My bones ache for you.
The sun is low this season
Leaves spin and rustle
Restless thoughts
|
here you have arrived
Liz Yohemoore
you have traveled over a lifetime of geography: two years dating, thirty years married, two kids three dogs six cats one bird, also one year apart in between all that: missing the way she baked brownies every Christmas, a whiskey burn the chocolate was so rich; appreciating one cold winter morning how she took the dogs out before work when dawn was weak and their leashes tangled.
you still had questions without guesses, there were spaces, places unknown to you: foundation of kitchen memories, mother’s knuckles cracking over dough, pushing out clumps of flour and butter pockets while humming a tune, maybe, but you cannot hear over the sound of your wife humming while gardening, petunias in the late spring. Perhaps it is the song her father wordlessly sang when he taught her to waltz, her bare feet tucked onto his boots.
she dances now on her knees, hands where you can’t see but elbows weaving a mandala through the air, sketching a story of trowels and horticulture.
the sun is setting. go dance with her.
|
Stone Singing
Liz Yohemoore
My grandmother taught me
How to husk corn
Fresh from the stalk
Silk sprawled out like
Boiled pasta
Or nerves
How to be patient
With someone loved
When their blood boils
And yours gets het up too
The kind of smile that opens doors
How to charm a stranger
And kill with kindness
To see the world
With wide spirit
Reaching up to the crown
Of the afternoon sky
Coaxing the cicadas
To bend down and test the earth
How to sing to stones
And bend my bones
Into an unbroken circle
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Happy
David Sapp
We had a dog, part
some sort of wiry-haired terrier,
part something else. As we pulled
into the driveway in the ’65 Thunderbird,
home from town, windows down,
when we were happy those summers,
before we could grasp at losing the house,
he’d flash a big, toothy grin,
a debonair, canine version of Teddy
Roosevelt on the campaign stump.
His tail-wagging, oblivious
to unpaid taxes and for sale signs said,
“Happy, happy, happy.”
Smokey, our gun-shy hound,
who chased all pooches in heat,
sired many puppy litters, spurned any leash,
and like a drunken, mongrel, sailor uncle,
rogue for days at a time, staggered home
in the night, bloodied from a fight.
He knew one trick the neighbor boys tutored;
he was happy when he’d shake
for a scrap, even with plenty of chow,
offering a paw, suddenly quite formal,
“How do you do? Fine day, fine day.”
He never considered we’d put him down
after losing the house.
Our calico cat had no tail to wag
in the dreary, pea green walled,
upstairs apartment on Gambier Street,
when there was no money that winter,
and we squinted at a tiny, snowy,
black and white TV world.
She was happy when we’d
flip and tug a string along
warped, hardwood floors, her Serengeti.
We were happy watching her
pounce upon the Smith-Corona prey,
one paw clawing letters, one batting keys,
striking a memo to imaginary gazelles.
I was happiest on the farm
(Somehow the mortgage got paid\),
when grandpa’s dog, Henry,
sneezed on cue. On Sundays
he’d rush to the window after we’d ask,
“Who’s coming for dinner?”
He was happy leaping blithely
after ratty, slobbered tennis balls,
astonishingly limber circus acrobat.
He was happy when Aunt Martha
readied berry-picking pails;
he was happy chasing rabbits
among the raspberry briar.
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Brief Biographical Information
David Sapp is a writer and artist living near Lake Erie. He teaches at Firelands College in Huron, Ohio. His poems have appeared in The Alembic, The Chattahoochee Review, The Cape Rock, The Licking River Review, The Hurricane Review, The Bad Henry Review, Meat Whistle Quarterly, Red Cedar Review, RiverSedge and elsewhere. Additional publications include articles in the Journal of Creative Behavior; chapbooks, Close to Home and Two Buddha; and his novel, Flying Over Erie.
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Inpatient Impressions
Drew Marshall
Upon completing the paperwork, I had to surrender my belt, forcing me to constantly hold up my pants, with my left hand. Shoelaces, were also requested. Without laces, sneakers don’t stay on your feet. Sweat socks, were next on the list. They were replaced by something paper-thin, which barely reached my ankles.
Once the staff had determined, I was somewhat articulate, not seriously disturbed or violent, (at that moment) they agreed with me, that the situation was degrading.
Standing guard are strategically placed, video cameras. They warn of any wrongdoing. The inhabitants hidden here, in this unsafe harbor, are a menace to propriety. The madhouse mirrors are blinding, and can only see what’s in front of them, not beyond.
The light switch was not inside the room. It was on the wall, in the hallway, next to the door. A speck of light came through a small window. It is darker, than I would imagine hell to be. My fellow inmate, slept. That is, I thought, he was sleeping. When I switched the light on, he suddenly sprang out of his comatose state, screaming; “SHUT THAT LIGHT. I’M TRYING TO SLEEP!”
I have been in a year long, suicidal depression. The only reason I’m still walking this earth, was due to my fourteen-year-old shepherd-lab. Brando, is being boarded at my vet, in a cage, that is too small for him.
I must wait until their clocks told the administrators; it was time for the morning meal. I am my age in fears, several months, before the mid-century mark. We are the results of our evasions.
I found myself looking down the breakfast table, at all these fatalities. Could I become another of these shredded souls, warehoused, hidden away, in an, eternal limbo? Would I become part of the population, doomed, to pace forgotten hallways, in a wounded sanctuary for malcontents?
I accepted the fact that my life was over. I murdered my faith. Now, I must pay for my fate. It is no surprise, I now reside, at my current transient home, the debtors prison of the mind.
A few hours earlier, I had been strapped down on a gurney, surrounded by strangers. I had never felt so useless, or helpless in my entire life.
The doctor assigned to my case, remained expressionless and remote, throughout our interview. I was not confident, that I had been left in good hands.
You appear to want to suck my mind, but it’s absolutely dry. No cells or original thoughts, left. If those are the results you’re after, I am ahead of you in that department. I am the poet’s fist. I don’t need facts or statistics.
I continued having difficulty, focusing on the moment. I observed the denizens of this outcast outpost, in our demented desert. They are my fellow refugees from reality. I hold onto a shredding veneer, of awareness. I am void of all alibis, seeking shelter, under the trees of pity.
I overheard pieces of conversations. Several in this group were not strangers to the ward. They knew the routines inside and out. One young man was very generous in sharing his word salad, to everyone within earshot. He stated, in a calm tone, before he started weeping, “Snow buries fire over heaven.”
Everyone was expected to attend all scheduled meetings and activities. You must be aware of your surroundings, and participate in the groups. This would show the doctors, that you were ready to be discharged, when the time came.
While waiting for the start of the awareness group, I observed these escapees from sanity, while trying to ignore them, at the same time. There were about two dozen of us, ethnically mixed, including several females.
The matronly woman kept emphasizing the need to report any changes in thoughts or feelings, which may result in inappropriate behavior, for themselves or others. We must always comply with the doctors instructions. Always maintain all medication regimens, keep all clinical appointments. Despite the fact, that she must have given this speech a thousand times, she seemed very warm and concerned for our well-being.
Sitting next to me was a younger, intense, bearded man. He exuded a menacing, burned-out, charisma. He seemed like an angry, homeless, person, who was dragged here, kicking and screaming all the way. His hostility was palpable.
Here I was, on the oblivion borderline, surrounded by ravaged minds. These stunted mortals, comprised, the armies of the forgotten. They marched, in this shut-ins; jamboree, down Exile Road. Were they abandoned by law, or by love? Here, time has no memory.
At the termination of the meeting, this doomed, derelict, jumped from his seat, shouting;” YOU ARE WASTING MY TIME. YOU ARE KEEPING ME FROM MY ADDICTIONS!” The social worker reprimanded him, about shouting. He began cursing, under his breath.
As I got up, my eyes caught his. They were an incandescent, blue. He glared at me and I froze. This forsaken traveler had a laser like stare, which seared through me. I was smothered with his rage.
We were then instructed, to fold the chairs, and put them up, against the walls. It was now time for “social interaction”. For the next sixty minutes, we existed, aimlessly, for the allotted time, in the assigned, space.
Tonight’s activity was Bingo. Some seemed to find this exciting, most were indifferent, others, oblivious. I found myself at the end a long table. The conductor of tonight’s group activity, sat to my immediate right.
During our third game, a balding, senior, sitting no more than three feet in front of me, jumped up. He pointed his finger at me. “HE WON! HE WON BINGO! HE’S NOT TELLING ANYONE. HE’S CHEATING!” He repeated his belief, several times.
I tried to regain my composure, while looking at the bingo card. I turned towards the staff member. She handed me a small, plastic, child’s toy. I put my hand out and offered it, to this disturbed mind, encased, in a human body. With lightning speed, he grabbed it from my hand. A happy child with his candy, he sat back down. Thank you was not in his vocabulary. That ended this evening’s bingo session, and my first full day, at this resort, hideaway.
These unfortunates were definitely dancing on an underground porch. Their brains banished, to the back stairs, of their thoughts. The disease bids, high here, and rarely, loses.
I was only sure about one thing. From the moment I landed on this foreign soil, I wanted to escape. Suicide was no longer part, of my waking thoughts.
|
existence
Janet Kuypers
haiku 3/10/14
you may find lack of
existence appealing, but
we’re left in your wake
|
In a Bullet Home
Kristen Welker
Voices ricochet across pale walls.
Cabinets and drawers dangle from
their hinges and doors are bolted
shut to keep the monster hidden. Yet
I swore the white fence quivered.
Words spat out like a loaded machine
gun—ready, aim, and fire. Purple
smoke lingered in the air, trapped
by the ceiling. At dinner I ate
the empty shells. Rolled them across
my tongue, then swallowed them
whole. The powder slowly dissolved
on my buds. I told Mother, “I do not
like your cooking.”
I watched as hands turned into guns
and fists went trigger-happy. I closed
my eyes and accepted each bullet.
Ever since, I painted the fence red.
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Gravenhurst
Carmen Tudor
The heavily gabled roof slumped over the gray, creeper-clad walls of Gravenhurst Hall as if it would crush the house at any moment. Celia took in the sight of the ancient manor house and likened it to the photo images she’d seen over the years. Her mother had kept a single photograph, a small square black and white picture, in a box. In it, her mother stood out the front with her own mother and grandmother. The three weren’t smiling; they stared at the photographer with a desolate look that was all hooded eyes and downturned lips. Celia had stolen the photograph the year she turned eleven. She’d kept it for now, for the moment she would arrive and take her mother’s, and grandmother’s, and great-grandmother’s place.
Celia nodded to the driver. He resumed his driver’s seat and led the car around to the garages. As Celia stood by her bags at the large entrance doors, a wind swept over the unfamiliar landscape. Such pretty trees, Celia thought. So pretty, but so frightfully tall. Each dark-needled conifer towered over the old garden and blocked out the gentle morning sunlight. It was a surprisingly warm ray that bypassed the trees and settled on Celia’s young face. She blinked up at the sky.
The weeks passed steadily at Gravenhurst. Aunt Veronica, Uncle Peter, and Tristan returned home from their trip to Scarborough. Tristan brought a friend from school. His name was Allan, and at sixteen he was three years older than Celia. He watched her with the interest a haunted, bedevilled man watches a rat that scratches—unseen, always unseen—behind a wall.
And just like that, Tristan banished Celia to the second floor. All the grown up things, all the fun, was reserved for the third floor attic. The mildewy spaces, the shelves, and the little closet with the spectral round window; the forbidden books, the empty fireplace grate that whistled when the wind blew, these things were forbidden to Celia. During her second week of Allan’s fitful watching, Celia stole a moment to search the attic. Tristan was out for polo practice. Allan, with his dark eyes and long lashes, was downstairs in the library. He read books, Celia noted. Almost as many as she did.
Forgetting her banishment, she knelt by the round window inside the added-in closet. The plasterboard was pock-marked and cracked. Destined, she thought, to fall down any day. But the light in that one little closet was brighter than in any part of the attic rooms. She held the book under the window and read the lines slowly.
“What are you doing?”
Allan’s voice startled her. Celia snapped the heavy bookends together. A small cloud of dust rose in the streaming light. It hovered over Celia’s form as she stared at the boy in the doorway.
“Just looking at a book.”
Allan stepped into the small closet. “Which book is it? There are some good ones up here, you know? Witchcraft. Ghosts.” He took a step closer. “Devil worship and all that.”
“Stop it.”
“Hauntings and lost souls...”
“Aunt Veronica and Uncle Peter wouldn’t allow you and Tristan in here either. If they knew...”
Allan smiled. Celia thought it the nicest smile she’d ever seen. Her cheeks flushed. “I wasn’t going to say anything.”
Celia held up the book for Allan to see. Stories of the Damned. The hardcover book had lost its dust jacket and the silver lettering along the spine was almost entirely moth-eaten. She saw that Allan had to squint to read the letters. When he had discerned the words, he nodded somberly.
“And did you find what you were looking for?”
Celia was about to ask him what he meant, but he interrupted her.
“I’ve heard that nobody ever finds what they are seeking at Gravenhurst. Why, the name alone is smothered in dust and decay.”
“What do you mean?” She wasn’t sure if she liked Allan or despised him. In all the time they had seen each other walking the lonely corridors of Gravenhurst, he’d never said more than two words to her. Oh,’syou. Tea’s overdrawn. Good night.
“Gravenhurst is indeed a place for those who seek. An Aladdin’s cave of opportunity for the lost. In fact, I came here to find something myself.”
“What are you looking for?” Celia asked.
Allan closed the distance between the two of them. He bent down and lifted a finger to Celia’s face, trailed it over her cheek. “You.”
Celia backed into the corner. Her heart hammered wildly at this new nearness. Allan searched the girl’s face intimately.
“Don’t you see?” he asked. “All this time, all these years I’ve walked the empty earth. I didn’t think I’d find you. But now...here you are.”
“What are you talking about? I’ve only just met you.”
“Do you know what it is to wait, Celia?”
Celia’s skin broke out in goosebumps as Allan spoke her name. She shook her head, but wanted to reach forward and kiss him, or push him away. Kick him in the face, maybe.
“Endless nights. Neverending days. The years pass slowly. But now...now there is no time. There. Is. No. Time.”
Allan took the book from Celia’s hands. There was no space to back up in, nowhere else to go. The boy continued to gaze deeply into her startled eyes.
“Did you read my story?” he asked. He put the book down on the floor. “In there? Did you read about me? About us?”
“Our story?”
Allan nodded. He smiled again, but there was nothing nice, nothing agreeable, this time. “The one where I take you away. Back to where we belong. Down, down...”
Celia’s breaths quickened. She didn’t want to be trapped with Allan any longer. The light in his eyes frightened her. She knew no one would come up to the attic and rescue her. Tristan wouldn’t be home for hours.
Allan took Celia’s hand. She stood on shaking legs. “Are you ready to come with me?”
“No,” Celia whimpered. Hot tears coursed down her cheeks in spite of her plans to be older, to be more mature. To be a woman.
As soon as he’d taken it, Allan dropped her hand. He stepped out of the enclosed space slowly. He pulled the door closed and from where Celia stood, she heard the key turn in the lock. He barked out a laugh. “Ha. Then you’ll have to wait a bit longer.” Suddenly, Allan’s roaring laughter sounded from the other side of the door.
Celia banged on the door. “Allan! Let me out!”
“Sorry, kid. Can’t. Can’t do it. After all, seems you’re not ready to come out.” She heard mocking laughter in his voice even now. “’Fraid you’ll have to wait a tad longer.”
The light from the little round window began to fade. Up here the windows received full sun. The conifers were tall, but they had never reached this height. Looking out over the garden, Celia saw the sky darken. The mild summer weather forgot itself and, as Allan’s voice slipped under the door and into the closet, the sky opened and a heavy rain fell outside of Gravenhurst.
“Allan, I’m scared. Please. Please let me out. I promise not to tell Aunt Veronica. Or Tristan. You don’t know what you’re doing. You just don’t know what you’ve done.”
Celia shook all over. The goosebumps that had risen from Allan’s words now returned from the cold stillness of the room. Celia wished she hadn’t read that book.
Great-grandmother.
Grandmother.
Mother.
Me.
The stories, those tales of damned souls shadowing a place, ricocheted all over her mind. She slumped down onto the floor. There, at the base of the door, she saw the dark shadow of Allan’s shoes. As she watched, the image seemed to shift.
“No,” she whispered. She pressed her eyes shut. And opened them. Another pair of feet sidled up next to the boy’s. Celia covered her face and counted to ten. The rain on the roof was the only sound she heard.
When she opened her eyes, the space under the door was empty. She stood quickly and pounded on the door. She tried the doorknob—maybe Allan had had a change of heart. With trepid fingers, she turned the knob. The door squeaked and swung open. Celia took a tentative step into the attic room and looked about. The room was empty.
Allan was gone. And so was his visitor.
#
“Where’s Allan?” Tristan asked. Grubby from his polo game, his ruddy cheeks glistened with sweat.
Celia shook her head. “I don’t know.”
“That’s strange. I’ve run up and down looking all over this blasted house. I can’t seem to find him anywhere.”
“I’m sure he’s about.”
Tristan walked away from his young cousin, but stopped. “You weren’t up in the attic were you?”
Celia shook her head. “No. Why do you ask?”
Tristan rubbed his forehead absently. “The little closet with the window is locked from the inside. It was open when I left. And damned if I can figure out how to open it now.”
Celia nodded and backed away from Tristan. “I’m sure Allan will turn up. Just wait. You’ll find what you’re looking for. Sooner. Or later.”
Tristan blinked slowly.
Celia continued to back up. This house wasn’t right for her. Or maybe that was the problem: the house was right for her. “You see,” she said, “I’ve waited for things. Neverending days, as they say. And they always come to pass.”
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Just Wonders
Marlon Jackson
I read that a meteor might soon strike the earth, very, very soon. Is that true? It’s only what I’ve read, and also that it was the size of a commercial jet airliner. If it strikes a high population area, it could cause death, massive destruction and some chaos. That’s something the earth doesn’t need of course. There’s already mayhem as it is, and carnage on the rise daily. Time flies like no tomorrow and I’ve realized that like clockwork. Sometimes I wonder how time works based on when events will occur and most times I simply go along with it like the flow of water and one step, one day at a time a single moment can be realized...Ha! But I ask once again, the meteor crashing into the earth, it’ll just strike the blue. The water’ll rise high enough to take us out soon. That sounds scary huh? Reading and believing; Watching movies and imagining. The world is a circle and round and round we go, then one bang of a top we evaporate fearfully and horrifically slow, if so it’s unfortunate for all those individuals who never eloped. Ahh, there’s nothing much that needed to be feared. I also heard that UFO’s have appeared. And more supposedly on the way. Ha! If they were here then where are the aliens at?! Maybe the government’s holding onto them underground in a shack! Or a chamber! I’ve seen the X-Files, they’re probably being studied and observed and kept in the dark like laboratory rats. As far-fetched as it sounds I’d say that technically we are aliens; we humans kidnap one another, study one another, analyze our own feats and thoughts and so much else. Ahh what the hell...but back to square one...is it true? A meteor the size of an airliner that’s either bypassing or striking the earth?
Could be...
Could be not...
Is that a thrumming sound I just heard?
It sounds like the end of the world.
I also smell something funny, a smoky like essence.
What’s that next sound? Like a jet with drastic speed soaring by in the sky.
BAKADOOM!
Now that sound was loud and it also sounded really scary. It had me shook for the moment and now I’m stirring with fear and I’m shuddering as I hear a squadron of birds that seemed to be flocking along in the sky. What’s that next sound I hear? I can’t say that I do know or that do I want to know. Yet, I have a feeling that I’m gonna find out any moment now one way or another.
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Sadness in Three Parts
Lindsey Loyd
Lies
They float around me
Moths circling a flame
Your lies
The words that came as truth
Only to be shattered by fact
Each one a trust broken
Until I am numb
I am empty
Searching for the myth
Of my other half
My happiness is one sided
Missing a piece
The circle broken
Reaching for completion
My brain doesn’t work
My heart is the enemy
Expectations, hopes, dreams
Dashed to the ground
Crushed into pieces
I am a dried of shell
Of spent emotion
A walking ghost of what once was.
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I’ve Been Trying to Think
A.J. Huffman
of ways to kill
myself with a flip flop.
This is Florida, after all,
and I am tired
of my life, this rain,
and the game of daily monotony
I am supposed to call existence.
The sad rubber
sandal seems to mirror
my mood. So many of the single
slip-ons found lacking
partners, abandoned on highway
medians or floating along shorelines.
These misplaced survivors mourn,
so effectively, in silence. The suicides
of their other halves, echoing
around them, a permeating darkness.
I imaging our link becoming more
tangible, a covert touch, transcending
distance, a slight nudge that slips, trips
me into suddenly violent
end.
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about A.J. Huffman
A.J. Huffman has published eight solo chapbooks and one joint chapbook through various small presses. She also has two new full-length poetry collections forthcoming, Another Blood Jet (Eldritch Press) and A Few Bullets Short of Home (mgv2>publishing). She is a Pushcart Prize nominee, and her poetry, fiction, and haiku have appeared in hundreds of national and international journals, including Labletter, The James Dickey Review, Bone Orchard, EgoPHobia, Kritya, and Offerta Speciale, in which her work appeared in both English and Italian translation. She is also the founding editor of Kind of a Hurricane Press. www.kindofahurricanepress.com
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Mishandled
A.J. Huffman
Scrambled eggs and beer.
Breakfast for the dead,
and the walking hung-
over. My body screams
like a bruise. I am swimming
in open air, a slug, moving
at its most accelerated pace,
which is comically slow.
The coffee pot laughs at me.
It is empty. My passport
to potential survival lacks. Water
and beans wedge themselves
inside their respective restraints,
glitter like pearls,
clamped between feral clam’s
teeth. Overreaction is inevitable.
I shatter myself on the cold,
kitchen floor.
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about A.J. Huffman
A.J. Huffman has published eight solo chapbooks and one joint chapbook through various small presses. She also has two new full-length poetry collections forthcoming, Another Blood Jet (Eldritch Press) and A Few Bullets Short of Home (mgv2>publishing). She is a Pushcart Prize nominee, and her poetry, fiction, and haiku have appeared in hundreds of national and international journals, including Labletter, The James Dickey Review, Bone Orchard, EgoPHobia, Kritya, and Offerta Speciale, in which her work appeared in both English and Italian translation. She is also the founding editor of Kind of a Hurricane Press. www.kindofahurricanepress.com
|
The Clean Up Crew
A.J. Huffman
Metal saw struck edge of rusting aluminum roof.
The structure, so unstable it wobbled under initial contact.
Exhausted hands had agreed to trade
money for labor, forced the blade further through panels,
down the side. Sparks and pieces flew in all directions.
Only one landed out of bounds, in a dry patch
of brush. It continued to smolder
for a moment, a tiny trail of smoke rising unseen
as the men moved on to the next shed
designated for destruction. A small breeze offered
sweaty skin brief reprieve, blew breath into the hidden
ember. An eruption of flames pulled focus, they dropped
saws, replaced them with shovels to scoop sand onto the fire.
Too late, the blaze was already a consumptive force,
decimating acre after arid acre. In a matter of minutes,
the fields were a sun, burning their way into extinction.
|
about A.J. Huffman
A.J. Huffman has published eight solo chapbooks and one joint chapbook through various small presses. She also has two new full-length poetry collections forthcoming, Another Blood Jet (Eldritch Press) and A Few Bullets Short of Home (mgv2>publishing). She is a Pushcart Prize nominee, and her poetry, fiction, and haiku have appeared in hundreds of national and international journals, including Labletter, The James Dickey Review, Bone Orchard, EgoPHobia, Kritya, and Offerta Speciale, in which her work appeared in both English and Italian translation. She is also the founding editor of Kind of a Hurricane Press. www.kindofahurricanepress.com
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No country for a Jew
Debasis Mukhopadhyay
Yesterday, I was the then Jew. I was there alone with all of us when fell open the dictum a Jew is always a Jew. Thereafter, it suited them to knead my blood. Bones rattled crawling back to hope. Cries caught fire sans flame in the throat. Trains dashed through my flesh into those camps. I died inside the walls with all doors shut but in a room for spammed memories to make a journey. No country for a Jew. A Jew will always be a Jew.
Today, swaddled in razor wire, you too look as doomed as I was then-there. Like a perfect Jew, you are all alone with all of you in the deep of the slime. Swelled bodies keep swelling with night. You had to flee the war as far as you can carrying your hope and leaving behind the shadow of beheaded corpses you’d thought home. They made you give up. And no country for a Jew.
Yesterday, I was a Jew like you. I had just nightmares to look on in the sky wanting my skin. No tomorrows called birds in the cold skull. No ports to land my imagination. I had to just carry my blood across the seas. A Jew will always be a Jew. I was as ugly as you are looking now. No country for a Jew.
Today, you are sailing on yesterday’s perilous waters. Remember, no ports to arrive for a perfect Jew. That’s what St Louis is meant for. Life has many masks but not death. Voyage of the dammed is calling my heart by name. I can hear you crying out, “Here I am!” You will witness the silence of the world with your own flesh like I did. No country for a Jew.
In the recesses of my mirror, I can see you locked in and flickering. I close my eyes. Light that brings back so many memories and revelations blinds me and so does wisdom. I know I’ve gotten to the point where I won’t enjoy to see us breathing together in the same room. You can hide in the history book of mankind. Just say “this is my death” and the world will agree to write it down in those pages of History. A safe place to unfold and remember your bones. Or if you ever survive, like me, you can be a Jew.
|
Debasis Mukhopadhyay brief bio (2015)
Debasis Mukhopadhyay grew up in Calcutta, India and now lives in Montreal, Canada. He holds a PhD in literary studies from Université Laval. Debasis’ recent work has appeared or is forthcoming in Snapping Twig, Eunoia Review, Yellow Chair Review, With Painted Words, Silver Birch Press, Of/With, Fragments of Chiaroscuro, and elsewhere. His writing can be found at debasismukhopadhyay.wordpress.com.
|
Date of Discharge
Mike Brennan
1.
Scenes of the living dead/walking wounded and wound tightly with plenty of poetry packed too deeply downward to depict with pencil or pen nor paintbrush/ staring off into spaces that no one else can view except those who were there/ side by side/ marching potential patriotic suicides. Left, Right, Left/ sizing up the abyss with every peripheral movement of the eye. The 1,000 yard stares and hearts now stained purple with a presidential certificate and a check on the first of the month to manage the impossibility of being a working man/ a money making machine slaving amongst the masses for a second marriage that they pray was not yet another mortal mistake. Meanwhile tending wounds that won’t drift away except for barely enough money to kill all the pains/ with bottom shelf booze/a few bags of pot/ and a tidal wave of prescribed painkillers and tranquilizers to numb the legs/shoulders/ spine and brain/ at least a few measly hours until their return only feels like unmitigated revenge. God or any deity please just quell the TBI, Anxiety and PTSD/ The Red, White and Blue is at Half-Mast for reasons not known by any of us right now/ as we can’t watch or read the news around here. It upsets the patients we are told/ that religion and politics don’t mix with Ativan and Percocet and Cancer of the Prostate/ ISIS and the Senate could trigger panic attacks and seizures or strokes/ or is maybe why Charlie shot himself in the head after living just under 20 years in freak firefights on a road of orders from Bosnia to Afghanistan. Mark just wants more morphine until the end of the month when he can afford a motel room and just enough heroin for another 30 days of oblivion before just checking right back in. Jason slashed his wrists and straight across the throat and was depressed he was still breathing/ as the maid found him just a minute too soon he’d whine while shuffling playing cards while puffing on a Pall Mall/ smoke billowing from a hole in the neck- a broken stitched souvenir. “I’ve seen the devil and he is my mother,” Michael would say, after attacking her with a samurai sword and drinking a bottle of bleach on top of the vodka before the police would arrive to the crime scene/ she lived just barely amputated below the knees and he now keeps razor blades safe and secure under his tongue/ “I’ll slash myself in front of the shrinks if they say anything satanic”/now, he is on enough medicines his vocabulary is down to a drool. I’m here because I have nowhere else to go/ I actually now have no place else to go/ but maybe, surely/ a bit further down from here.
2.
The Med Line is always way too long/ with not enough nurses/ reminding me of the lines to go puff smoke while sailing in circles in an ocean within an ocean during a war/ I couldn’t see but just believe from the bombs being farmed and sent short distances/ sortied off from the salty sanctuary/caged explosions kept out at sea. Longer lines than for lunch/even breakfast. I always hated a buffet/ Waiting! Waiting! Like a Junky for “The Man.” Lines are nothing but migraines and malaise/ especially to eat one of the anti-depressants, psychotics or anxiety formulas tested in laboratories on terrified monkeys. One of the newest ones even makes men grow breasts/ I saw a few that I figured were having changes of the sex. Anything is normal here/ and yet/ Nothing is normal here. Nightmares are the only normality I can say I personally know. If they aren’t mine I’m drawn into a shadowy other’s. Why I would be drawn into Vietnam flashbacks when I wasn’t even born yet? The White Coats can’t even explain all that to me. They only can just prescribe and write off my life on their legal and prescription pads. Seroquel has the nickname of SeroKill for a reason. Too many milligrams have wiped out an entire platoon of Marines in their solemn slumbers. I’m never sure if I will die in my sleep/ but like Hamlet/ I am only afraid that afterwards I will still keep dreaming. The Rub! The Horror! The Horror! My greatest fears are always of dreaming.
3.
Tank Gunner/ 80% burned all over the body/ his eyelids can’t close/ shedding tears at random since they were never repaired beyond the retinas/ he had to put his head out of the hatch to catch the Hajji Hammer crash. They want him off the drugs he provides to himself religiously every payday/ he still loves the crack pipe since women look at him like Halloween/ but what else is there to live for when you don’t have your old battle thick trained and tailored skin? Burned almost to bone/black to white. I figured it was napalm not an IED/ which he hit unexpectedly just a few months after I swore away my soul and was maneuvering my own path through boot camp/ never volunteering/ and always practicing personal invisibility. I could always pull a Houdini. The Gunner would be stared at sideways for his whole life. Nobody would know that he once was and is a perfect specimen of a Man. Outside matching his Insides/ No Lies/ No Alibis/ too much for minutely tourists to recognize or accurately analyze.
4.
Group therapy/ a young Marine is discussing how he had to kill a child insurgent in Ramadi/ suddenly the 5.0 burst in the room and approach a young ex-sailor, a Boatswains Mate, seated directly across from me. “Mr. Sullivan, please stand up and put your hands behind your back. You’re wanted on a warrant for possession of Child Pornography.” I saw this happen to another guy while I was still in the service/ downloaded to disk drive to imminent vice detective downfall/ that squid swore it was an accident but I’m sure he’s still in Leavenworth/ chipping rocks into smaller rocks or so they always say the defrocked crews and platoons in Kansas are rumored to be ordered to do. Sullivan screams, “It’s not me! This is my ex-wife trying to keep me from seeing my son. I’m set up. She knows all the passwords to my accounts!” He’s crying hysterically/ and for some reason/ unlike the other set of short eyes/ I have unfortunately had seen/ I kind of believed him. Our session ends early thanks to this strange spectacle/ the whole group signed out to go to a small shack holding twenty of us too tightly together to comfortably smoke. The Marine was huffing and puffing along as well/ still crying about what had happened accidently back in Iraq.
5.
Curtis was sent here by his parents because he refused to leave his bedroom for months after coming home from the Army/ and back to his video games and the money set aside from combat infantry duties for his long planned personal gun collection/ and they obviously feared his becoming another soldier suicide statistic/ as seen occasionally in the Huffington Post or on 60 Minutes. Tyreese is a giant 6'6, 250 pounds of ex-Marine muscle/ Curtis looks like he should still be roaming the halls of a high school heading to homeroom/ and why he accepted the Nike’s Tyreese stole from Walmart/ none of us would know/ other than Ty obviously liked his boys young and wet behind the ears/ and Curtis was beet red naïve with a babies’ blondish blush. I was a little hurt that I guess I looked too old for him at 27/ I’d jest/ while Curtis must have only been 22/ which is likely why he took him back to his old basement room. Just a walk across the way from our wing/ where he knew nobody would be home to hear Curtis’ cries/ which is all he did for weeks. Well at least until Mark introduced him to heroin and heard all the dreadful details/ long after Tyreese disappeared from the scene without saying anything to anybody/ not anyone. Mark killed Curtis then soon after shakily saved his life/ with a bottle of Narcan he bought from the clinic where the junkies got their morning methadone because he thought it might be handy in case of an emergency OD/ since he wasn’t really too keen on getting clean. An emergency which Curtis became the night before his 90 day discharge date. He turned that special shade of blue/ so very few/ ever come back from... Mark brought him around to life again and then Curtis went home/ a hundred times worse for the wear and tear than the war or ever before/ including the shrapnel still stuck in his back/ but someone told the staff all that had happened/ and Mark was told to straight hit the skids. From what I’ve seen Mark still lives in the park across the street. Less than a block away from where Curtis had been raped repeatedly. I can’t figure out how he didn’t see that they both were swimming with sharks/ until the jaws were already taking them down to those places where no-one can be expected to see/ but as human beings still struggle against both life and death for the shallowest of a single breath.
6.
7.16.15. The fears that only grew as I did from 5'4 to 6 feet tall before graduating from High School/ that Summer before the Fall of 2001/ greeting a Second and mysterious new Millennium! Sounding off so soon with four horrific booms!/ with visions of dust, ashes and doom/ with the crusades repeating themselves religiously/ which have more than begun/ to hatch and sprout their blood wings and bomb what once was realized as the All-American Dream. We have lost what we were ordered to patrol and protect/ and what so many prayed to catch a plane back homeward away from/ and what many only did with a flag to fly just across the body and what may or may not be intact of the face/ for a family and friends to fatally and finally kiss/ goodbye, god-speed, good luck and that final goodnight/ to such sweet princes and princesses/ only if what remained wasn’t crushed like a mother’s heart/ too severely enough to display in an open casket. From Fallujah to New York City/ Boston to South Carolina to Tennessee/ Hatred studies it’s laptops and makes maps/ while we riot against each other and the Metro P.D/ too locked into views of black and white/ like last centuries prototype TVs/ of patrol cars and couch potato criticisms/ crisped to crumbs/ to see the flames scorching both flanks and all sides/ while drifting into a decay and disarray of daily mass homicides. RIP. RIP. RIP. RIP. RIP. And for tomorrow/ in the darkness before the dimming dawn/ I give away my final decree of RIP.
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Mike Brennan Bio
Mike Brennan was born in San Diego, lived in London for seven years, and then spent most of his formative years in Los Angeles. He was an United States Navy Aviation Bosuns Mate Handler 3rd Class(E-4) and served onboard the USS Kitty Hawk and USS Carl Vinson, was stationed in Yokosuka Japan; Pensacola Fl; San Diego Ca; Pearl Harbor Hi; Bremerton Wa; and Norfolk Va. He was honorably discharged from the U.S Navy in 2009 after serving five deployments in support of The Global War on Terrorism. He holds a BS in English and Film Studies, was a Freshman Composition writing instructor at Northern Michigan University, and received his dual MA in English Literature and Creative Writing on May 8, 2012. He is a singer/songwriter, spoken word artist, and has had both poetry and prose appear in The Chiron Review, The Eunoia Review, Down in the Dirt Magazine, and in the Scar Publications anthologies Blood Heart Cadaver and It Was All Preordained. He is currently desperately trying to finish a novel and has had the chapbook A Petal Under Pavement accepted for publication by Down in the Dirt Magazine for 2013.
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Our Date
Maria-Jose Villamar
I woke up; my bedroom was warm and orange due to the sunlight that entered through the shades. I realized I’ve been sleeping for three days in a row. Right now it must be 6p.m. It’s been so difficult since I lost him. I don’t want to get out of my bed but it is time for me to do it.
I get up and noticed his coffee mug is on the same place he left it that Tuesday morning. Under the door there are six new letters for him and I don’t want to take them.
I enter the bathroom and do my make up like I used to do back in the days when we dated. I braided my hair as a coronet as he liked it so much. I put that perfume that he couldn’t resist.
I’m ready. I just have to wear that dress I bought as a surprise the Monday before he left. That gorgeous green dress. He loved it when he saw it on the store and he said he would love to see me in it. I put my dress and I zip me up. I feel he is ready to see me.
I turn up the radio and play our favorite song. I open the doors of my balcony and grabbing myself to the column I step on it carefully. I just want to see the beautiful sunset we used to watch together, for one last time.
Then I asked myself: “Should I jump?” My head tells me not to, but my heart wants to see him one last time. I miss him so much. What should I do?
Nobody can see me up here but I can see everyone having their own lives. I can see mine passing through my eyes and I missed it so much. I cry and I want to jump but I’m scared I might not see him. “But I’m just as he would like to see me,” I tell myself. “Remember that movie where Robie Williams died and then he find his daughter looking as he always wanted her to look like,” I told myself, yes! So I might see him.
I feel the wind in my hair. I can see the top of the trees from this height. I’m ready to jump for him. “Am I sure that I will see him?” No, I’m not. But I’ll take the risk. I don’t want this life without him.
That’s it! The moment has come... I just close my eyes, I stop grabbing the column...
My heart stopped for 25 minutes, but it started beating again. Everything is pure joy, I can feel it. I made it! I crossed to the other side.
Our song keeps playing. My dress is perfect so as my hair.
Finally, I saw him. He grabs and kisses me. He is back and we are together. Our life is perfect again and I just cry.
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pursuing propinquity
Peter Halliday
first glance lingering long past comfort, and is finally forming a creepy stare. second hand reading especially when adjacent and intense. riding public transportation of any kind: seats next to smells and mannerisms. strangers who rifle through rows of empty chairs only to select to sit closest. advances from individuals that expose a desperation and makes them more like a political candidate. eyes crossing as time stretches creating a cascade of conjecture. sharp implements and anything else, except maybe dinner.
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unless it happens to you
Janet Kuypers
started 8/20/15 finished 8/21/15
unless it happens to you,
you don’t think it matters,
and you think the violence
just rolls off you like water.
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After your commute home
you flop on the couch
and grab the remote
to turn on the tv.
See the digital screen
and note how different
digital static looks from
your old cathode ray tube,
then flip to the news.
MSNBC has a talking head
relaying the injustices
of a black man shot dead
during a Ferguson protest,
shot after he pointed a gun
at a police officer.
Click.
Turn to FOX News,
and their talking head
mentions another attack,
a few Marines were killed
defending an outpost
on foreign soil.
You think for a moment
about the men you know
who went to war.
They fought for our country.
You sigh.
Click.
Wait, there has to be something
to relieve my sprits,
some comedy maybe, something,
but —
but watching actors
act like they’re someone else
is the last thing I need,
when that is all
all of us do
every day
already.
So, turn to the laptop,
scan the Internet’s stories.
Hmmm. They’re still
lambasting a dentist
who paid a ton of money
so he could trophy shoot a lion
and feel like a big man.
And the thing is,
people are in an uproar about this,
this one lion’s life is their crusade...
People living in Africa
kill lions for survival.
I’ll bet most of those protesters
still like a burger at lunch,
but forming flesh out of this one lion,
to them is just too unjust.
It’s like they idolize this lion,
like a drawing from the Lion King
and think this killer
is a noble beast.
And I’m sorry,
whether or not
these protestors support war,
I’ll bet they think more
about this one lion
than they ever would
about the death of our Marines.
I stare at my screen.
I don’t want to turn it off.
Because I think I can immerse myself
in other people’s problems
and not think twice about them —
because it doesn’t affect you
unless it happens to you.
All that’s stuck in your head
is the traffic on the expressway
that made your day late enough
to say, screw dinner,
I’ll just eat some leftovers
and try to unwind
in front of the boob tube.
So you dejectedly give up
and turn to the tv again,
resort to network stations
and bounce between shows
dedicated to Hollywood gossip...
Entertainment Tonight
highlights a movie star
(you don’t know if she was famous
before she got her boob job)
but this woman just found out
she has cancer.
And you think of the cancer
that has raced through your family,
picking out loved ones
like they were targets
in a firing squad,
and without remembering
the female actor’s name
you have to change the channel
and get away from this.
Click.
oh, now it’s TMZ,
and they’ve found Jenny McCarthy,
yeah, the playboy bunny,
the MTV girl, that one,
the one who had a child with Autism
and deduced that the Autism
had to be the fault of... vaccination.
She’s the woman who made it her crusade,
without any empirical evidence,
to convince squadrons of mothers
to not vaccinate their kids.
You know, there was a measles outbreak
recently, down at Disney Land.
Measles, in Disney Land. You heard me right.
There is now a Measles outbreak
in the United States.
But TMZ just went to commercial,
so time to surf until I stumble
on another web page
for another set of actresses
who claimed Bill Cosby
sexually assaulted them.
They didn’t know they were drugged,
which relinquished their right to consent.
New York magazine even showed
thirty-five of his alleged victims
all sitting in chairs,
in rows, on their cover.
And it made me think
of the women who came to me
with their stories of being raped,
some were sixteen,
their boyfriend was older,
they didn’t know what to do.
Some were given too much to drink,
while their housemates were given more,
so they wouldn’t be awake to hear.
All of them were scarred,
it wouldn’t go away,
and they didn’t even have
the physical bruises
to justify their constant pain,
and —
and I just wanted to watch
some mindless tv.
Even if it was about horrors,
I thought I could just tune it out,
because I’ve always thought
that it doesn’t affect you
unless it happens to you.
But I clicked and I clicked
until I made it relate to me,
and that made it happen to me.
All of their horrors
are now my horrors.
The protesting life now lost on the streets.
The ones who were armed,
killed for doing their job.
The cancer.
The disease.
The rape.
And the more I think about it,
the more I think
that we all go through this pain.
We know someone who had cancer.
We know someone who was raped.
In a way, we’ve all been attacked,
we’ve seen death up close,
and time heals all wounds,
they say,
so we’ve learned to deal with it,
to tuck those horrendous memories
deep inside us
and live with the pain
that somewhere deep inside
always burns,
even as we try to forget.
We wear this like an old bath robe,
an old pair of slippers,
something comfortable,
and all this trauma
becomes a second skin.
Some thing we’ve had for so long
that we forget when it started,
when it all first started,
but good or bad,
it’s almost like
we can’t live without it now.
We don’t know how to go back
and live any other way.
And we look at the tv
and we blink blindly at the horrors
and completely forget
when horror
stopped horrifying us.
We wonder.
And once again,
we click.
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See YouTube video of Janet Kuypers in her 9/2/15 show “Like a Lamb to the Slaughter” in her feature at Poetry At The Gallery Cabaret in Chicago (Canon fs200), with her poems
Entering the Lake of Fire,
unless it happens to you,
Open Book,
electromagnetism, an edited version of the poem
Everything was Alive and Dying,
Death Takes Many Forms, and
Under the Sea.
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See YouTube video of Janet Kuypers in her 9/2/15 show “Like a Lamb to the Slaughter” in her feature at Poetry At The Gallery Cabaret in Chicago (Canon Power Shot), with her poems
Entering the Lake of Fire,
unless it happens to you,
Open Book,
electromagnetism, an edited version of her poem Everything was Alive and Dying,
Death Takes Many Forms, and
Under the Sea.
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Download poems in the free chapbook
Like a Lamb to the Slaughter
of the NEW poems read 9/2/15 at the Café Gallery show in Chicago
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Janet Kuypers has a Communications degree in News/Editorial Journalism (starting in computer science engineering studies) from the UIUC. She had the equivalent of a minor in photography and specialized in creative writing. A portrait photographer for years in the early 1990s, she was also an acquaintance rape workshop facilitator, and she started her publishing career as an editor of two literary magazines. Later she was an art director, webmaster and photographer for a few magazines for a publishing company in Chicago, and this Journalism major was even the final featured poetry performer of 15 poets with a 10 minute feature at the 2006 Society of Professional Journalism Expo’s Chicago Poetry Showcase. This certified minister was even the officiant of a wedding in 2006.
She sang with acoustic bands “Mom’s Favorite Vase”, “Weeds and Flowers” and “the Second Axing”, and does music sampling. Kuypers is published in books, magazines and on the internet around 9,300 times for writing, and over 17,800 times for art work in her professional career, and has been profiled in such magazines as Nation and Discover U, won the award for a Poetry Ambassador and was nominated as Poet of the Year for 2006 by the International Society of Poets. She has also been highlighted on radio stations, including WEFT (90.1FM), WLUW (88.7FM), WSUM (91.7FM), WZRD (88.3FM), WLS (8900AM), the internet radio stations ArtistFirst dot com, chicagopoetry.com’s Poetry World Radio and Scars Internet Radio (SIR), and was even shortly on Q101 FM radio. She has also appeared on television for poetry in Nashville (in 1997), Chicago (in 1997), and northern Illinois (in a few appearances on the show for the Lake County Poets Society in 2006). Kuypers was also interviewed on her art work on Urbana’s WCIA channel 3 10 o’clock news.
She turned her writing into performance art on her own and with musical groups like Pointless Orchestra, 5D/5D, The DMJ Art Connection, Order From Chaos, Peter Bartels, Jake and Haystack, the Bastard Trio, and the JoAnne Pow!ers Trio, and starting in 2005 Kuypers ran a monthly iPodCast of her work, as well mixed JK Radio — an Internet radio station — into Scars Internet Radio (both radio stations on the Internet air 2005-2009). She even managed the Chaotic Radio show (an hour long Internet radio show 1.5 years, 2006-2007) through BZoO.org and chaoticarts.org. She has performed spoken word and music across the country - in the spring of 1998 she embarked on her first national poetry tour, with featured performances, among other venues, at the Albuquerque Spoken Word Festival during the National Poetry Slam; her bands have had concerts in Chicago and in Alaska; in 2003 she hosted and performed at a weekly poetry and music open mike (called Sing Your Life), and from 2002 through 2005 was a featured performance artist, doing quarterly performance art shows with readings, music and images.
Since 2010 Kuypers also hosts the Chicago poetry open mic at the Café Gallery, while also broadcasting the Cafés weekly feature podcasts (and where she sometimes also performs impromptu mini-features of poetry or short stories or songs, in addition to other shows she performs live in the Chicago area).
In addition to being published with Bernadette Miller in the short story collection book Domestic Blisters, as well as in a book of poetry turned to prose with Eric Bonholtzer in the book Duality, Kuypers has had many books of her own published: Hope Chest in the Attic, The Window, Close Cover Before Striking, (woman.) (spiral bound), Autumn Reason (novel in letter form), the Average Guy’s Guide (to Feminism), Contents Under Pressure, etc., and eventually The Key To Believing (2002 650 page novel), Changing Gears (travel journals around the United States), The Other Side (European travel book), the three collection books from 2004: Oeuvre (poetry), Exaro Versus (prose) and L’arte (art), The Boss Lady’s Editorials, The Boss Lady’s Editorials (2005 Expanded Edition), Seeing Things Differently, Change/Rearrange, Death Comes in Threes, Moving Performances, Six Eleven, Live at Cafe Aloha, Dreams, Rough Mixes, The Entropy Project, The Other Side (2006 edition), Stop., Sing Your Life, the hardcover art book (with an editorial) in cc&d v165.25, the Kuypers edition of Writings to Honour & Cherish, The Kuypers Edition: Blister and Burn, S&M, cc&d v170.5, cc&d v171.5: Living in Chaos, Tick Tock, cc&d v1273.22: Silent Screams, Taking It All In, It All Comes Down, Rising to the Surface, Galapagos, Chapter 38 (v1 and volume 1), Chapter 38 (v2 and Volume 2), Chapter 38 v3, Finally: Literature for the Snotty and Elite (Volume 1, Volume 2 and part 1 of a 3 part set), A Wake-Up Call From Tradition (part 2 of a 3 part set), (recovery), Dark Matter: the mind of Janet Kuypers , Evolution, Adolph Hitler, O .J. Simpson and U.S. Politics, the one thing the government still has no control over, (tweet), Get Your Buzz On, Janet & Jean Together, po•em, Taking Poetry to the Streets, the Cana-Dixie Chi-town Union, the Written Word, Dual, Prepare Her for This, uncorrect, Living in a Big World (color interior book with art and with “Seeing a Psychiatrist”), Pulled the Trigger (part 3 of a 3 part set), Venture to the Unknown (select writings with extensive color NASA/Huubble Space Telescope images), Janet Kuypers: Enriched, She’s an Open Book, “40”, Sexism and Other Stories, the Stories of Women, Prominent Pen (Kuypers edition), Elemental, the paperback book of the 2012 Datebook (which was also released as a spiral-bound cc&d ISSN# 2012 little spiral datebook, , Chaotic Elements, and Fusion, the (select) death poetry book Stabity Stabity Stab Stab Stab, the 2012 art book a Picture’s Worth 1,000 words (available with both b&w interior pages and full color interior pages, the shutterfly ISSN# cc& hardcover art book life, in color, Post-Apocalyptic, Burn Through Me, Under the Sea (photo book), the Periodic Table of Poetry, a year long Journey, Bon Voyage!, and the mini books Part of my Pain, Let me See you Stripped, Say Nothing, Give me the News, when you Dream tonight, Rape, Sexism, Life & Death (with some Slovak poetry translations), Twitterati, and 100 Haikus, that coincided with the June 2014 release of the two poetry collection books Partial Nudity and Revealed.
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