The Glitch
Adam Nagy
We were younger and better
when they killed the lights
and you were lost in the static
of the formless and the pure.
|
Sensate
Doug Hawley
Duke Hanley had been riding the wave for a number of years, but his rise to leading multi-billion dollar Gold Scientific Inc. in Portland Oregon was hard to explain. Twelve years ago he told anyone who asked and some that didn’t “Sure I’ve got the techie side down – degrees in both physics and chemistry – but I’m no executive. Give me a problem to solve and leave me alone. Ask me what Gold should tackle next and I’ll tell you to ask the guys upstairs. Let them earn the big bucks.”
About ten years ago, he started emailing his then boss Mike Wilkie with ideas. “Hey Mike, I’ve got an idea for you. Personal drones are going to be big. I suggest that you either merge with or buy a part of my relative Dave Hanley’s drone company Dragone close to The Dalles on the Columbia River. I’ll bet money that drones will replace laser tag, arcades and paintball for active games and recreation. While you are at it, think about leasing mall space cheap as people desert them and do more business online.”
Wilkie was dubious, but he did buy a piece of Dragone and leased a defunct paintball area in a mall in Tigard, Oregon. Business was slow for a couple of years, but Gold had no need to rush. At first people just flew their drones in the indoor space, the advantage being no regulatory or weather concerns. As the partnership with Dragone went on, the newer drones offered more opportunity for play. Lasers were added so battles could be waged in what then became Laser Bowl. As other operators got into the business, Dragone and Gold managed to stay ahead with whimsical shapes and names for their drones. As drones added running, boating, and submarining to their repertoire, Laser Bowl added races, obstacle course, and iron drone challenges. When Gold decided to expand Laser Bowl, Hanley came up with a list of places which should be franchised, which Gold should keep and which to avoid.
Once Laser Bowl started to grow, Wilkie started to work closely with Hanley. The Hanley ideas weren’t always successful, but his 85% winner rate was phenomenal.
Along with a lot of small and medium successes, Wilkie and Hanley hit it big with the bio startup Stem on the South Waterfront close to Oregon Health and Science University. After Hanley had checked out the burgeoning biology startups that were encouraged and funded by a local billionaire philanthropist, Hanley decided that Stem was the best bet. Gold bought a 51% chunk of Stem. Stem went on to be big in prosthetics, genetic fixes using viruses and was in a consortium that was instrumental in a number of methodologies for curing or preventing several cancers.
Business was going so well that Wilkie decided to largely retire and put the business in Hanley’s hands. Aside from his business acumen, Wilkie appreciated Hanley’s solid personal life. Unlike so many successful men, Hanley saw no reason to “trade up” from his wife Julia. It would have been very difficult to trade up, because Julia was smart, a successful artist and supported her interests with time and money. Anti-war, pro-education and art, Julia was there. She even played a mean game of tennis. Despite having no children, they seemed very content with their own company and ignored the party crowd.
Under Hanley’s reign, all was golden for a couple of years until Julia was found dead in their tub. The autopsy was ruled death by accident – that she had slipped, hit her head and drowned. During his grieving, Hanley’s golden touch was gone. He had trouble making decisions, and when he did they were likely to be wrong. “Namer” which was supposed to generate names for people and things went nowhere.
A couple of months after Julia died, Julia’s identical twin Lisa called Hanley and said “I need to see you, how soon can I come over?” Hanley didn’t see how she could help with his grief, but said “Now”. Might as well get it over with, couldn’t hurt, couldn’t help.
Hanley had met the twins while in college. Julia was the serious one, and Lisa was the wild one. Physically, the only difference was Lisa had her hair up and Julia had her hair in a ponytail, Lisa was left handed, Julia was right handed. He was drawn to both, but Lisa seemed to have a new boyfriend every week and Hanley didn’t want to deal with that.
When Hanley let Lisa in, the first thing that she said was “We should get married.”
After a short pause, Hanley said “Isn’t this a little sudden? Shouldn’t we go out for dinner and a movie first?”
“Before you reject the idea, look at this note Julia wrote years ago – ‘Duke, if I should die prematurely, I hope that you will marry my sister Lisa. Despite what you think, she can take better care of you than anyone else. Biblically, it was common custom in some cultures for a widower to marry his late wife’s sister. Julia’” The handwriting was clearly Julia’s excellent cursive. Lisa’s writing was so bad, that she resorted to printing.
“That’s a lot to take in. How do you know we’d be compatible?”
“Do you remember those fun weekends that Julia set up for you two?”
Again, Duke paused for awhile until his face lit up “Ok, I can buy that you changed hairstyles if you are claiming it was you on those “fun weekends”, but you are left handed. I would have noticed that.”
“That’s only half true; both of us are or were completely ambidextrous. As five year olds, we decided to choose dexterity as a signifier of which of us is which. We thought that it made us easier to identify and gave us the opportunity to switch sides. Our ambidexterity is only part of our magic.”
“Part of your magic?”
“Do you recall that your ascent at Gold started shortly after you got married?”
“Yes, it must have been that Julia made me completely happy and I was more relaxed at work.”
“That’s part of the story. You must remember those relaxation sessions that Julia put you through.”
“Sure. She did some kind of hypnotism and when I came out of it, I’d be totally refreshed. So what?”
“So that is where your new-found creativity came from. While you were under, she had a, I hate to call it this, unique new age-y kind of procedure that unleashed your potential. While you were hypnotized, she’d whisper certain words in your ears and massage you.”
“I suppose the ‘massage’ is why I remember certain fascinating images afterwards and was warm and sticky.”
“Yes. Those sessions did nothing for your technical ability, but freed your mind and enhanced your potential to see things that couldn’t be judged strictly on a technical basis. I know all of this sounds like so much horse stuff, but you have to believe that Julia was the basis for your leap in consciousness. ”
“And this is why I’ve lost it at work?”
“Yes, but after we are married, you’ll be back to your old self. I’ll see to it.”
“You have the touch too?”
“Yes. It skips a generation. Our mother didn’t have it, but our maternal grandmother had the touch and passed it on to us. Partly it is simple words and the massage, and part of it is something deeper that can’t be explained.”
“Before we proceed, you should know why I chose Julia over you.”
“Yes, I know the reputation that I had. Both of us wanted you, but I’m not bitter about Julia winning. As I said, I didn’t lose you completely and my rotating boyfriends were not all about sex. I practiced my magic on some of them in order to improve my art of enhancing their lives. And, of course, there was a lot of sex of varying qualities.”
“Why not women?”
“Could have done that, but it just isn’t my preference.”
Lisa started to go, but suddenly Hanley said “Say, what did Julia do while you were with me?”
Lisa pulled another note out of her pocket and said “Read this.”
Duke read the note. “Tell Duke on your tenth anniversary what I did when you pretended to be me – Julia”.
A couple of weeks later, Hanley agreed to marry Lisa. He told himself that it was mostly because of Julia’s wish, but late at night and early in the morning he wondered if it was more that he wanted a second chance at the wilder Lisa. Who knows how we make decisions? So much of what we do is driven by forces beneath the surface.
After his marriage, Hanley dove back into Stem projects, with which he had more successes. He pulled Gold out of Laser Bowl at its peak before people lost interest. His re-animation project is another story, told elsewhere.
|
Scenes
Doug Hawley
Eight year old Duke Hanley is humiliated when his mother tells him “You’re eight years old and wetting the bed. Maybe you should wear diapers.”
The PE teacher says “Sorry nobody picked you for either team. Why don’t you swing until our game is over? Duke swings for a half an hour and then looks wistfully at the ball game where the other boys are screaming and laughing.
Duke asks pretty Janice to the eighth grade mixer. Janice says “I can’t dance with you; you are four inches shorter than I am.”
Next, he tries the short, 200 pound Rita. “Listen Duke, I know what you are thinking – since we are both losers, we should go together. I’m not a loser, but you are. You might be surprised to know that the class president has already asked me, and I’ve accepted. You think that I’m so fat, no one would be interested in me, but I’ve got two words for you ‘chubby chaser’. You might be surprised how many there are. Now ask yourself, has anybody ever been a ‘short seeker’? I don’t think so.”
At home, Duke goes to his room and cries a river. The day of the mixer he goes to the science club meeting, but hears and says nothing.
Duke misses most of his first year in high school with mononucleosis. While stuck at home he isn’t visited by anyone outside his family, and his family largely ignores him.
As a sophomore he is behind in all of his subjects and friendless. He doesn’t even try to socialize. No one knows or cares who he is.
Because there is no money for college and he doesn’t qualify for a scholarship, he takes the only job he can as a short order cook. The pay is so low that has to live in a small, filthy apartment. He mostly eats the greasy, salty food from the place he works, only because it is free. As a result, he becomes fat and develops sickly looking skin.
After he had worked at the diner for a couple of years, he noticed an attractive woman about his age had been coming in for a couple of months. He was greatly surprised when she intercepted him after work one day.
She looked very upset when she told him “My name is Jane. I’m a widow with two kids. I got married very young and three years later my husband died in a car accident. I don’t want them to grow up without a father. All the guys I have met in this town have no interest in a relationship, they just want into my pants. I know this will seem off the wall, but I’ve talked to people who say that you are a great guy. Is there any chance that you would want a readymade family? You don’t have to love me, but help me raise Jody and Julia.”
Against all reason, Duke is overwhelmed with the chance to at last have some happiness. He can’t believe that he could be so lucky or that someone had something good to say about him after his life of misery, but wants to believe.
“Jane, I’d love a readymade family, but I’m barely scraping by myself. How could the four of us survive?”
“I’m making a modest living as a secretary. Between the two of us, we could get by with our combined incomes.”
A month later they are married. His first ever attempt at sex goes poorly, but Jane says “Never mind, I’m content with companionship.” Duke doesn’t try again.
A month later Duke picks up the phone to make a call and hears a man’s voice on the line “Did you get the life insurance policy? I’ve got the accident arranged.”
Jane responds “All ready Frank.”
Duke hangs up. Jane comes into his rooms and asks “Were you listening in? I thought you were sleeping.”
“Yeah, I heard the plan. You really were going to kill me for insurance money?”
“Duke get real. Don’t you think that I could get somebody better than you? How could you be so dense not to see the setup? Anyhow, no harm, no foul. You have nothing on me, and now that you know what’s up, I’ll just cut you loose and move on. Don’t even think about ratting me out, if you do, I’ll say it’s the raving of a loser.”
After the divorce, the years pass slowly and painfully for Duke. It gets back to him that Jane, Julia and Jody take every opportunity to dump on him.
In his forties, Duke has a tough time climbing stairs. His doctor tells him that he needs an operation on his heart. Duke is so scared that he shakes uncontrollably.
Duke walks into a dark room. He sits on a very comfortable sofa and hears his favorite music. He feels a happiness that he has never known before. A lot of friendly people welcome him and tell him how happy they are that he joined them. For the first time Duke feels happy and at peace.
Doctor Brooks says “Call it 12:30. His heart was just too weak to survive the operation. The strange thing is he seemed to be dreaming. I could tell from his rapid eye movement. Or is it possible that his life flashed before his eyes? I never have believed in it, but maybe it happened to him. If so, it must have been a horrible life. He looked miserable from the moment we put him under, but just before we lost him he started to smile. Weird.”
Originally in the defunct AWS
|
Got To Love Those Hips
Travis Green
Back when I was 16, decked in my white shirt
and blue jeans, my hair plaited back in pixie braids,
I was beginning to learn the rhythm of my hips, how
when they swung in the azure sky, they could create
a harmonizing sound and a jazzy motion. I boogied
to the spinning soundtracks on my boombox
in my backyard, strutting and slinging, twisting and turning,
bouncing around to the hypnotizing beats of Whitney Houston’s
song, I Wanna Dance, my skin shimmering a rainbow glow
in the summer sun. I perfected the craft to a satisfying delight,
inhaling the formation and rotation, clicking my joints and
ticking my hands to the direction of my hips. As vehicles passed
by, I could see the captivating charm captured in their faces, how they
longed to join in with me, their bodies breaking into a rearranging flow,
cracking muscles, arms, and swaying with the towering trees.
Got to love those hips, how they could glide around in life and bring a
beat in vivid view, how they could birth a little girl into a blossoming beauty.
|
Hurricane Katrina
Travis Green
I was born hipped and a whirling wheel of dangerous beauty.
I hovered in the horizon and sipped on my bloody wine,
my eyes growing an enflaming fire of blazing thunder.
I became a rumbling rollercoaster humming slow sounds,
bringing whooshing winds to fulfill my inner desires.
I shall be heard; every distant land will bow down and praise
my name.
I was a prized majestic jewel rising in the crimson shadows,
unleashing chaos.
|
Standing at The Bridge
Travis Green
Before the days I stepped out of my shell,
I was the one who walked around with
my head held down, eyes closed shut, sinking
away from the world into my untimely dimension.
I was always afraid and never talked to anyone.
wherever I%d go. There was heavy silence that filled
the streets, the way trees stood motionless across
the seamless sea waves, the way clouds hung above
staring at the cityscape. The fear inside of my soul had
me lost in the shadows like the sun that fades in the backdrop
of the blue sky. This fear painted my landscape a fiery, crimson red,
its colors growing brighter each dwelling hour. I was slipping on the edge
of a bridge, my speech slurred with each breathless sound, trembling hands
and uncontrollable legs lost with no rhythm. I could see the train tracks facing me
screaming for my existence, its steel, shiny surface a haunting depiction of death
surrounding me, the kind that creeps in through the broken doors of one%s heart,
smashing its perfect frame into a thousand pieces. I stood there compelled with conflicting
thoughts, every cell of my body ready to soar with the dawn birds, the air around me
guiding me closer to unknown galaxies, the flaming smoke rising in from the sunken ashes,
and I can only see a shimmer of hope: a flash of bright light blinding my sight, carrying me a
step back from the bridge.
|
The Girl in the Next Room
Travis Green
I can hear him in his bedroom running game
on one of his girlfriends, conversing on things like,
You are my lady forever. You will always hold a special
place in my heart. I stand in my bedroom by the bare
wall eavesdropping on the lucid languages seeping out
of his mouth onto the interior of her inner being, his
words rising in the air the way smoke slowly ascends
in the sky. I can hear the giggles and kisses float
around the room, the way the sound rises and falls,
how it opens a door between these thin walls and sparks
my soul. There’s the short and heavy breaths that follow
in mere seconds, each ticking beat intensifying the chemistry
between their inner and outer existence. I press my face
against the shadowed wall listening to the rhythm
of their internal harmonies beat upon my chest, how my eyes
grow wider in the silent space surrounding me, how he pushes
her further up towards the bedpost that shakes these walls all
around me, her moans traveling through the bright, gleaming
stars and various outer galaxies. There’s the whispers that echo
in my ears that they don’t know, the way they sting my skin
on this summer night, the way it unveils its hidden secrets onto
my eternal being, the way it hovers in the air and falls onto the surface
of my beating heart.
|
Foster Home
Travis Green
I sit outside of my foster home in the rocking chair,
the sunbaked heat shining down upon my skin,
watching the heavy traffic pass by on the shimmering
streets, the sound of their roaring engines sifting into
my ears, reminding me that I’ll never get a chance
to see my mother again. I don’t know much about
what happened, but from the stories my foster parents
tell me, she was a beautiful and loving woman with a
great spirit and extraordinary talent. She possessed a great
mind that could enlighten every awakening existence.
Everywhere she went, she loved volunteering for different
organizations, most times spending days and nights tending
to the homeless, disabled, and suicidal individuals. I could
see the vivid images in my head and paint scenes of how she
was a brown-skinned diamond strolling through society
wanting to make a difference in the world, hoping to illuminate
the universe with her inspiration and vivacious energy.
She was a hard worker. And most times. she’d be outside in the
garden bent over picking weeds, her thin fingers moving at a
steady pace with the upbeat sounds of bluebirds whistling in the
horizon, the tremendous trees twirling and shifting from side to side.
She was a captivating gem glistening in the distance, every part of her
frame a resembling depiction within me. I could remember staring
into their eyes, how they continued speaking about the boldness and
complexity in her presence, how she could deliver seamless speeches
in front of an audience, her posture a perfect alignment with the center
of the room. I thought about how much I wished I could have
been beside her, letting the touch of her hands spark my heart,
letting it seep deep into the pores of my skin until I could breathe
the same air as her. I wanted to wrap my hands around her waist
and embrace the arch of her back and feel the ecstatic joy of having a
mother to share my moments in time. I wanted to be able to walk
across that bridge of luminescent landscapes, bathing in the equations
of love and the adventures surrounding us. But as much as I studied
those faint memories, I realized my mother was never coming back.
I could only imagine wherever she may be, she was working diligently,
trying to save society.
|
The Report from the End of the Cold War
Mgr. art. Pavol Janik, PhD. (magister artis et philosophiae doctor)
Translated into English by Smiljana Piksiades
How much is the Czechoslovak crown worth here
in the capital of the ugliest women in the world
where the only chance for survivor
is your photograph?
An English poet,
who thinks that Bratislava is in Yugoslavia,
but knows that Dubcek lives there,
is only interested if Havel is free.
His rhymes, inspired by London
and by other such European cities
written about the size and dimensions of his desk
could as well stayed on his noble table.
I am out of my mind
from circus artistry of street saviours
yelling into the microphones
misunderstandings of their own and other fools,
being sad because of simply being.
Before midnight, in the hotel
occupied by scrawny poets
and muscular owners of private firearms,
mixture of alcohol, adrenalin and hormones
erupted into never ending yell accompanied by accordion.
Tall, Wide and Sharp-eyed Russian soul
blurred by forty degrees heat of Moscow vodka
blaring something close to Vysotsky.
We don’t serve to folks from socialist countries here.
Proletarians of all countries, UNTIE!
|
On the Line Man – Woman and Back
Mgr. art. Pavol Janik, PhD. (magister artis et philosophiae doctor)
Translated into English by Smiljana Piksiades
You escape from me
like gas.
With astonishment I watch
how with a single scrawl of your legs
you ignite your silk dress.
With such blinding nakedness you pre-empt sky-blue flame.
Blazingly ablaze and perhaps wholly otherwise
I address a fire
which you will no longer damp down.
That time I wanted to declare at least what was essential
to all chance passers-by,
to all chance passing aircraft.
So under such circumstances who wouldn’lt have spoilt it?
|
Grey Bird
Kristin Cavalieri
The world was growing devoid of color and personality, but Aurora was too trapped in her own skin to do anything about it. Throughout all her years of painting, she had learned that individuality makes things notable, but following the rules of art made classics. Of course, her reserved personality - similar to that of a bird perched on a branch, observing the paths of flight around it, without ever flying itself - allowed her to see that these same principles applied to most aspects of life. She found that the more she grew up surrounded by pressure from her peers to be someone she was not, the more she felt as though that depiction of a bird was an accurate comparison. Even her best friend, Georgia Hyppous, who had always valued the heart over the mind, had grown into a stiff being that just followed the crowd.
Individuality, art, and the things that make everyone human, have died with the rise of social structure and roles.
Wilmington, Vermont, is a tiny town right on the border of Massachusetts, with a population barely exceeding 2,000 people. Being such a small town, one might not think that the latest and greatest trends of the world would be able to make an appearance here, but mass media somehow finds a way to encroach on even the most isolated of places. Wilmington is not filled with skyscrapers, drawing lines through the clouds, like New York City, or buildings so rich with history that it’s as if every street corner has a story to tell, like Rome, but is simply little, old Wilmington. It had its own form of skylines and historical relevance, covered end to end in trees grasping with their gnarled fingers high into the air. These ancient forests blew in the wind whispering songs of old into the ears of those observant enough to listen. Despite this rare beauty, the town was known for its tendency to conform to the masses, blending in with what others deemed to be “normal”.
When the town’s population had begun to grow repetitive in its events and static in its citizens, Aurora, at first, could not understand how such a thing was occurring. Yet somehow, it seemed to make perfect sense to Georgia, whose eyes were glowing and knees bouncing.
“Come on, Aurora, at least just consider it! Everyone is dying their hair, you don’t want to be the only one left out, do you? The others will think you’re immature,” Georgia said, breathless with excitement.
The points Georgia was making left Aurora weak in the knees, with a heavy feeling beginning to build in her chest, slowly growing as if water was dripping into her heart. “I guess I could dye my hair grey, but it’s such a boring shade. It’s so dull and empty that there’s nothing special about it! There’s almost hope visible in the color, so much so that it looks as if it could carry the secrets of the world, but would never share them with you,” Aurora responded, feeling the water level in her heart reach midway.
Aurora’s reluctance to dye her hair came from her dreams of becoming an artist known for the individualistic aspects of her work, while still following the known and respected rules. She wanted to walk the line between notability and likability. Giving in to the expectations of the media or falling into the habits the world shared, felt like giving up that chance to stand on both sides of the issue. But still, as her heart began to overflow, she realized it was never water in her heart; it was fear. Fear that if she refused to blend in and look as bland as the rest of the town, she would be treated like Georgia used to be treated. The memories still haunted her.
•••
It was the first day of first grade, and the class was thrilled with the idea of recess. Is there anything better than getting to play outside with your friends for half an hour in the middle of the day instead of listening to boring teachers talk about boring things and telling her not to write in yellow crayon, her favorite color in the whole wide world? Aurora doubted it, as this whole recess thing sounded pretty great to her. She had made a new friend that day, and her name sounded like George, which of course made her wonder why she had a boy’s name if she was a girl, but she didn’t mind. All that mattered to Aurora was the fact that she had a brand new friend to play with! Maybe they would even get to draw with chalk on the blacktop together. But, when Aurora found George, Georgina, or whatever her name was, she saw the most terrifying sight, one that would haunt her for years to come.
Three big kids had surrounded her new friend, and they were gripping onto her hair and tugging at it. At first, Aurora was quite confused, as her hair was an incredible shade of red. It was supposed to be very rare and Aurora thought that was the most amazing thing she had ever seen. As Aurora got closer, she began to hear what the big kids were saying to her best friend. She let out a startled gasp as she found that they were saying the meanest, most hurtful word they could possibly call it: stupid. They tugged on her hair and ripped it out in big tufts, telling her that her hair was “weird” and making sure she understood just how much they hated it. If she wanted to be normal, her blazing red hair would have to go. “Weird kids don’t get to play on the playground!”, the tallest among the older kids said. Aurora wanted to help, but didn’t know how. She was furious that they would do such a thing to her friend. Georgie’s hair was gorgeous, so gorgeous that Aurora had planned to ask her mother that very afternoon if she could get a red headed doll! How could they have said she was not normal?
Just as Aurora had worked up the courage to confront the big kids, she suddenly felt an immense wave of fear course through her. “What if they do the same thing to me? What if they know just from looking at me that I like yellow and not pink, like the other girls? What if I’m not good enough for them? What if they decide that I deserve to be shoved around and have my hair ripped out too?” she thought. These, of course, were only a few of the many fears racing through Aurora’s head faster than the race cars in the races Aurora’s daddy sometimes watched.
The thoughts that had just imprinted themselves upon Aurora would stay in her head for the rest of her life. A new form of anxiety had sprouted in her, and she vowed to never reveal to anyone how different she might be from other people. She would always fit in. She did not need to be happy, she just needed to blend into the crowd.
•••
Aurora shuddered at the memory, hardly remembering that she was sitting on the floor next to Georgia, who was looking at her worriedly. Quickly, Aurora shook her head and asked if Georgia had the hair dye. Remembering her vow to never let herself stand out, she allowed Georgia to excitedly gather up the materials to do both of their hair, as well as the clothes that apparently were the next “big style” so that they would be just as pretty as everyone else. Even just thinking it in her head, Aurora knew this was wrong. They were not going to be as pretty as everyone else, they would be identical. What is the point of having so many people in the world if all of them end up exactly the same? The question bounced up and down, left and right, refusing to leave Aurora’s mind alone.
“I’m so excited to have the grey hair everyone has, no more red hair to make me stick out and look like I missed the class on how to not look like a half rotten strawberry!” The comment, of course, had come from Georgia in a cheery tone, a sad attempt at lightening the mood. Aurora was almost positive that Georgia felt the same as she did, but didn’t dare speak up. A nervous giggle managed to escape her throat, yet another sad attempt at making things seem alright, and the two girls got to work.
As piece after piece of her was covered by what everyone else expected her to be, she lost her sense of who she was. She felt weird, as if she was living another person’s life, but did not quite remember why she had been so reluctant to do this. This was easier than trying to validate her every thought, right? This was a safe choice; you can’t get bullied if you are exactly like everyone else. Not having to make decisions about what to wear or how to do her hair made her life loads easier, as she would quickly learn.
Aurora’s new life among the mass of people felt foreign. She felt as though she was an intruder, interrupting something she could never truly understand. Her brain seemed to want to run away from her body, living the life it used to be living, with personality and the ability to make choices. But eventually even her brain fell into the traps of conformity. As she started to live her life day to day in the exact way everyone around her did, she discovered the anonymity that came hand in hand with giving up her identity. Her hopes of furthering her artistic talents seemed to float away, like a loose balloon. In fact, everything about who she was floated away like this, even the discomfort that came with this foreign feeling. The balloon, filled with the real Aurora, took an upwards path, with Aurora still jumping to reach the string for a while. But all too quickly it got farther and farther until it eventually disappeared from view completely, and Aurora’s new, stiff form stopped trying to reach it. Slowly, after everyone in the entire town of Wilmington had matching grey hair paired with completely grey clothes and no makeup or accessories of any kind, their personalities began to morph into one.
The entire population of the small town was trying to become one unachievable model of a human being. They all wanted to be the brightest, but not any smarter than the others, the kindest, while still not showing more kindness to one person over another, and the most attractive, without looking different from anyone else. This, of course, was an impossible dream, but it was one the whole town shared. It was all over the media, and anyone who acted or looked differently than the crowd, was publicly ridiculed and pressured until they gave in and joined the masses.
Soon, Aurora had completely forgotten what it was like to be unique. The simple, decision-free life that she was living was so easy that she had no desire to return to the way things had been when she was special. She couldn’t remember why anyone would want to be unique when they could simply be part of a group. All her hopes and dreams had become memories of the past that she only ever thought about when criticizing how naive she used to be. Even her love of painting had been erased from her mind. She no longer thought about the way colors blend on a canvas or the way yellow perfectly compliments purple and orange to make the most stunning sunsets. All that mattered was that she did what everyone else did.
The next change for the masses came unexpectedly. Out of the blue, people all over began to stray away from the dull grey that had dominated the whole town for so long, and decided to try something new altogether. In order to continue blending in, everyone needed to change their appearance and personalities all over again to fit the new craze that had come along. The new obsession had been started by one of the only trend setters that was not cast aside and ignored for being unusual and strange. Aurora preferred this one over all the grey. For some reason, this new look felt warm and familiar, as if she was reuniting with an old friend. The new person that everyone was going to become felt right, so right that she could almost feel the air slide beneath her feet instead of the floor pulling her down into it with hands covered in calluses.
Georgia and Aurora entered her room, the same room where they had decided to hop onto the grey-haired bandwagon. They thought it might be nice to begin this new journey in the same place where it had all started. When Aurora looked into the mirror for the last time before her hair was changed from grey, she felt all the air rush from her body.
The girl staring back at her, was not her.
A completely different girl was looking at her.
Aurora examined the startled face in the mirror and could not find any differences. This girl in the mirror had the same eyes, nose, hair, lips, even moved the same as Aurora, yet she could not shake the feeling that this apparition in the mirror was a stranger.
Aurora scrambled for the picture of what they were about to become, and she realised that she was the girl in the picture. She was not a grey haired girl, who wore plain clothes, and never thought for herself. She was the girl who loved the color yellow and painted to her heart’s content and had the best friend with the wild red hair. That was her.
The face staring back at her through the lense of the camera was that girl.
Aurora laughed. The bird, sitting perched on a branch, watching the others flying around it, finally got up and flew down its own path.
|
What They Knew
Eric Dreyer Smith
Mrs. Petersen knew what they were doing up the road. Mr. Baum had a good idea, too. He was the town baker and although he worked a lot he still heard the rumors. Then the people who worked up the street began ordering bread from him. He resisted hearing the rumours firsthand as fact from the people who worked there, but soon realized that listening to their stories was a part of doing business with them. He had to listen to get their money and they seemed to have to tell their stories. Therefore, it was not long before Mr. Baum really knew.
The children of the town said ghosts lived up the road. In a way this was close to the truth, but children do not know everything.
Mr. Kappel prayed for the longest time that it was not true. But when enough people said it was true, at least enough for a reasonable man to wonder if it were, then he prayed even harder that it would pass soon. When rumours blossomed, he prayed as hard as possible that they would be forgiven. Kappel worked at the church and it made sense that at least some of his prayers would be answered.
Mrs. Huber was a teacher and quite educated. She believed history was repeating itself. The logical conclusion would be that revenge would be taken. She felt ashamed, but kept teaching her lessons. She knew what was going on up the road.
Mr. Schuster pretended for the longest time that he had no idea what was going on. He knew the ones in town who liked to talk about it. The ones who bragged or condemned what was happening and he avoided both groups assiduously... He never walked up the road or looked in the sky toward that direction. When the workers from there came to town, he disappeared. The whole thing, from the very beginning, had been too big for him. He was one man. He knew there was nothing he could do.
Mrs. Koch was proud of what was happening. If anyone deserved this, then it was those people. She knew they could not get away with what they had been doing. They had been doing it for centuries and now they had to pay a little. It was only fair. What else did they expect for doing what they had always done?
Mr. Farber was more practical. He figured that it was better that it was happening to them than to people like those who lived in the town. This was the logical position. After all, there was a war going on. Something had to be done to ensure internal security. Those who were not our friends could easily become friends of the enemy. The people kept up the road were never our friends.
Mrs. Vogt was horrified by what was happening. The thought of it grew in her mind daily. Why had they chosen a place just up the road to do such things? The terribleness of it was seeping into her skin. She could not sleep. Then her daughter accidently died that summer. Some combination of this and that wore down the thin wire that was left of her mind, and she snapped.
Mrs. Zimmermann would often ask rhetorically at coffee: who was she to care what happened? No one had elected her the boss. At times it did seem a little insane to her, but then again so did a lot of events. All things that happened in times such as these were bad. It did one no good to dwell too much on matters one could not control. This was wise philosophy. Besides, governments were always doing questionable activities.
Mr. Meyer thought about protesting. He made inquiries of others on the matter. No one responded favourably. He began thinking of ways he could get the place up the road closed or perhaps moved. He thought for a long time, but when he got no support, these thoughts remained thoughts and never became an idea. He never did get an idea before it was all over.
Mr. Thalberg was so old when this thing began that honestly his mind did not understand it. A few friends tried to explain it to him during conversations, but to no avail. It sounded like fantasy to Mr. Thalberg—the very little bit he understood of what they were trying to tell him. Were they talking about Hansel and Gretel? Did they think he was a child?
Mr. and Mrs. Fleischer were so stressed that this was happening so close to them that they did not have sex for seven years. They could not avoid the matter since the workers from up the road relied on their goods. Those workers insisted on telling their stories. It was profitable and maybe morally necessary to listen. Someone had to attempt to absolve the confessors. Someone had to play heaven’s ear.
Mrs. Brandt was certain there were two nations within the country. It was divided between those who fostered what happened and those who would never have taken part in such business. Basically, the party system in the country justified her interpretation. It was the ones with guns who made this happen. She was part of the other group. This knowledge consoled her.
Mr. and Mrs. Henrich never favored what was happening, and especially hated those in charge. They knew justice would come. All they had to do was wait. While they waited for justice, they sneered at people who seemed to support the activities up the road. When it was over, they were proud they had kept such a low profile through it all, and they continued to sneer.
Mr. Dreher kept concentrating on the time when the rumours were merely whispers not loud enough to be truly heard. If new thoughts came, he mumbled to himself to drown them out.
Mrs. Oster knew it was all her fault. She lost seventy pounds during those times.
Miss Schreiner saw opportunity in what was happening. She made it a point to marry Mr. Burger during those times, and came up with the idea of the town specializing in new goods that the workers up the road would need. She cleverly arranged for shipments on the new trains that were arriving. She and her husband made lots of money.
Mr. Busch lived in personal horror the whole time, since he recalled a family story that some of the hated people held up the road were his ancestors. He worried that a scientific method would be developed that would discover him.
Mr. Franz ran away and joined the Resistance. Mr. Bohm wrote a book about it one day.
Mr. Weissmuller thought if he never saw the gates up the road, then no one could ever blame him.
Mrs. Ritter made herself happy by forcing herself to vomit.
Mr. Furst one night silently murdered a drunken worker from up the road.
The Barth sisters played cards so much that they had no time to think about it.
Mrs. Pabst insisted the place up the road was merely a bakery.
Mr. Gerste kept saying, “It could not be.”
Mrs. Lehrer thought the workers from up the road were nice and that they must have come from good families.
Mr. Nacht tried to move away, to get far away from it, but he had so little money that he could not. He was a prisoner of those people up the road and was always angry about it.
In the end, a few people did move away. The town waited. It went on with things. Things would change since many of the old died forgetting, and the young were born before they could remember.
|
About Eric Dreyer Smith
Eric Dreyer Smith lives in San Antonio. He graduated from Trinity University in 1989. Books published include No One Blames San Antonio for the Civil War and Eligible Atrocities. He is currently completing an M.A. in counseling and his hobbies include short film production.
|
Independence Day
Allan Onik
In Central Park, the SEAL took a bite of his cheeseburger. His son took a bite of his mustard covered hot dog. The 4th of July flags were staked in the ground and rustled in the summer wind. The little boy adjusted his Pokémon hat and took a sip of Coke.
“We live in the best country in the world,” the SEAL said.
“Daddy, if it is the best country in the world then why are there homeless people on the street sometimes? When there are rich people near the towers that eat 300-dollar lunches?”
“There’s something you have to learn about America. We may not be perfect, but we try our best for everyone. We always try. And our country is free, brave, and resolute. Do you see these flags everywhere? My brothers die for these flags every day. And we wouldn’t have it any other way. That’s how we feel about our country. The best land on Planet Earth. I’ll be right back kiddo.”
The SEAL ran up to the Central Park bridge and crouched. The ISIS operative walked into the crowd wearing black Oakley sunglasses and a Kevlar vest. He took the switch out of his pocket.
“Death to the infidels!” The voice echoed throughout the park and the crowd screamed and scrambled. The SEAL pointed his Glock 19 and precisely aimed at the operative’s head. When he fell, his finger was off the switch and the nearby pigeons took off in a flurry.
|
Fury
Allan Onik
“You see that bugger up there?” The bullets whizzed past the SEALs as they bunkered behind the mansion’s perimeter rocks. “That one doesn’t see us. Get him.” The sniper burst the merc’s head like a melon.
The mansion was large and the tropical brush surrounding it swayed. Team Six slowly picked off the mercs from all sides. On the second story balcony, a merc with an RPG was neutralized and fell forward onto the grass below.
“34 down. Prepare to engage inside. Spider crawl.”
The Governor’s residence was draped in gold and red. As the SEALs swept, one behind the bar, two behind couches, a few taken out by precise MKIII slices from the shadows, the men worked with melodic efficiency. The bodies piled up and the mansion quieted. “Just the Master Suite now,” The officer of the unit spoke into the team mics, “I’ll be the one to get hot and toasty.” The officer threw down his M4A1 and pointed his MK23. He kicked down the door to find Scoon tied to a chair and gagged. The SEAL holstered the pistol and took out the cloth out of the leader’s mouth. “The Hawk is loose. Operation Urgent Fury is complete.”
|
Burning Cities
Dan A. Cardoza
The cities lay before them, dark green, with all their oily
wet lights of night
They sit, ever vigilant, as night falls
candles lit in all those windows, reflecting back into the night
The fire swells, first icy blue, then theatre velvet red
spiraling upward
A torched cyclone, blinding the scowl of the moon
it’s burning prayers reaching, always upward
Some say that sins build, growing into flames
The reaching, comes from the sinners
& the lit candles, their lies
tongues of grief, stoked by the kindling of pain
licking the curtains, then the walls, then the ceiling clean
Sorry, It’s too late for prayers. the sky is a cathedral
of fire
|
I Finally Let Go Today
Dan A. Cardoza
It’s November
I walk through the cemetery
knuckles shiny
in fists of anxiety
& share my time
I finally let go today
An older women
kneels down to kiss
a granite headstone
with her cold blue lips
The monolith
her safety deposit box of pain
now shared with me
Her fallen roses bleed against
the snow
The trees are cold & brittle
the gray branches
zigzagging in the wind
crackle to sizzle
all their dark green watercolor
blown clear into next April
My frozen footprints
lattice behind me
tethered to the frozen ground
As far as I can see
in front of me
destinies hues need attention
all brand new colors
lusting for the pallets blade
I finally let go today
of something I never possessed
Walk with me
let’s talk
|
here say
Demond J Blake
what a woman
wants
from a
man
he
will
never
understand
whether they’re
together
or
not
best friends
or
no
in love
or
not
but
when
someone
cherishes
you
in
any
way
it can
mean
something
when
nothing
else
does
it can
be something
to hold
onto
when
all
around
you
is
shit
but when
that
something
dissolves
.
...
|
Other people
Demond J Blake
I’ve always had
Problems when
It came to
Meeting a
Girlfriend’s parents
I always tell
Them not
To introduce
Me
I tell them that
There’s no need
For me to
Meet them
“oh jim you’re
just being scared, there’s
nothing to worry about”
they
say
so i tell them
about how shitty
my relationship with
my parents is and
then the women
get EXCITED
they can’t fuckin’
wait for me to
meet their parents
as if to remind me
how wonderful it all
can be
and so when the
big day comes
i’m drunk when
they pick me up
and i sip on a
water bottle full
of wine the whole
ride there
once at the parent’s
house the mother
shows me around
while i imagine
how hot she
may’ve been when
she was her
daughter’s age
the fathers wants to know
what i do for living while
offering me a beer
then everyone gathers around
to see what the family
pet thinks of me
usually it’s a dog
and the dog stares
at me for a bit
sniffs me before
deciding i’m no
better than he
is and walks
off
everyone’s
shocked
“i don’t get it!”
they say
“he hates every new
person that comes over!”
i shrug and ask
for another beer
this raises the suspicions
of the fathers
the mothers rarely say
anything about the
drinking since i don’t
drink anymore than
their old men and
if anything i’m
better behaved
in the end it turns
out better than
they thought but
always worse than
i think since i’ve spent
the day doing one of
the many things
i hate
like
meeting new people
and
drinking myself into
a
black hole
because of it
when it’s all over
and we’ve gone
back to our
own lives
i tend to
do crazy things
like smash cars
with bottles
walk into oncoming traffic
try to start riots in
crowded places
etc
restraint has
always been
something i’ve
admired and envied
in other people
but never
myself
|
You will know us
Demond J Blake
A lot of
Preachers
I knew
When I
Was a kid
Had long
Pinkie
Fingernails
An
Always
Seemed
To be
In good
Spirits
b/f
Church
Service
Those that
Had regular
Nails noticed
Sound probs
During praise
Service, choir
Sermon
whatev
They
Were
Sensitive
To crowd
Reaction
Obsessed
About tithe
And offering
The pinkie
Nailed preachers
Figured god
Would work
Everything
Out
Who
Was
Right?
Who was
wrong?
Everything
Turned
Out to
Shit
In it’s
Only
Little
Way
Regardless
Amen
|
Poetry for Birthing, 1972
Rachel B Walker
I dragged my feet through the hallway of the Victorian mansion where an enormous chandelier hung from the twenty-foot ceiling. With some assistance I got to the entrance of the reception area, a former ballroom thirty by forty feet. The mansion and estate had been donated years before to become Worcester State Hospital for The Insane. I got down on my hands and knees, because I thought I was a dog, and crawled across the checkerboard floor to the admissions desk where a doctor held out his hand to pull me up, telling me I could stand. He asked my name and I told him Sari, the easy version. He asked the name of the President and I said Nixon. Then he asked the date which I had been practicing for the whole day as my friends tried to find a hospital for me.
“September 17, September 17, September 17th.”
As I announced the date I torqued my body and with all my might I whacked that doctor full force across the face, “So there! How’s that for dis-association?”
The orderlies came out of the woodwork, pinned me down on a bench and jabbed me with a horse syringe full of Thorazine. I was led to a room with polished cinderblock walls, no furniture and an army blanket as companion. A four by eight inch window in the door was my only access to life. Since the milligrams of Thorazine, shoved into my gluteus maximus, had not yet altered my energy, I stared out into the hall at various wizened faces looking kindly in at me.
At some point in the morning I was taken out of solitary and given a bed in a twelve-bed ward. A nurse told me the other patients would help me make it up. They still didn’t have a name for me. The drugs had finally made their way through my flesh and the molecules were swimming through my blood stream. I couldn’t find my ass from beside my elbow as I struggled with a pillow and case. Just then my mother and sister were beside me.
My mother didn’t speak and her eyes were filled with water. She identified the body, so to speak. Karen said, quietly, at first, “We’re taking you someplace else Sari, let’s get dressed.”
I knew my baby sister loved me, but I couldn’t speak. My Chi had been flattened to a swollen tongue. I would go quietly but Karen (Kiki) was in high organization mode.
“Come with us, we’re taking you someplace else,” came into my ringing ears in a yell. The family wheels were turning. One cousin got me into McLean’s. An aunt had been to a place in Hartford. My older sister’s husband, a lawyer and Professor at Yale, got a bed at Yale New Haven Hospital. Against Medical Advice I left Worcester State Hospital and, in the arms of my baby sister, who has said my skin looked green while lying in her arms in the back seat of my uncle’s car. We drove to New Haven and I began five weeks on the locked ward.
For months afterward, a bill would come from Worcester State Hospital for services, my bed being thirty-seven dollars per day.
It was lucky that I was a Volunteer that year. I prefer Domestic Peace Corps, which is the term now but in 1972 we were Volunteers In Service To America. I drew an eye on my red jeans the last day I saw a social worker whom I had seen several times by my own choice.
“I can see clearly now,” I explained as I traced its edges.
The eye was beautiful, maybe a bit cartoony with lashes and such and an arched eyebrow but the therapist never asked what I was doing. So I told her.
“I’m drawing it so I can see.” I looked up for a response but a blank stare was all I got.
From Yale New Haven Hospital they made me call her and terminate treatment so I could begin with them, as that was protocol. She was very quiet on the phone and wished me luck. It was clear she had been over her head.
William Manchester had a room on my ward. I had been an honors history major in college. He was quite normal it seemed to me. Perhaps a bit depressed, having his meds adjusted. He had a single whereas I was in a double with a lovely blond woman of about forty, who had tried to commit suicide because she’d been seduced by her shrink who then tried to break it off.
William didn’t have to come to groups. I sat one day and talked with him about writing. I had started a journal.
After having spent the weekend with my husband, my children were shifted to my mother, I guess. I don’t even know the route of possession or what they were told. They were girls, seven and three. I could ask now and they would remember. Probably that mommy is sick and tired and taking a rest and we’ll go see her as soon as she’s feeling better. I had no thought for them. I was off on a solo flight and it could not be stopped. Even with 2000mgs of Thorazine which was quite a cold cock.
I had left my husband of nine years just nine months earlier and this period of free love, doing whatever I wanted, had led to five nights of no sleep.
“What a lot I get done with twenty-four actual hours each day!” I said to no one in particular
Those nine months had been filled with women’s groups and new friendships and a new home and sex with new men and many more than one. Was I being passed around, the new kid on the block?
I don’t remember the day to day of those months but the five twenty-four hour days are etched in my mind. Doing my job, taking care of the kids. Fucking around. Fun, I guess. Most of my time was spent at a lake cottage nestled among four in Leicester, a bike ride to work. It was behind The Castle near a massage parlor that was thirty feet beyond the strict moral jurisdiction of Worcester. I enjoyed the heat and politics of summer in an election year, people taking me out. It was in a blur of excitement and mis-direction at vector speeds. The five days of break are crystal clear.
The first mania or panic attack, when I was talked down at Nora’s party on Ripley Street, the night I ended my only marital affair, to show that mean ectomorph prick of a husband that yes, other men could desire me and want me even though I was a bit tsaftik, should have been a warning but I used anxiety like others used coffee. Once I came through the eye of the needle, I felt calm and knew what I had to work on. What had triggered the anxiety, for what reason had I to be afraid?
I was too childish to carry on a grown up affair even though I set up our first tryst in utter secrecy like I had been doing it for years. He was very impressed. But then I had to burst out and tell a mutual a friend and ruin it all.
He, Ulysses, the lover, part of the new crowd of the new life was there with his woman partner Letta, in love and serious left-wing politics. She had been told and he was chastised and repentant. The truth was in the open among the crowd, as it should be among searching sixties doobies. We were all dancing to Jimmy Cliff. Food, booze and top shelf weed were going around. I got high and then boom, panic, the chiches: One’s mind can’t stop rubbing an itch. Everyone knew who I was, whatever I was, and, as if everyone at the party focused their energy on me through white light and a magnifying glass, I slipped into paranoia. I was in that fishbowl of the people in the painted buses that I had envied, being hippies and lefties while I was home having babies trying to get my BA degree in five years instead of four.
At one point these two guys at the party took me on, to halt a breakdown scene in this mélange of college kids and hippies, workers and politicos and lost souls. We were all into pre-psych, into group therapy and the gestalt of our lives.
“Whose kitchen is it? Sari?”
“Nora’s.”
“What color are the walls?”
“The walls are green,”
“What’s your name? Whose house Sari, what color are the walls?” By the end of the party I was quiet, if embarrassed. Ulysses and Letta had left and one of my two saviors edged me toward a bedroom and fucked me like a marine, my head banging against the wall. He didn’t notice. I just wanted it to be over. A bad choice, the gentleman of the two had lost. |
Who Can Dress the Scar?
Eterigho Oghenekome Humphrey
Who wounded it, who lent the pale moon scars?
Desert sands are oft hurt by hoofs of raindrops
But those wounds leave no scars; for the wind
Arrives and dress both the wound and its scar,
None knows again if the desert was hit by rain,
Aye echo of epic song the rain sang is no more
But who can dress scars sculpted on the moon?
Who can dress scar of hill hurt by war’s hoof?
Beneath whispers of trees and sighs of zephyrs,
Amid hour daylight was appareled in its shroud,
Sprigs and men close to falling asleep forever,
Atop hilltop that smiled with comeliest petals,
We exhaled tales at dusk on the sole hill nearby,
Drinking palm-wine drops, breaking kola-nuts
In remembrance of what canny artist kindles
The artwork on the merry night ether’s candle-
At times we blame that Eternal Finger yonder-
One old man whose eyes tame countless books,
An encyclopedia warped in form of an old man,
He told our ponder that our wonder is landforms-
Our lips turned servants serving holy arguments,
Sowing wind, reaping storms of tuneless voices,
Smiling at thrill from madness reaped beneath
The uncertain nigh lightless light of the moon-
White clouds fled sky, dark clouds perched it
And the dark war rained on us from the cloud,
Descending with paces swift as an ireful devil-
Each hoof of war-drop held chisels, bruised hill,
Aye, but war is a damsel pregnant with amity-
Today the fetus is delivered from war’s womb,
Our wounded land has healed well from bruises-
O wounds are healed, who can dress the scars?
The sole hill nigh has been devoured by a bomb,
Trees that once whispered fell by another bomb-
Petals are off hilltop, ‘tis now crowned by grass-
No one breaks kola-nut or drinks wine anymore
In remembrance of artist who painted moon-scar,
All left is remembrance of the war, that sculptor
That reshaped our fair hill with its hellish chisel-
Oh wounds are healed, who can dress the scars?
|
AUTHOR’S BIO
Eterigho Oghenekome Humphrey is a physicist with a near infinite love for creative writing. His poems have appeared at Nthanda Review, The Squawk Back and africanwriter.com. He runs the blog poetsareprophets.blogspot.com
|
Without Stop
Roger G. Singer
A cheating sky
full of unsettling
covered the vulnerable
below.
Heated winds
the exhaust of unseen
engines
menaced leaves and dust
like a disrespected
backhand
threatening everything
while aggressively
attacking the privacy
of the land
dismissive of all things
in its path.
|
Most Exciting Series Ever!
Mike Schneider
When the two women I followed into Piggly Wiggly began talking about it, my pulse quickened. I shot around them, grabbed a cart, ran through the store snatching up potato chips, corn chips, pretzels, chip dip, salsa, mustard and 18 Keurig cups of dark roast, then hit the road for home, getting there in record time.
Inside I grabbed the remote, pointed it at the TV, set the bags on the kitchen table and got back to the living room right as the picture was coming up. The crawl at the bottom of the screen read, “19 dead, dozens wounded in school massacre....”
Party time!
Not to celebrate but to sit on the edge of my seat through the latest installment of America’s most exciting intermittent reality TV series, the one that could be dubbed, Mass Tragedy. It’s the only show I never miss a single episode of, or even a scene, if I can help it. Watch all day and all night. See some footage 50, 75 times or more, never tire of it. Early on it’s the familiar yellow tape corral holding a building, police cars and ambulances, cops all over, wounded being wheeled out and placed into rescue vehicles. Later, updates from police and hospitals, info about the shooter and victims, news gleaned by on-scene and in-studio reporters, opinions of experts and everything that goes with it. True crime in real time.
I crave these dependable but sporadic lethal events. When they occur day and night vanish, my world becomes television 24/7. Sometimes I’ll doze on the couch but it seldom takes more than an hour or two to recharge. Two to 4.00 a.m. is usually the best bet, seldom anything new on during those hours.
Some people would say I’m sick, staying glued to these horrific anomalies of a civilized world but I know better. There are lots of others out there who, like me, are not morbid but simply get high on the compelling, round-the-clock news coverage.
Some secretly hope the violence never stops.
While I am a member of that group, I’m different from all the others. That’s because if it ever does stop, I have a plan to reignite it. Keep your eye on the calendar. First time we go 180 consecutive days without a newsworthy mass shooting, my plan springs into action.
I guarantee you it will not only work but also that I will never get caught.
|
Bad Habits
Andrea Wilson
Tom eased into a kitchen chair and raised a cup of tea to his lips. He looked at his 10 month sobriety token lying in front of him and willed himself to feel pride for his efforts. A vague worry lingered, but the source evaded him. Deciding it was likely an insignificant detail, he returned to his cup of tea. He enjoyed two sips when he bolted out of his chair. He’d forgotten Linda’s birthday for the second consecutive year. Tom didn’t think his poor wife had any patience left in her. He glanced at his watch and felt a surge of adrenaline. Three hours until her return. Given the late Sunday afternoon hour, cooking dinner would be the best he could muster.
Tom scrambled to the front door of his terrace house and hustled down the stairs with a menu of sea bass with tomato sauce, Parisian potatoes, and wilted spinach floating through his mind. Already regretting leaving his coat, Tom shivered as he pulled his canvas shopping cart behind him.
As Tom crossed the street he noticed a Porsche racing towards him. “Stop!” he shouted, leaping for the footpath. He fell short and landed on the curb. With eyes closed, he hugged the cement and waited to be crushed. When this didn’t happen, he opened his eyes.
The young driver swung open the door and clicked over to him. “Are you okay?” she asked.
Tom touched his low back, a chronic source of pain. He groaned as he pulled himself to standing. “You know there’s a stop sign, right?”
The girl opened her mouth to respond but a loud screeching noise distracted them. The Porsche’s door hung by a single hinge and an old sedan accelerated down the street.
“Hey! That’s my boyfriend’s car!” shouted the young woman after the SUV. She turned to him. “You’re okay, right?”
Tom sighed and nodded.
“Good.” She said looking around. “So I guess I’ll just get your insurance details?”
“What for?” he asked, rubbing his elbow.
“I’m going to need to go through your insurance.”
“Come again?”
She spoke as if he was hard of hearing. “You need to pay to fix the car.”
“But I wasn’t driving!”
“I was checking to see if you were ok.”
“I dove to save my own life.”
The young woman fell silent for a moment. Tom thought there was something familiar about her. He followed her gaze, which lay on his wallet. With a sheepish laugh he reached down to pick it up. He grasped the leather just as the young woman kicked it away.
“What are you doing?” Tom asked.
“Getting your insurance details.”
“I keep them in my car. You see a car here besides yours?”
“Let’s see if you’ve got any cash then.” She picked up his wallet and felt around.
“You’re robbing me!”
The woman stopped and glared at him. “I’m exercising self-advocacy.” She rifled through a small wad of bills. “You don’t have enough. We’ll need to visit a bank machine.”
Tom snatched his wallet from her and stalked back to his shopping cart.
“You don’t need this?” she shouted from behind.
Tom sighed and turned around. Her long fingernails were like talons wrapped around his driver’s license.
“42 Dixon Lane...” she read out.
“Oh come on now.”
“Maybe your wife has a nice jewelry collection? You can hock it and pay me back.”
“I don’t have time for this.”
The young woman looked at him and smiled. It reminded him of a monkey about to sink its teeth into flesh.
Tom shifted his weight and looked around for support. The tiny renovated commercial cottages around them were abandoned.
Avoiding further eye contact, he picked up his shopping cart, smoothed his sweater, and began a controlled walk along the side road.
The girl came up beside him and reached into her purse. Tom winced expecting her to pull out a knife or pepper spray. Instead, she pulled out a nail file and began to work on her nails. He imagined the girl stabbing him in the eye with it.
“If you’re in such a hurry I guess I’ll join you for your errands.”
“I wish you wouldn’t.” he said. Turning back towards the main road, Tom surveyed his surroundings again hoping to see a police officer. At a loss, he decided the grocery store would offer refuge.
They walked in silence as Tom contemplated whether the girl truly posed a threat.
Entering his favorite gourmet grocery store, Tom glanced at his watch. He’d lost twenty precious minutes. He passed a display of antipasti on the left and artisan cheeses on the right. In the back corner he saw homemade preserves, a collection of old wines, and specialty breads. Today he had no time to browse.
He trotted to the produce section. “Let’s see, I’ll need tomatoes for the sauce...They’re over to the left here.” He began to feel the tomatoes. He picked up only those that were plump and heavy with green leaves. He sniffed the stem, noted a sweet smell, and placed it in his bag.
The girl picked up two pale tomatoes, tossed them into the air, and caught them.
“You probably never even bought a tomato before. What do you do when you need to eat? Take daddy’s credit card with you?”
“I don’t know my dad.”
“Maybe you reminded him too much of your mother.”
Tom noticed her eyes become moist. He looked at his feet. “Maybe I shouldn’t have said that.”
She stayed silent.
“No really, I’m sorry...”
Tom looked up. She was gone. A smile started to form.
“Somebody help me!”
Tom recognized the sound of her voice. He wandered over and looked to her for an explanation.
She looked at him with narrowed eyes and pointed at him. “Somebody please help me! This man has been following me!”
Tom stared at her and raised his hands in defense. “No! No! She’s been following me!”
The grocer put a paternal hand on her shoulder and looked at him with disgust. “Yeah pal. Time to disappear.”
Tom noticed other shoppers staring at him with contempt. Tom looked around in disbelief. “Alright!” he said slamming down his shopping basket. Tom felt a crowd of eyes on him as his shopping cart squeaked out of the store.
Once outside, Tom pulled at his jumper, having grown hot. He looked across the street and saw the answer, The Royal Arms. He let the shopping cart fall from his fingers as he crossed the busy street.
At the front door of the pub he was met once more by the young woman. She wore a triumphant smile.
“You’re absolutely nuts!” he shouted.
“It must be genetic.” she said.
“I agree.” said a deep female voice.
He turned and saw an older woman with deep blue eyes.
“Beth?”
She smiled.
“It’s been a long time.”
“Twenty two years this month.” the woman said pointing to the girl.
“Bet your wife would love to meet for brunch. It would probably mean a lot...Especially since she never had a child of her own.” said the girl.
Tom cleared his throat and walked into the bar as the women followed.
Sitting at a bar stool, Tom removed his glasses and massaged his temples. “Johnny Walker Black. Neat.” he said to the bartender. Tom took the glass and raised it to his nose to sniff before allowing himself a taste. Coolness immediately followed by prickling heat coated his tongue and throat. With eyes on the verge of watering, he glanced at his watch before pulling a single blank check from his wallet. He knew it would be the first of many checks he would write. Finding a pen on the bar, he turned to two women, “I’ve got to cook dinner. How much is it going to cost me?”
|
On the Peshtigo
David Gershan
Daniel clenched his teeth and winced as he scanned the turbulent river below. His kayak was by his side, resting on the rock-strewn overhang, and the water was high from last night’s storm. Should I take her in? he asked himself, but he must have known he had no choice. Portaging the forest around the rapids would not be possible today, not possible given the gash on his right heel. He had cleaned it with an alcohol pad and taped on the gauze the night before, after the glass punched through his paddle shoe, but he could feel the bleeding again. And now the pain forbade walking, much less hiking with kayak on shoulders.
He looked at his map—forty miles to Crivitz, and it would be slow through the Caldron Falls and High Falls reservoirs. A brutal day but he could push hard and reach town before dark. Or, he could wait for the water to recede—the safer option—but that could mean leaving too late. He knew of a hilltop clearing on the east riverbank, 17 miles downstream, where he could sleep tonight if it came to that. The clearing would be above the floodwaters, but it was small and a party could be camped there.
He folded up the map, sealed it in its plastic case, and sat down on his kayak’s rear hatch. The sting in his heel worsened, as if protesting his consideration to wait. He gently took off his right shoe and looked under his foot. The tape was wet and loose, the gauze bled through. He cursed at the unknown litterer.
Daniel thought of Lake Calhoun, years ago, when a scream had pierced the still winter air. He turned around on the lakeside trail, and through snowy hardwoods saw that someone had fallen through the ice. By the snow-heaped shoreline a child was screaming for help, and Daniel ran.
“He’s my brother,” cried the boy. Daniel followed the footprints, scanning the snow-swept ice for flaws, until he reached the hole. An older child, early teens, was hyperventilating, the water up to his chin. He was clinging to a glittering ledge of ice, shards bobbing all around him.
“Stay calm and slow your breathing,” Daniel shouted. He kneeled and extended his hand, but the ice fissured before hands clasped, and Daniel had to retreat. He took off his scarf and tossed an end to the water. The boy was stiff and slow, but with both hands he was able to grip the scarf and pull, and this seemed to be working. “Now get your legs up like you’re swimming. That’s it. Now kick, kick as hard as you can!”
Daniel pulled and the boy kicked, propelling himself forward, but as soon as his chest was out the ice split and gave, and they both went under. The water was a vice on Daniel’s limbs, a steel trap on his lungs, and when he came to the surface he too gasped in cold shock. And then he saw the boy’s bluing cheeks and the dread in his eyes.
“I’m going to throw you out,” Daniel said, feigning calm for the boy. Treading was strenuous in his soaked down overcoat, and toes vainly searched for a footing. “Crawl to the shore. Follow the footprints and crawl to spread your weight. Do you understand?” The boy, shivering wildly now, managed to nod yes.
Daniel threw off his jacket, took a deep breath, and went under. He found the boy’s legs quickly in the clear water and then swam deeper, touching the bottom now and holding the boy’s ankles to his chest. He looked up to see where darkness met sunlight, jumped from the lake floor, and hurled the boy out with a bubbling bellow. The boy flailed and clung and was out save dangling legs. Daniel pushed the boy’s feet until his legs were up, and the ice held as the boy crawled.
But after the boy made it to shore and reunited with his brother, Daniel realized his fingers, now bloodless and numb, could compromise his grip on the ice ledge.
Ten fingers, frozen stiff, became ten hooks, and he started digging into the ice as the climber tears into a frozen peak. He dragged himself up inch by inch, heaving, pleading aloud as his nails and skin broke across the freeze. Finally, he got his left knee up, clawed deeper into the slush, swung up his right and rolled away from the hole. When the ice ceased cracking he crawled on all fours to land.
Daniel could still remember that visceral relief when he joined the pallid and shaking but conscious boy.
He taped on fresh gauze and looked upon the gurgling Peshtigo, thinking about that boy on Lake Calhoun. Perhaps he had told people his harrowing story on the ice. Surely he remembered the fear, just as Daniel could remember his own. And Daniel knew that if he hadn’t been there to save the boy, he may not have stepped into a kayak the following summer, or possibly ever.
The water level gauge at County Highway C Bridge read +16 yesterday, and that was before the downpour. Dangerous hydraulics, Daniel knew, but he would push for town. He dragged his kayak to the shore and let the morning sun warm his face. The river’s rumble beckoned, so he took one last look at the rapids, sizing them up as he did the broken ice six years ago. He secured his helmet and grabbed his paddle, his heart beating hard beneath his life-vest. His yell shook the Wisconsin wilderness as he pushed off.
|
Convicted Murderer in Space
Tom Ball
It was a ship of convicted murderers. They were deported to space.
The ship had only 20 women so men often came to blows over the girls.
Some men raped other men.
But as the years went by they realized there was no destination. They were all on this ship for as long as they lived. And we were all getting old fast.
But there was nothing they could do.
And they had no windows or ability to influence the engines. And none of them knew how to operate the ship computer.
It was as if we’d been thrown in the oubliette. My name was FAR-33, and I had killed my boss on Earth during an argument. I tried to be leader and keep morale up but it was futile.
500 YEARS LATER...
A group of super humans found the ship and boarded it. All the prisoners were dead and skeletal and it appeared all but one had been strangled to death.
Apparently the one who was not murdered took his life by opening a tiny hatch and letting in space.
There was no journal or clue but some super humans claimed it was a crime to punish the criminals in this way. Just another example of “man’s cruelty to man.” Nowadays we had mind rehab for even the most hardened criminals.
|
The Big one
Tom Ball
Here people appeared as snowflake energy. The “Big One,” devoured several dozens of them per day.
But the “Earth Mother,” produced 50 new snowflakes every day. But there was no time to enjoy or learn as one was on the run constantly.
Clever snowflakes eluded the Big One, which appeared as a large hole. The Earth Mother told me, via telepathy that, “I should go to the Moon with her, so we both floated upwards in jet powered space suits and reached the Moon in a few days and we had Moon children.”
Ten years later we had 1500 children and we trained them to attack the Big One in a swarm and cause it to crash... And so, we went to Earth and killed him.
And henceforth we tried to learn about science and worlds. And the art of life.
“No more freaks,” we vowed.
|
The Curious Case of J.C.
Tom Ball
I, AP-99, came to a tumultuous world which featured a “prophet”, named “J.C,” he said, “One could never be too good.”
He said, “Peace, vegetarianism, kindness and love were key and we should help one another.” He said, “He loved humans and would die for them.” So, he brazenly told the leaders, “They were evil and had to step down.” But they didn’t want another Jesus or Socrates etc. So, they got in his head with mind reading technology (MRT). And they recorded his thoughts. He had many negative, evil thoughts and they broadcast them to everyone’s TV.
That discredited him and 20 years later they caused him to disappear.
And the leaders decided to force everyone to be exposed to MRT. Many said it would drive them insane, but if they refused the treatment they would not be allowed to have sex, drugs or other privileges, and were put in a cage. So, they tried their best and a gradual approach solved most problems.
Of course, new drugs were useful in combining with MRT.
Only the leaders could control MRT but they did it even amongst themselves.
|
The Drug Gym
Tom Ball
Then I, AP-99, went to the Drug Gym to see what I could get. Everyone took exercise pills, but some wanted big muscles (bodybuilder) and some women wanted to be thin or full-bodied. 20 of women wanted to love a very muscular man and 20 of men wanted a thin woman. Most men wanted a full-bodied woman with large breasts and svelte hips.
But some people liked “freaks” or fat men/women and bald guys/women.
It was the year 2043.
Various hypothetical DNA were used to create a beautiful face. People would change their DNA to match the face. However, they would keep their memories. The brain was intact but the facial DNA was altered.
Some said, “It was a brand-new world, and they had advanced to the next step;” others said, “They were lost.”
And people took drugs to change their skin color. Any color or group of colors were possible.
And people drank drugs which produced tiny implants which increased the strength of their limbs and organs.
And people drank permanent energy drugs which altered their thyroid.
And folks would soar high on stimulants and never come down. Life for them was blissful. And there were a lot of skilled athletes; there were Olympics going on all the time, usually many games at once.
And most took “dream drugs” which stimulated their night dreams which were very intense.
And people could get drugs for eternal youth, some very old people suddenly became young again. But you had to keep taking the drugs. Failure to do so would age one dramatically.
Some traditional people said, “It was a freak show and the world was out of control. They wanted to ban all aesthetic and brain-changing drugs.” But even traditional people took numerous drugs such as neo opiates.
But all sorts of people had mental problems such as horrific reality and nightmares and had to go to rehab where hypnosis was used to reprogram them. The human mind was fragile. It was like walking on thin ice. A lot of people were paranoid schizophrenics.
Some took drugs to change their body and shape into an animal or an android.
I loved a girl who used noxious perfume to scare away those who didn’t really love her. Her face was heart-shaped and she had voluptuous lips.
After I loved her she said that I could never leave her. I said, “Why not?” She said “Wasn’t that the best love you ever had? I said, “It was certainly up there but there were billions of other women for me to sample.” She said, “No other women will be jealous of you nor men jealous of me.” And she said she wanted my love child. I said, “There hasn’t been a baby born here for 37 years.” And I said, “A child needs friends.” She said exactly. “So, we should have quadruplets.”
|
The Strange History of the Children who Never Grew Up
Tom Ball
Upon arrival, I, AP-99, came with my latest love to this planet and I observed that the people were all children of perpetual 10 years old. The oldest among them was 104 years old, but still a child.
They played games and sports including video games.
We asked them if they wanted to grow up and see space and have children of their own, and do drugs and have a job and make love. But they said, “Leave us alone.”
But I said, “I am your savior.” “I am God.”
And I said, “All 998 of you will grow up and be happy.”
To convince them I was God I did some magic works and healed their sick (some were suffering from wounds; but none were affected by diseases).
I told them, “The goal was pure happiness and a perfect world.”
“One day they could be Gods too,” I said.
It was an iron rich surface and one of the first things we did was help them produce steel. Buildings of steel and glass. The automatic food meanwhile was improved and contained various drugs to stimulate the people.
When I appeared to them I was a blinding light flash.
They asked me, “How did my love and I become Gods?” I said, “God lives within us all, you just need to search for the deity.”
We conducted some archaeology on some mounds and found that this planet had once been very advanced with space technology etc. It appeared there was a war and the survivors were all children who lost the ability to grow up. Genetic mutations.
But I was able to make them grow up. And ordered a ship to pick them up in exchange for ownership of the Planet.
|
Lesson Learned
John W. Dennehy
Sometimes, a lesson learned later in life is better than never having learned it at all. I was born after television had been invented, but long before it went to color. My friend Homer was a few years older than me. His family didn’t have a television. When we were kids he’d come over my house to watch an occasional science fiction show or a baseball game. We lived north of Boston, back when parts of it were still rural, and yet other areas were being developed. Split-levels and colonials sprung up everywhere. But Homer’s house was different.
Homer lived in an old farmhouse with a barn out back. Undulating fields rolled over the acres his family owned. Stone walls lined the property like in a poem. Their house had a side porch that led into a kitchen with high ceilings and a farmer’s sink. Just a few cabinets, the doors ran to the ceiling, so you had to stand on a chair to get something from the top shelf. We got snacks and drinks of water on hot summer days and hot chocolate in the winter. It was simply the best, dark and fluffy. Homer’s black Labrador retriever used to beg from us. And we’d sneak him some of our snacks when his mother wasn’t looking.
The living room was bare. A braided rug covered the plank floors. The sofa and chair were plain. An antique desk with glass-cased bookshelves stood in a corner. The room was never occupied, with his mother in the kitchen and father out in the workshop. All the other kids at school had fathers who sat in front of a television set with a beer in hand watching a game.
Growing up, I used to attribute the lack of a television set to this difference. Homer’s parents made him do chores, but not suburban tasks, like taking out the trash and sweeping the garage. And we got an allowance for such minimal efforts.
Homer did real work on the farm. He baled hay and drove a tractor and split wood. He wasn’t the biggest kid in school, but he was probably the strongest. Homer wouldn’t hurt a fly, though. I’d seen him turn the other cheek many times, even though he was getting picked on by some smart aleck that I knew he could whip.
He wore overalls and carpenter jeans to school with work boots. Most of the kids at school had Levi’s and Nike sneakers. They picked on him. Some kids at school couldn’t afford the types of clothes that were in fashion. My family lived in a small house and often shopped at Sears. I was self-conscious about wearing discount store brands. But my attire was modern, and trendy compared to Homer, but he didn’t seem the least concerned about what the snobby kids thought.
Occasionally, I got drawn into disputes with the privileged kids. Me and this kid Eddie would let them have it. Tired of the snarky comments, we’d lash out and yell at them. They usually laughed and jeered whenever they provoked anger.
Homer always kept his cool, never responding to instigation. He often told us that we were in the wrong for lashing out. He said you’re as bad as them if they make you act differently than you’d ordinarily behave.
But we did it anyways, and I really didn’t learn from Homer’s example. Not back then. I didn’t understand the complexities of Homer’s actions until recently, almost fifty years later. He wasn’t ashamed of who he was, and he wouldn’t try to change to fit in. Accepting who he was and how he fit into the scheme of things. I’d thought he’d given up.
Throughout life, I often had a hard time socializing. Always trying to get in with the right group. I was lucky enough to get into the state university, but I squandered my educational opportunities drinking beer and trying to please others. Afterwards, I got a job in sales and spent my life trying to win over customers. Got married and bought a house. We had kids and soon enough, I found myself on a path that wasn’t fulfilling. I trapped myself by over extending. Trying to keep up with the Jones’s so to speak. We had to have the latest model cars, designer clothes, and the latest gadgets. Even got ourselves four televisions. Overextending led to financial pressures and fighting. The bickering led to divorce.
Homer stayed on at the family farm. Married just one time and never separated. He found innovative ways to keep going even when the landscape for local farmers changed. He cut cordwood on the back lot and set up a roadside ice cream stand. His wife Betty was pleasant and worked alongside him. They had a boy who went off to join the Army. I’d swing by whenever I was in town to see my folks. Homer would show me his latest project and sip lemonade on that same porch in the summer.
A few years back, Homer passed away. The cancer got him. When I heard the news of his illness, I took the time to see him. His eyes were foggy, and he’d gotten mighty weak, but somehow Homer managed a smile when I walked into the hospital room. He always treated me kindly. We had a good visit and I paid my respects. He seemed at peace.
Stepping from the room, I realized that he always seemed at peace. Homer’s refusal to fit in and play the game left him with a state of mind that cannot be purchased. A freedom from the turmoil of modern conventions. Now, I keep things simple and don’t worry about what anyone thinks. I finally learned what Homer knew as a young boy.
|
About John W. Dennehy
John W. Dennehy is an American novelist and short story writer. His debut novel, Clockwork Universe (Severed Press 2016) was met with exceptional reviews. His novel Pacific Rising (Severed Press 2017) is out now. He has further novels planned for the near future.
His short stories have appeared or accepted in Dual Coast Magazine, Pennsylvania Literary Journal, Calliope, Typehouse Literary Magazine, Blood & Bourbon, The Stray Branch, SQ Mag, Voluted Dreams Magazine, Weirdbook, Crimson Streets, Disturbed Digest, Sanitarium Magazine, Vols. 10 and 23, Beyond Science Fiction, The Literary Hatchet, The J.J. OutreÙ Review, Fiction on the Web, Shotgun Honey, Micro Horror, Yellow Mama, Near to the Knuckle, Short-story.me, and anthologies SNAFU: Wolves at the Door, Dark Monsters, Winter Shivers, Bones III, The Haunted Traveler, Vols. 1 and 2, Ghost Papers, and many more.
John graduated from Pinkerton Academy and enlisted in the U.S. Marines. Then he obtained a degree in Creative Writing/English from UNC Wilmington. He is a member of ITW, MWA, and HWA.
|
Dark Love
Lael Lopez
This angel fell
She lost her light
Trudging through the gates of hell
She gave up the fight
No man or god
Could bring her back
Until she looked into his heart
Black as coal
Hard as ice
Their inner darkness called to each other
A spark churned inside her
Something alien nagged at her
Their eyes met
And the muses wept
The hell cats yowled
Something ancient awoke
Love so dark
It tore at reality
Love so fierce
The earth shook
Both man and beast feared
Because that day
Dark love was born
|
Little Times
Lael Lopez
Sometimes we love
That which we shouldn’t
Sometimes we’re pulled
In a terribly wrong direction
Sometimes we’re blind
Blind to that which would kill us
Unaware of those who’d betray us
Sometimes we hate
Hate so strong it’d sink islands
Sometimes we regret
So, strong it breaks us
Sometimes we’re so high
That we come crashing down
To a new sort of low
But in these little times
Where everything is terribly wrong
Or perfectly right
That we see who we really are
We see who we should trust
And who we shouldn’t
Who we loved
And who we couldn’t
That’s why I love
These little times
|
Survival
Anupama Kadwad
Two beaks peeking out of an oak tree
cuddling their young ones to ward off the chill
Spot them frequently when I look out the balcony
Sometimes collecting food for their little ones
At times gathering bits and pieces to provide shelter
The way these creatures toil for their young ones
Seems so similar to my way of living.
Running around the day to earn a livelihood
Both of us united in our quest for survival
to watch them silently go about their day
Gives me hope and spurs me on
in carrying my duty and looking ahead
to learn from these small beings
face all hardships and move forward
Two different souls in the life cycle
In our task for sustenance united.
|
Bio:
Anupama Kadwad’s poems are published in Scarlet Leaf Review, Metaworker, Literary yard, Poetry soup, All Poetry, and other journals. She believes poems give wings to thoughts and helps express our views. Her Poem book ‘My World’ has been published in January 2016.
|
Sins of The Father
Vincent Bennett
“You two found me a lot faster than I anticipated.” Samuel said as he remained focused on his game of sudoku. Shane and Halie walked out of their hiding spots, guns drawn and pointed at Samuel.
“Well, it’s not like you were really trying to hide.” Halie sneered as she pulled back the hammer of her gun and placing the barrel against Samuel’s head.
“Easy Hales.” Shane said, keeping his eyes on the surrounding area. Samuel Verona was never a man to let himself get caught so easy. Both Shane and Halie knew this but couldn’t shake the feeling that this wasn’t on purpose.
“No no, Shane. She has every right to be upset,” Samuel assured as he placed his puzzle down. “After all, this is an issue between a father and his children.”
Halie’s heart sank as her father’s words hung in the silence. Tears stung her eyes as she looked over at Shane to see that he too was fighting back the tears. Shane looked back at her and nodded.
“Together.” He said
“I want both of you to know that I am so proud of who you two have become.” Samuel said quietly as he held up his hands. Both Shane and Halie grabbed a hand.
“I love you.” All three said in unison just before gunfire broke the silence.
|
The Annihilation
Mark Joseph Kevlock
An invincible man fell from the sky. We put him to work right away for America, for ma and apple pie and all that jazz.
We named him Guardian.
I was his commander, the President of the United States.
“Are you sure about this order, sir? For, once it’s done, it can’t be undone.”
I looked out upon the lawn, the grass so green it hurt my eyes.
“That’s what they said about splitting the atom,” I said.
His every gesture and stance betrayed his pacific nature. He would not harm a fly. And I would go to my grave before ordering him to do so.
He took in a deep breath, though he needn’t breathe at all, and gazed out upon the same nation’s capital that I did. I wondered if he felt pride in being considered an American. In being considered an Earthman.
“I question whether it’s wise to enforce values upon the nation,” he said. “To use might to make right. I question whether we possess the wisdom, you and I, to decide what’s best for a country full of people.”
“Now you know what it is I face every day in the mirror. Doubt, my friend. It’s simply doubt. It is designed to be overcome.”
We stood silently within our aura of mutual respect and admiration.
“What if we’re wrong?” he said.
I looked upon the mightiest shoulders the world had ever known and saw that they were slumped, not as they should be. My gaze searched upward to meet his own.
“Do you believe, in your heart, with your instincts and all the goodness within you, that the course I’ve set for Humanity is the proper one?”
His words sailed without hesitation through the air.
“Of course,” he said. “Of course.”
“Then let’s be about our business,” I said. “Let’s save the world.”
***
He took apart the arsenal in six hours. He could’ve done so in six minutes, but he had to be careful of the troops. He had to make sure no one was injured trying to stop him or in the panic that ensued worldwide when his actions became known. At my command, he emasculated the nation’s defenses, left us utterly vulnerable to attack. The big guns went first — nuclear missiles and the like. Battleships he carried to shore. Submarines he left atop mountains. Tanks he hurled into the sun. Uncounted trillions of dollars’ worth of machinery and technology were melted into puddles and left to harden into avant-garde sculptures for a new era.
An era of peace.
The first cries came from our allies: how could we leave them unprotected? What could we do now but sit back and wait for the annihilation, they shuddered, not only of our physical beings but of our very way of life itself?
No one stopped him, of course. No one could. I made it clear that he was acting upon the orders of the Chief Executive Officer and that the responsibility for the outcome was mine alone.
The world assumed that I had gone mad. They sent my wife in to talk to me, while there was still time.
“They expect bombs to start dropping within the hour,” she said. “Even though there has been no formal declaration of hostilities by any one nation. Even though no one has reason to want to destroy us.”
She was gorgeous and intelligent, and I couldn’t help perceiving her attributes in that order. Graceful and kind. Poised and caring. Always the physical manifestation first. What was kindness after all, if not the eruption of some inner light?
“Do you remember when we were kids in Chicago, when we met at that chainlink fence down by the river, always approaching from opposite sides, fingers reaching through the diamond-shaped spaces ... we could touch, we could feel each other out, but we couldn’t embrace...”
“Not without one of us having to circle around to the other’s position,” she said.
She sat down on my lap and I wondered how appropriate that was for a president.
“We’re not like that anymore,” I said.
She held my head against her and drowned out the world.
“No, we’re not,” she said.
“Now we’re one.”
“Forever and ever,” she said.
***
Guardian landed on the front lawn to a thousand microphones and a million questions. His answer to each was the same: “because my friend asked me to.”
No one had bombed us. No one had attacked. It was time for me to address the nation.
I stood at the podium and found not a cloud in the sky. Lincoln was behind me, with words carved to stir a man’s soul. That was how you reached people. One at a time. Heart to heart.
The words that I spoke were true for me, and in being so, true I assumed for all men and women.
“Because we are all one,” I said, “we cannot injure one another without injuring ourselves. Oh, we may try to ignore such wounds, to claim hatred as a necessary parcel of life, but there comes a time when we all face the sum accomplishment of our lives, when we take stock of our singular effect on the cosmos... and then we must decide if we, in our every action and deed, act for the betterment of our brothers and our sisters, or if we act merely to better ourselves.
“I have been granted an extraordinary boon, like none any man has ever known. At my command is power undreamed of, in the form of an alien man, who came to our earthly shores without any knowledge of his origins or of our own. I believe him to be goodness incarnate, but he is not alone in holding this rank. We are all goodness incarnate. And it is my intention to remove the shackles from our minds, as the great man who sits immortalized behind me removed those from my ancestors’ flesh. We are freed this day from the tyranny of war, and the oppression of fear. We have been given a new start. Make of it what you will... for we are all free at last to become... ourselves.”
I saw the tears flowing down my wife’s cheeks.
No one applauded. I was perhaps the most popular President in history, undone by a single order from my conscience.
We would wait now for the annihilation.
***
Breakfast was served on the terrace. I asked Guardian to join my wife and me.
“It’s done,” he said. “The manufacturing plants, the natural resources used, even the knowledge itself I erased from every databank I could. I wouldn’t be surprised if there were only a handful of people left in the whole country who still know how to make war.”
My wife dug her nails into the peel of an orange.
“They’ll use clubs if they have to,” she said. “Some of them. They just don’t know any better. They just don’t know what else to do with themselves, how else to define their existence.”
We all, the three of us, waited for the tension of her statements to pass. That’s all it takes in most instances. A pause to catch one’s breath. That was what we were giving the world.
Guardian leaned back in his chair, balanced on two legs, his feet never touching the ground.
“I could have taken all the weapons,” he said, “from everyone. Not just those within our country.”
It was still passing strange to hear an alien speak of “our country.”
To hear an alien speak.
“That won’t be necessary,” I said. “We’ll lead by example. In time others will choose to join us.”
I saw him glancing at the sky. I knew he was scanning for an attack. Just as I knew there wouldn’t be one.
We stood up at the same time, he and I, and I gauged him a full head taller than my own six-three.
“I need you to promise that you won’t protect me,” I said. “It doesn’t work if I have some invincible caretaker ready to swoop in and pluck bullets out of midair.”
“It’s a betrayal of trust,” my wife said.
As usual, she had it exactly right.
Guardian smiled and clamped a hand affectionately upon my shoulder.
“I won’t betray you,” he said.
***
So I was out walking, alone, all by myself, first for a paper at the corner, and then into a war zone. Some countries were like that: daily life existing side by side with unspeakable brutality. I went to those countries. I walked alone and observed. I sat when I got tired. I strolled when I felt leisurely. I saw no signs of a guardian, but then again I wouldn’t.
No one killed me. Why should I believe that they would? That sort of fear is crippling, within and without.
News of my walking tour again baffled the sensibilities of those who decide others’ opinions for them. I was ignoring all my duties, they said. It was true, I was. Except for my most important duty. I was promoting peace by living it.
The countries of the world would not stand for what I had done. Or so they said. They were, of course, free to attack us at any time. As they always had been. As any man or woman is free to attack. Or not to attack.
***
I tired of my walking in a month’s time. No one had killed me. I sat with my wife upon the deck of an aircraft carrier as it, in turn, sat upon the southeastern slope of Mount Everest. The cold air tasted good in our lungs.
“It’s underway, you know,” she said.
I nodded.
“Well underway,” I said.
“The annihilation,” she said. “Of hatred.”
We felt the snow falling gently upon our shoulders as if it was the only weight in the world. I spoke with eyes closed and all else open.
“If a man looks you in the eye and sees that you think him a killer, he may just kill you to prove your point...”
Where I ended, she began.
“But if he sees compassion, and lack of fear, he’s just as sure to offer the same.”
I felt her hand reaching for mine. That was all I needed. All any of us needed.
And when the annihilation came, we welcomed it and became each other.
|
Mark Joseph Kevlock bio:
Mark Joseph Kevlock has been a published author for nearly three decades. In 2018 his fiction has appeared or is set to appear in nearly thirty publications, including 365 Tomorrows, Into The Void, The First Line, Literally Stories, The Sea Letter, Grievous Angel, Bewildering Stories, Ellipsis Zine, Yellow Mama, Down in the Dirt, Fiction on the Web, Friday Flash Fiction, and Flash Fiction Magazine. He has also written for DC Comics..
|
Rachel’s Story
Marc McMahon
I guess maybe I haven’t been myself so much lately so my mommy has taken me to see a doctor. You know a friend I can talk to about whatever I want and who won’t ever tell me I am wrong, ya that kind of doctor, I like her I think she is nice. Well, the last time I was there and we were talking about how sometimes I feel like a little girl trapped in a little boys body who can’t get out. Ya I know it sounds weird but little girls get to be weird silly. But we were talking about how I have to share this body with this boy and how it’s not fair to me. I mean he doesn’t even have pigtails or a pony, plus girls are smarter anyways so how come he always gets to be the boss. We talk about stuff like that, just silly girl stuff.
But the other day she asked me for reals if I was to write down what I need to be happy what would be on my list so I was thinking in my dream there would be a big house with logs, like a cabin, like little house on the prairie but bigger. And ya we would have 3 horses 9 chickens a cow and a penguin hee hee. I know the penguin is silly but it’s my dream so there silly it is :).
Let’s see what else? Oh ya, there would be a Mommy, and no daddies, there are no daddies in my dream or brothers or stupid sisters. Only mommies, grammies and a grandpa just four at my house, in my dream. You wanna know why? Because at my house it’s not ok to be mad! My house is only happy and only happy things happen there ok. So see that means then only Mommys grammies and a grandpa can be there because only they can do happy things. You know I like that, to be able to smile that makes me happy but happy inside not like happy when you open a present but happy like warm butterflies all over your insides kissing you. Pink ones and two orange ya with black on their noses hee hee.
What else I think there’s one more thing hmmm, oh ya when we have to go to bed I don’t sleep with mommy and I don’t sleep in my bed I sleep with grandma and grandpa in the middle with grandpas window open at night so he won’t snore. When I sleep with my grandma and grandpa nothing can ever hurt me ever I am always safe with grandma and grandpa because they would never ever hurt me ever!
You wanna how it makes a little girl feel when she can’t sleep with her grandma and grandpa anymore because God took them home one year, it’s not a very nice feeling. It’s lonely and scary, and just not nice anymore, well sometimes its ok with aunty Theresa and uncle Tim maybe I can be safe there now. Not because I am scared just because I like that warm butterfly feeling inside is all. I mean why can’t we have that all the time like in my dream, oh I know why because there’s no more Grammy and Grandpa I think and you know what I really miss them lots. But AT MY house they are there with my penguin cow and horseys, ok all done now, bye.
P.S. I am sorry I had to tell you all of this or wait, I shouldn’t be sorry because you asked me first. So ok then, never mind!
|
 
See YouTube video
of Janet Kuypers reading her poem “dreams” 9/25/18 during the Chicago open mic she guest hosted for Poetry at The Gallery Cabaret (this video was filmed from a Panasonic Lumix T56 camera).
|
See YouTube video
of Janet Kuypers reading her poem “dreams” 9/25/18 during the Chicago open mic she guest hosted for Poetry at The Gallery Cabaret (this video was filmed from a Panasonic Lumix 2500 camera).
|
See YouTube video of Janet Kuypers’ November 2018 Book Release Reading 11/7/18, where she read her haiku “dreams” and her “Seeing Things Differently” poems “The Things Warren Says”, “Japanese Television”, “Kurt Irons (it’s just a girl)”, “Bizarre Sexual Stories in the News”, “Christmas Eve”, and “Coquinas” from the Down in the Dirt magazine 11-12/18 book “Hurricane Katrina”, during Community Poetry at Half Price Books (this video was filmed from a Panasonic Lumix 2500 camera).
|
See YouTube video of Janet Kuypers’ November 2018 Book Release Reading 11/7/18, where she read her haiku “dreams” and her “Seeing Things Differently” poems “The Things Warren Says”, “Japanese Television”, “Kurt Irons (it’s just a girl)”, “Bizarre Sexual Stories in the News”, “Christmas Eve”, and “Coquinas” from the Down in the Dirt magazine 11-12/18 book “Hurricane Katrina”, during Community Poetry at Half Price Books (this video was filmed from a Panasonic Lumix T56 camera).
|
Heads
Rod Martinez
“Heads, we get married; tails we break up. That was what we agreed to, right?”
He stood tall, looked down at her. Kim was easily the most beautiful girl that David had ever met, inside and out, but in his mind their relationship had moved way too fast for his comfort. And he remembered the last fight they had, she walked out on him, in the rain, in the dark. That night he had considered it his sign, he wiped his forehead and sighed, content that it meant he wouldn’t have to take the plunge, tie the knot, be a victim of the old ball and chain as the guys kept chiding him about.
He stared at her, she didn’t even budge. He held the practically new quarter in his hand. It was an almost new 2015 coin; he had kept it as their token of love. On their first date, it was given as change at Dairy Queen after their first ever sundae together and the coin was minted the year that they met. She said “Let’s keep it, years from now we can show our kids that it was a sign, we had ice cream and the change we got back signified our first date, a nickel – five cents, fifth day; a dime - ten cents and the tenth month of October – then the quarter which was made in 2015.”
He smiled thinking back on that moment as he stood near her on this hot Florida day, a slow sweat started on his brow. Kim was a Florida native, David came from New York. And truthfully, he knew that all his life he would probably never again find anyone like her, but being a guy and naturally fearing the commitment of marriage, he thought he’d just get away with stalling it just a little while longer. He looked at her, she didn’t say a word and her eyes were closed and looked like she just might even cry. But no he knew she wouldn’t cry, or would she?
He held the coin out, looked at it, the glimmer from off the sun bounced off his face and off the tree next to him. David exhaled a nervous one, then, then it almost looked like he was choking back a tear that might form.
“Honey, I’m sorry,” he shook, “... I uh, well you know how it is with guys, look at your brother Larry, he didn’t get married til he was forty and he was dating Tonya for seven years!”
She didn’t reply.
He dropped his face, for the first time in a long time; David Guzman didn’t know what to say. He stroked her cheek.
“Baby, I’m sorry.”
He closed his eyes, yes a tear was going to start, he wanted to fight it, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t because he revisited the night that she walked out on him after the fight. He had tossed the coin in the air and said “Heads, we get married; tails we break up.”
It landed in her angry fist. She was so upset at his joke that she furiously ran out on him and walked right out into the thunderstorm, without an umbrella or even her purse. She just walked out into the night and only twenty paces out, got hit by the car she didn’t see, and died on her way to the hospital, all without him knowing because he ran to get his umbrella then ran out to chase her the other way. Kimberly Donovan was DOA when she got to Tampa General Hospital and it was her brother Larry that called him to let him know. When he made it to the hospital he ran in and she was lying on the stretcher and her hand slowly opened ...the quarter was sitting there, showing heads up.
“Heads... we get married.” He sighed in tears as they started to close the top of the casket. Kim lay in state at the cemetery after all family and friends had left. David needed to have these final words. The cemetery worker walked up behind him.
“Sir, we have to close the casket and inter her.”
David turned to him, nodded, tears flowing down his eyes. He leaned over, kissed her, and then placed the quarter on her lips.
|
Eleanor Leonne Bennett Bio (20150720)
Eleanor Leonne Bennett is an internationally award winning artist of almost fifty awards. She was the CIWEM Young Environmental Photographer of the Year in 2013. Eleanor’s photography has been published in British Vogue and Harper’s Bazaar. Her work has been displayed around the world consistently for six years since the age of thirteen. This year (2015) she has done the anthology cover for the incredibly popular Austin International Poetry Festival. She is also featured in Schiffer’s “Contemporary Wildlife Art” published this Spring. She is an art editor for multiple international publications.
www.eleanorleonnebennett.com
|
What Ballgame?
Thomas M. McDade
My dad and I go to seven o’clock Sunday Mass before leaving for the ballgame, White Sox vs. Red Sox. Yikes, there’s a rare worshiper. It’s Jimmy Cubs, who hangs around the end of my block drinking wine or whisky. He’s always talking about his jet flight to Chicago for Navy boot camp. He only lasted two weeks but acts like a twenty-year veteran. I plan to enlist after high school. He became a Cubs fan, loves Ernie Banks. Lucky Jimmy sits next to Kathy Behan, the most beautiful girl in my St. Teresa’s 9th grade class.
Traffic gets us to Fenway Park late. I buy an official program, scorecard included. I’ll pull first inning details from the Providence Journal. A wonderful thing happens that might not have if we’d arrived on time. A pitcher in the Red Sox bullpen tosses me a ball. I hand it back to him to autograph. When he returns the horsehide, I read the name “Nelson Chittum.” I thank him five or six times. As I turn around, I see a pretty girl staring, smiling. I suppose a goofy look on my face makes her wag her head back and forth then look at the sky. I name her “Cathy,” kind of doubling my love life. Her hair is in an off-blonde ponytail, a Sox pennant across her lap. I turn the ball over to my father for safekeeping.
With Ted Williams’s vision, I’d see Cathy’s eyelashes. They say he saw the stitches on a pitched ball. She takes over the binoculars from her sister or aunt. When not using them, her pen is busy; must be accurate, using ink, a devoted scorer. Between innings, she sticks the pen over her ear into her hair. She’s a southpaw. Once she aimed the binoculars at me. I lacked the nerve to wink; bet she saw a blush. Impossible she knows the P.H. on my hat means Prospect Heights, Federal Housing. I’m on a team called “The P.H. Combines,” but never play much, can’t get around on a fastball. I’m experimenting with the knuckler Baltimore’s Hoyt Wilhelm uses. Another time she gazed at me after putting on lipstick, tongue slowly licking top and bottom. The bleachers are packed but in my mind, there’s just me, my dad and Cathy. Well, a fidgety kid is next to me, using a half-full Good & Plenty box as a noisemaker. The older companion reads Cathy’s palm. Both of their faces look serious. Am I in her future? Ha!
My dad seems content, puffing away on a cigar, maybe thinking of his youth and ballplayers that lived in it. When he takes off his coat to set it down beside him, I hear the sound of glass. A little bit of whiskey okay with me but not a lot. I never catch him sneaking it into his soda cup. Maybe I don’t want to. I hear scary shouting matches at home. Alcohol always makes Jimmy Cubs happy. Booze is a mystery. When did my dad stop dreaming about being a Major Leaguer? Every kid must slam into that wall, should ask him on the way home. He smiles occasionally like there is no other place he’d rather be. Is he thinking of what it would be like to have a kid that’s a ballplayer? I’ve wondered occasionally about one for a dad. His thought is okay, mine’s not kind.
My dad gives me money to run for hotdogs. Cathy is filing her nails. This is my first Harry M. Stevens frank. Long line, afraid I might have to rush back empty handed but all’s okay and it’s delicious. My dad says racetracks sell them too, nice to buy one after cashing a winning ticket. The bun is nice and chewy and the dark mustard is better than out of a grocery store jar. I put relish on mine, none for my dad. One of Cathy’s necklace beads is in her mouth.
I take part in the 7th inning stretch, sing along with “Take Me Out To The Ballgame.” My dad says that tune was Tin Pan Alley, 1908. He hums. Cathy does neither. She has an elbow in one hand and her chin’s resting on her fist then she’s using her program for a fan. Next, it’s bouncing on her knee. I had her wrong. She’s bored. Three or more blouse buttons undone, legs crossed, her foot hopping. She never waves that pennant even once.
\
Sammy White strikes out to end the game. The Sox lose 4-1. Poof, Cathy disappears. We wait for the crowd to thin. I pick up discarded programs to give to my friends. What luck! I find Cathy’s and fantasize her address in it, maybe a pen pal. What a moron. Clipped to it is a pen advertising Bay State Welding, Springfield, Massachusetts. It’s full of teeth marks. She must be the nervous type but I never saw it in her mouth, maybe chewed during exams. I rescue a pamphlet about Babe Ruth to discuss with my dad later.
Jay McMasters announces the attendance: 26,720. My father takes a pencil stub and a small pad out of his pocket to write it down. “Might be lucky for us,” he says. He plays dimes on numbers. Sure seems like every one of those fans is in front of us walking to the station. A skinny man with a long red beard sitting on an empty Moxie crate is hawking green pencils for a nickel, “Red Sox” lettered in gold. I buy one. Tapping it against Fenway bricks knocks off the eraser. What grade to give my day? Surely an A, even with the loss had I not wasted time on Cathy and taken in more diamond action. An A+, if the correct Sox won. I award the plus anyway since I have the signed ball and Nelson Chittum pitched well in relief. I can’t say it would stand as my “best day ever” but maybe Jimmy Cubs said the same soaring out of Logan. I’ll make it through boot camp, gotta. Would I know the true Kathy better by then, maybe get letters from her? Yeah, like the song, “All I Have to Do is Dream.” Could the unlucky thirteen in the date have jinxed Boston? Anyway, it will be a more interesting World Series having seen Chicago in action—another “wait ‘til next year” for Beantown.
Good seating on the Kenmore train and my dad dozes as soon as he sits down. I hear a guy say Ted should retire and Yawkey should spend a few million retooling the team. A woman with eyeglasses hanging off her neck says the Sox would have Willie Mays if Yawkey weren’t a bigot. “Holy mackerel,” I’ll have to ask my dad about that. A teenager says Chittum was a nice pickup and he’d shore up the bullpen next year. I bet that kid would pay a pretty penny to own my official Major League horsehide with the “shore up” man’s name on it. An old gent talks about buying a new flag now that Alaska and Hawaii are states. Isn’t Boston the Hub of the Solar System? I’m stuck in my center, locked inside myself with some thoughts I should have left back at Fenway. Scram away Cathy.
Walking to the Park Street Station, I’m a little sad because my dad isn’t talking excitedly about things to do in Boston and New York someday as he did arriving. A case of returning to reality I guess. Seats aren’t a problem heading back to Forest Hills. My dad returns to napping. The train slows across from a tenement just as a teenage girl is dancing wildly on a porch, wow can she move and how. Maybe the song is “Tallahassee Lassie” by Freddy Cannon or “Forty Miles of Bad Road” by Duane Eddy. She wears something like a nightie. I can’t picture Cathy doing the same, seems lazy to me but I imagine her beads bouncing on that girl’s chest. I think of the F.E.I.
Club and Valley Café where there are strippers. I overheard on a Heights corner they don’t check IDs. My mind shows my Kathy doing a more refined dance like ballet.
I check my program collection; two scorecards are complete, one in pencil with many erasures. The other is in ink, full of sloppy corrections. Another lists a budget starting with $100.80, followed by subtractions for rent, groceries, etc. I hope the guy escaped his worries for a few innings. Under those entries are a couple of tic-tac-toe games, maybe with his son. The strangest one contains what seems like a poem but it doesn’t rhyme, no “Casey at the Bat.”
My dad is awake. I show him.
“Sounds like someone visiting an old ballplayer in a nursing home, son.” It sure does. He nods off.
Cathy’s copy is at the bottom, no scoring at all. She wrote names of the Seven Dwarfs, letter per box next to players; of course repeated. Next to Pumpsie Green and Al Smith is printed “Negro” then instead of “Doc,” “Dark” and after that worse, disgraceful, man, oh, man. She never used “Happy” or “Bashful,” “Grumpy” for Ted and “Dopey” for Jackie Jensen; for Nelson Chittum, “Pecker Head.” What a creep. Ban her from Fenway. I wish the attendance had been 26,718. I flip a page to the Schenley Whiskey ad. She drew a stick figure in a big stupid hat that said P.H. on it. She can’t draw for crap. A huge equal sign points to “Pecker Head” written over many times. I’ll burn her hate words. I have couple of salutes I found morning after Fourth of July. I’ll blow her poison pen to bits. She’s a foul ball. I’m ashamed that I wasted those good Kathy letters in her phony name. Jimmy Cubs gets to sit next to Kathy and all I get is Miss Insult, 1959. Practicing my knuckleball grip will clear my mind; whiff her out of my head. I reach into my snoring dad’s pocket for my ball, but it’s in the other one. My hand grips the warm half-pint.
|
Southern Lights
Terri Martin Lujan
I was born during the birth of a mighty metropolis; born to run on shale driveways, barefoot through muddy bayous and sticker patches, suppressed by heat and humidity until thunder cracked the clouds.
I grew up in a time of the space race, the Cuban Missile crisis, the original Mouseketeers, Captain Caboose, and Kool-aid. Radio and black-n-white TV were the evening entertainment after sweating outside playing childhood games. Times were sweeter and simpler and neater. The South is just as troubled and imperfect today as it was back then, but I find myself constantly going home. It is not an idyllic place, but it possesses smells of the best food on earth, and comfort.
Comfort is the word I would use to describe my early surroundings. Hardwood plank floors and kitchen linoleum, claw bathtubs and porcelain sinks, nut dropping pecan trees and sweet blooming peach, wrapping myself in hand-stitched quilts sewn from leftover shirts, and Southern tea; all gave me comfort. I had the great fortune to grow up running on unpaved driveways and playing under night skies without my mama standing behind me. As safe as my childhood appeared to others, it was not without signs of distress or darkness, but I always knew I could return home to the comfort of my mama’s arms.
The people who lived on my block, Knox Street, struggled as hard as any to put food on the table and raise their kids with common sense. Still we were a community who witnessed trauma and destruction, yet held on to each other for survival. This is what it meant to be Southern.
My neighborhood was a community of languages, ethnicities, economies, and families. Jean and Bill Billonowski, Polish landlords to our tiny duplex, lived at one end of our block. My older sister, Denise, and I went to their house every day before and after school, or when we came down with chicken pox or measles because my mama and daddy worked all day. Aunt Jean fed us fish on Fridays and flipped burgers at the corner store which she and Uncle Bill owned and managed; a little general store where old men gathered to drink beer and gossip about old wars. I rode my bike there most days-around the corner -to get a soda and eat mustard burgers on warm fresh buns. Aunt Jean and Uncle Bill had two twin daughters, MaryAnn and Patricia who dressed alike. They were just like my big sisters. They reminded me of the Sound of Music. And then their grandmother, Babushka lived next door to us, on the other side of our duplex and sewed clothes for my doll. She spent countless hours in her tiny living room, quilting stories into fabric art. Some days, I was allowed to watch Babushka with her friends draw needles in and out of a quilt stretched across a wooden frame swallowing what little space there was in the tiny room. They laughed and cackled, the phrases of Polish, a foreign music to my ears. Babushka brought the old country to Knox Street and created my love for languages and linguistics.
Then there was Eddie, Marble King, who lived on the left, the Garcias on the right across the weedy vacant lot, and the twins, Patricia and Susan, who lived in the big farmhouse across the street where we played “GraveYard” at night. Sometimes I could play with Alice from the apartments, but my mama didn’t want me to go over to her house much. They said her mama was a little crazy. One night when we came home late from the movies, a commotion was boiling on the block. My daddy rushed us inside the house and told us to lock the doors and then he left. The next day, we learned Alice’s mama had gone nuts, running around the block with a hatchet in her hand, screaming something crazy. She had whacked Big Patricia on the back of the head... thank goodness she used the dull side! They took Alice’s mom away that night. I felt sorry for Alice; she lost her mama. The next week, Alice became my friend!
Old man George lived two houses down and sat on his front porch every day in his overalls and straw hat, screaming at us kids if we crossed his yard. He had a granddaughter named Molly and I liked her. I thought her grandpa was really nice because he let me play in their backyard with Molly one time. I taught her how to kill snails with salt. We would pick up old clay pots lying in the yard to discover a colony of slimy slugs. I know it sounds cruel, but it was a scientific experiment to watch their bodies ooze saliva and shrivel up under the salt. Besides, we thought we were doing Old George a favor by conducting organic pest control. Old man George made us great lemonade and baloney sandwiches for lunch. We would sit together on the porch; I feeling privileged to be in his presence. I didn’t think he was crazy, just a little different and old!
Knox Street was kid friendly and family fun. Days and nights were spent outside our tiny platform houses. On weekends, as a special treat, when the large Hollywood screen was set up on the vacant lot down the street; families came and gathered together, spreading blankets down in humid weather. We watched the old black and whites, enjoying time together under the moonlight, and no one noticed any difference among ourselves. We gathered in community spirit knowing the next tragedy or disaster would require our neighbor’s help and make us stronger creating survivors living in unity under southern lights.
|
Tongue-Tied
Terri Martin Lujan
Words clawing at my throat
Working their way to freedom
Like gum, stuck on the roof
Of a soft palate.
Adhering, sealing, forming
A protective plate.
Words refuse to spill out of a mouth
Remaining shut for once.
Words defying their nature
In case they can’t be taken back.
In which case, words would definitely become
Hurtful, harmful, hated.
Words colored yellow like a coward
Hiding out in a cavernous dank abode
Seeking dark, moist breeding ground
Until prolific sentences spew forth
Producing coherent thoughts.
But for now, words claw at my throat.
|
A Brief History
Matthew Roy Davey
Riding home along the cycle track one day, Billy noticed that some of the people passing were smiling at him, not just smiling as in ‘good morning’ or to be friendly, but beaming in delight.
When he got home Billy examined himself in the mirror but could see nothing that was particularly ridiculous or amusing.
The following day it happened again, always the same individuals. Most people simply ignored him, as they always did. It went on, all that week and the next. At first Billy would nod politely but this seemed only to encourage them and they seemed even more delighted. He took to scowling as they passed, first while pretending to ignore them and then while giving them a hard stare. Nothing worked. Billy was none the wiser as to why they were smiling.
And then a thought occurred to him. He knew immediately that it was a preposterous idea, but once born it refused to die, rather it grew, burrowing into his brain.
Billy wondered if the people smiling at him were time-travellers, tourists from the future who were coming back to see him. That he was a nobody was not important, perhaps it showed that Billy was going to do something noteworthy in the future. The idea grew and grew, however much Billy tried to smother it. As the days and weeks went by, the idea, the suspicion that he had uncovered an unlikely truth developed into an obsession.
For several days Billy built up the courage and then, as one of the smilers passed, Billy stopped his bike, turned it around and set off in pursuit, shouting at the man to stop, which he eventually did. Billy hoped the man, as well as either confirming or denying his theory, might be persuaded to take him back into the future with him.
“You’re going to end up in the loony bin,” the man told him before riding away at some speed.
A couple of weeks later, as he gazed at the wall of his cell, Billy couldn’t help feeling a little smug; his hunch had been right and the man’s prediction spot on.
|
Bedtime Story
Julie Weiss
You slept in princess nightgowns,
chose shades as delicate as the shells
of chocolate mints, sweet as cotton candy,
discreet, like the sky’s veiled body before dusk
just before it slinks on its evening ensemble.
Look, beyond the window steam, over the hills,
do you see the scarlet and ruby and crimson
trickling across the horizon, like blood flow?
Those are the colors they didn’t want you to know.
Come closer, rest your cheek against my chest,
and I’ll tell you about paradigms,
how you were partial to ruffles,
skirts that twirled around your ankles like whirlpools,
tugging at your slippered feet,
pulling you toward the pulse of your little girl fantasies:
there, the fables and fairytales and myths of old
reigned with an iron tongue,
and you, knee bent, fidelity sworn to the kingdom,
waited patiently for your prince to alight.
I know how it was, believe me.
I remember the games,
the theatrical interpretations
of storybook romances
and I’d stake our bodies—
unclothed, drenched in lovemaking—
on a presumption:
you begged to be the dungeon princess,
shackled to a rock, blindfolded,
left to the mercy of sea creatures.
Am I getting warmer? Are you?
You delighted in the screaming,
that much, at least, is indisputable.
I can picture you now,
all cascading curls and splashy teardrops and dazzle,
pink lips rounded to a pout, trembling
as the cutest boy on the block untied the rope,
leaned in, and planted a sloppy kiss
on the side of your mouth.
These were the images they sold you,
hook, line, and sinker.
This is what they placed
in your outstretched hands:
a bunch of glittery nuggets, exquisitely cut,
the flit of light in your hands
hypnotic as a spell.
Treasures, which you placed side by side
in your heart’s hope chest.
Yet here we are, lying together
amidst a myriad of time-honored tales
scattered across the room,
helter-skelter, like so many scraps of paper,
slashed by a passion they failed to embrace.
Kiss me
and I’ll explain to you
the properties of iron pyrite.
Kiss me again
and I’ll show you
how some treasures may be discovered
where you least expect them.
Close your eyes
and I’ll tell you a bedtime story
about two dreamy-eyed princesses
who grew up and fell in love,
not with the little prince after all,
and set about rehashing the history
of happily ever after.
|
Dinner For Eight
Julie Weiss
Mornings, she stands in the kitchen
and watches the clock,
minutes ticking through her fingers
as she decides how to spend her day.
She counts the mosaic wall tiles,
gaze flitting from color to color,
chuckles to herself—she never
gets the same number twice.
She polishes each piece of silverware,
this time starting with the forks.
She glimpses the calendar,
the glittery red circle, catches her breath.
She sets the dining room table for eight guests,
family members who seem to her like ghosts,
who appear with expensive gifts one night a year, then vanish,
a tradition she started when she forgot the sound of her own voice—
a clear trickle, river water gliding naked over rocks,
someone once told her. Followed by an embrace?
She wants her chair to face the window.
Sometimes, she will watch the oak tree
raise its myriad arms and shake off its leaves,
handfuls of red life falling,
turning dust brown under a squirrel’s quick feet.
Her laughter always spreads slowly,
like pink frosting over stale birthday cake.
It is still morning
but she changes into her most striking dress;
sits down, places a napkin on her lap, and waits.
Smiles, recalling the details of each face
she will see tonight as they sing for her.
She does not remember
that when she chimes her champagne glass,
slightly off tune,
only the clock will wink,
because no one has bothered
coming to dinner in years
to help her blow out the candles.
|
The Price of Words
Julie Weiss
Yours were million dollar words.
I had memorized a slew of them by the end,
slipped them onto my tongue like slinky lingerie,
shed them, one by one, over whipped mochas
at the writer’s cafe, where we swapped vocabulary
as if it were currency, as if vying for the highest price.
“Aphrodisia,” I blurted, the first time I beheld you.
I might have said “love at first sight”
but monosyllables obviously weren’t your style,
you weren’t the type of woman who bartered
for clichés. Your kiss, all scarlet and gloss,
reverberated from across the room.
You must have known the bargain.
Benevolent. Perspicacious. Electrifying:
those were the words you brought to my table
week after week. Or, lexicon spent,
moonlight rippling across half-written poems,
we luxuriated in moments of silence,
the first chapters of a romance developing
in the occasional caress of our hands.
Perhaps it was all speculation. Misinterpretation.
“Coquettish,” you laughed, that day at the lake,
as my lips, inarticulate, brushed your neck,
as I started to remove garments, my bra, your panties,
thinking, we are kindred spirits, we are coalescing,
we have finally found a place beyond language.
Then you said “stop,” flung my hand from your breast—
you had never uttered such a cheap word—
I was flabbergasted, discombobulated,
but I didn’t have time to flourish these jewels,
you were scrambling through a tangle of trees,
sputtering, “I’m not... I was just... ” while I writhed
among the remnants of our afternoon picnic,
hands over my ears, hurling slurs into the water:
muttonhead, nincompoop. I didn’t pursue you;
I knew every word cowering behind the ellipses.
The dial tone was stentorian, you would have remarked.
Our fingers entwined, I would be drenched in your aura
and you would be depicting the dial tone, in million dollar words.
In the hush that followed, I could hear other words, too:
dejection, denial, determent; I could hear the apologies
jingling around in your mind like so many glitzy coins.
|
A Cockroach in my Bed
Anoop Judge
This story is about a slimy, six-legged cockroach crawling up my smooth twelve-year-old forearm, breaking a path through the long, moist tendrils of an unshaven brown armpit and proceeding to hike through the unlined crevices of my neck. It is a blisteringly hot summer night in my non-air-conditioned bedroom at J-22 Jangpura Extension, New Delhi, India. The evening moon floats like a thin cucumber slice in a lemonade sky.
I can hear the sounds filtering in through the open window—stray dogs barking in competition from neighborhood to neighborhood, the occasional truck rumbling by, someone singing lustily from the embrace of the night—a drunkard or a laborer returning home late—the drone of an airplane, the rustle of a mouse scurrying across the tiled floor of the lavatory, the sound of a door opening or closing here or there on the middle floor of the three-storied flat we lived in. The Hindu wedding season has not really begun yet. When it does, there will be a cacophony of Bollywood music and vulgar, sexually suggestive pop songs followed by random bursts of complaints from Mrs. Gupta on the ground floor. Mrs. Gupta can watch without complaint film stars gyrating their hips and thrusting their pelvis at each other in a manner that leaves little to the imagination, but the slightest bit of nudity or verbal obscenity is guaranteed to incense her.
Or perhaps this story is about my mother not believing me when I go crying to her the next morning.
“Mummy, there was a cockroach that crawled up my neck last night.”
She clicks her tongue in annoyance and reproaches me with a scowl. “There are no cockroaches in our home, Anuradha. You’re always making things up.”
She starts to leave my bedroom, but then she sees me scrunching up my face, ready to dissolve into tears and surprisingly, she offers me an olive branch.
“Okay, I’ll sleep in your bedroom tonight, and we’ll see if there’s any such cockroach.”
This story might be in part about the immense pleasure I feel in proving my mother wrong. The way she looks as if someone has made her bite into a lemon when she sees that slimy, six-legged monster as I wake her up in the middle of the night. Her nostrils quiver like an overwrought buffalo’s when she notices it crawling stealthily on my neck. I scream, she screams. My Dad comes running in from the room next door and turns on all the lights.
“What’s wrong? What’s wrong?” he shouts, until he too sees the slimy, six-legged monster on the bed and throws his shoe at it in an attempt, to slice its head off.
This too might be about my Dad and in that moment, how he turns into my savior against creepy-crawly nocturnal creatures and unnameable apprehension. How when I disappoint my mother time and again in my growing-up years and when her anger erupts in tears and tantrums, it is he who bridges the silences between us and gets us to make up.
Inevitably, though, as I set out to tell you what happened, this telling is not only about the dark hole called blame, but also about using a compassionate lens in looking at the past. My mother didn’t believe me, yes, but it was mostly because she didn’t want to admit that we were living in a small rented flat with barred windows above a squatter’s colony where cockroaches and vermin lurked in the terror of the night.
She didn’t want to believe me because she didn’t want to admit that had she not fallen in love with my father and married beneath her station, she too could have been sipping high tea at the Taj Compton Hotel in Chanakyapuri In New Delhi every Wednesday afternoon. Just like her cousin Diya, her aunts Honey Mamiji and Dimple Chachi, her Uncles Teddy Mamaji and Bunty Chacha and everyone else she’d grown up with did, as they gossiped over the latest in politics, the squabbles of relatives living abroad and all sorts of delicious stuff between bites of chocolate éclairs and slurps of Darjeeling tea.
|
Aching Tree, photography by Aparna Pathak
The Uninvited Camper
Veronica Grose
“What was that, did you hear that?” Annabelle said to her husband as she frantically sat up in bed.
“It was nothing, go back to bed,” her husband sleepily replied as he rolled over. She looked down and the dogs were still sound asleep, they didn’t hear anything either, “I’m I losing my mind,” she thought.
Annabelle laid back down in the bed, her and her husband and two dogs were camping in their travel trailer alone in a state park about forty miles from civilization. The camp ground had been full the last two nights, come Sunday everybody split and Annabelle and her husband Tom were alone after eleven when the park ranger left for the night.“It was eerily quiet outside, even for the woods, it was quiet,” Annabelle thought to herself as she laid in bed wide awake. Her mind kept wondering as her husband and dogs snored. “What if there was something outside, the only weapons we have are dull knives and a pointy hot dog roasting stick. Maybe I can burn them with the BBQ lighter. OH! Oh! Oh my God!”
Annabelle’s heart started racing, she began sweaty, she turned over to wake up her husband. “Honey, honey, I just saw a tall shadow walk by both windows, Honey...” Annabelle said as she was violently shaking her husband awake. He finally turns over, rubs his eyes and says, “you have finally lost it, your mind is playing tricks on you, its probably just shadows from the trees and wind, but I will check just to ease your mind.” Tom gets out of bed, trips over both of the lazy dogs on the floor that refuse to move. “God damn it you two, lazy bastard dogs.” He limped as he walked towards the camper door. “Well for one the door is locked, so nobody can get in here.” He picks up one of the knives they used for the bbq steak dinner earlier and unlocked the front door. He opens the door slowly, and sees.......Nothing! He slowly steps outside down each of the three steps one by one.
“For crying out loud Annabelle, get out here”, Tom said as he walked towards the picnic table.
Annabelle jumps out of bed, puts on her sweats and slowly moves towards the front door, she is standing on the top step of the camper but has the door in front of her, so all her husband could see was her head and feet. He looks at her with a smirk and says, “don’t be so paranoid, I want to show you there is nothing to be afraid off.” He puts his hand out and motions to her to come to him. She slowly steps down on the second step, stops for a minute and then misses the third step and goes straight to the ground. She stands up and brushes herself off and realizes it’s peaceful outside with no wind, and nothing to be afraid of. The moths were peacefully hanging around the light, and the night air had a sweet calmness about it. “Ok, so maybe I was just being paranoid.”
“It’s all the horror movies and crime shows you watch. Let’s go back to bed, the sun will be up in a couple hours. We will leave early tomorrow. Camping is not for you scaredy-cat.”
“No its not, not at all.” Annabella said as her eyes gazed over the camp site, the lake and the hills above one more time before she walked into the trailer.
Annabelle knew nothing was outside, but she still laid in bed for awhile wide awake too wired to go to sleep. “I know I saw a shadow, I know I did.” She thought, “it had to be just the wind and shadows from the trees, but......there was no wind.” Her head was pounding, “oh god, there is nothing out there, get a grip.” It seemed like she was laying there for hours thinking, but when she looked at her phone it had only been fifteen minutes. An hour later she finally started to doze off, when she was jerked awake by a loud clicking noise. She sat up in bed startled and before she could catch her breath, she realized her husband was already out of bed and at the front door.
“What was that?” Annabelle finally grasped.
“I am not sure, but it sounded like someone was trying to open the door, but its locked so it snapped back”
“Oh God, Oh god, Tom what do we do.” Annabelle sat on the bed shaking.
Tom went over to sit beside her, he put his arm around her and said, “its going to be ok honey, we will just stay awake till morning. The Ranger will be here at sun up. Nobody can get in here, ok?”
Tom and Annabelle sat at the edge of the bed holding each other, both hearts racing. For awhile it was quiet, it seemed like whatever was out there had given up and left. Annabelle all of a sudden heard lightly tapping, and then Tom heard it as the tapping on the window got louder and louder. The tapping was going around the camper on all windows so fast it had to be more then one person. The tapping came with laughing, actually more like giggling, child like giggling. It seemed to go on forever, as Annabelle turned in circles trying to follow the sound, then just stopped. It was dead silent.
The silence in between episodes was deafening. Annabelle cried and shook with fear while her husband was trying to hold her. Tom knew somehow they weren’t going to survive the night. He looked up and the ceiling of the trailer was caving in by what looked to be foot steps, very large foot steps. Whatever was out there was not human.
Tom was trying to keep Annabelle from seeing the ceiling, by holding her head in his shoulder. But as he stared at the ceiling, in fear he couldn’t keepn a hold of her. Annabelle screamed, “oh my God Tom, whatever it is, its...its....on the roof.” The ceiling of the trailer was moving and caving in towards them without a sound. As the roof was moving, the tapping and giggling started back up, this time louder and faster. The foot prints on the roof came with a loud thumping sound that didn’t coincide with the caving in of the roof. Annabelle started hyperventilating and making a gasping sound, she couldn’t breath or speak. Tom couldn’t calm her down, he was too scared and trying to keep an eye on the roof. He didn’t know what he was going to do if the roof actually caved in, but it made him feel better that this thing was still outside.
“Why, why, why is someone doing this to us,” Annabelle cried as she cowered in the corner of the bed back by the wall.
“Honey, I don’t think this thing is human.” Tom said still staring at the ceiling not realizing he is scaring his wife even more then she already was.
“What....what.....what.......wh....are we going to do? We are alone with this thing.” She stared down at the dogs cowering under the dining table. “Some help you two are!” As Annabelle looked up at the ceiling, something broke through the roof........Annabelle screamed and shuffled across the bed to hide under the table with the dogs, Tom tried to fight it off with hot dog stick but failed.
As the sun came up that morning over the lake, the ranger was driving down from the Ranger station. He had an odd feeling this morning and knew he needed to check on the only campers in the park. He drove around the corner and had Annabelle and Tom’s trailer in site; there was nothing wrong with it from the outside but he got a sick feeling just by the site of the trailer. He stopped the truck right outside the trailer, walked up to the door. It was open, he walked up the steps and stepped inside. It was empty, no Annabelle, no Tom or Dogs.
The ranger goes back out to his truck, backs it into position. He hooks up the trailer and takes it up to the ranger station. The ranger walks into the ranger station, calls the Sheriffs office and says “ Yeah, this is Ranger Garrett out at the Belling State Park I have campers that left without checking out or paying. The camper and vehicle is gone, they were here last night at eleven when I left work. Yes, I will be here all day when you send the sheriff out. Thank you.” Ranger Garrett hangs up the phone, heads back out to the truck and takes the trailer about three miles down the road to an old abandoned mine. He parks on the hill above the mine, he is on a slight incline. He unhooks the trailer and it rolls off the hill into the mine on top of all the other trailers.
Ranger Garrett heads back to the camp ground, to patiently await the next victims.
|
Mirror Between Me
Michael Mogel
I was wondering who I found
I pulled my hat over my head
and the mirror person saluted me
strange thing I saluted back.
The agitation of never even hearing
this person enter the room.
The master of the house
shrugged his shoulders
and said “I take no interest”.
|
Cubicle Dream
Judi Dettorre
Buried in my cubicle
under piles of paperwork,
while coworkers bicker I
dream of retirement.
|
Twenty-Eight
Zac Harris
It gets hard when you come from the south side.
It’s dark in the gutter.
A little white boy no older than five, called honkey most days til I started to question the color of my skin.
I just wanted the hate to stop, I never understood where the pain came from.
White-washed history never taught us the real past even in Black-history month.
The shortest month, wouldn’t think a white man made that decision huh,
Twenty-eight days and they got the nerve to ask when white-history month is coming.
Look around during those three- hundred and thirty seven other days.
This white-privelage got us fucked up and we still question why the world hates us.
Just remember next time you reach for your wallet during a traffic stop,
Not everyone’s lucky enough to make it past that spot.
\ |
birds in a tornado
Doug Van Hooser
when birds sense twisted wind
that flushes blue from the sky
do they seek shelter
or attempt escape through the air
a nest cannot hide from fury
frightened fledglings do not fly
the Fujita tornado scale a rating of flunk
for moods like weather
dark as the sky
angry as the rain
wind rage
that batters every refuge
even if the walls stand
the roof is gone
no one forgives what they cannot forget
|
compass
Doug Van Hooser
you think I need direction
which I can manage to find with both hands
such a mixed message
unable to distinguish up from down
even yes from no
but if I follow
the way the compass points
will I get there
wager the current is not stronger
the snow won’t avalanche
life’s paved events sometimes
cave in a sinkhole
which way to go is a conundrum
the answer
a flat stone that skips across the water
then sinks
follow me sounds like a plan
until me like doubt is lost
belief a magnet
that draws in the picture
but the photo fades
double exposes black and white
am I better off
not knowing which way I am going
or how I am going to get there
the route changes seasons
the destination cumulous
|
Van Gogh
Alistair Forrester
Who is to say
What is living
And what is dead
Ambulances like
Banshee sirens wail
Amongst the steel forests
Keeping the dead alive,
For just a bit longer.
You’d think it the wind,
But you’ve lived in the city long enough
To know the usual haunts
Of this place.
Those bodies
Look more like shivering skeletons
Than the yellow paint they swallow,
The more they take
The more they give away.
And while the banshees are calling
Moaning to take,
I look up at the lifeless sky
And think,
What sort of death sequence
Is this life
When the stars are more alive
Than those underneath?
|
Alistair Forrester bio
After studying poesy (among other topics) under some great names in undergraduate, Alistair went on to serve as an AmeriCorps working on some mean streets to assuage a lack of affordable urban housing. He is currently attending a masters program for sociology in the Big Apple. He’s known for late nights of doing nothing, deep conversations that scare people away, and a few poems here or there (under another name, to keep you on your toes). Alistair thanks you for this opportunity to heard, and hopes you enjoy his literary work.
|
Live
Alistair Forrester
Looking for spirits
Long gone
In a spirit shop
They walk through the aisles
Looking for another glass
This time, to cut a little deeper
The stronger the swill
The better to mix with pills
“Maybe the ghosts in my mind will stop
If there’s no mind to haunt”
They think
That wasn’t what they thought
When they were gurgling vomit
Twitching on the floor
Wrists bleeding out
Phantoms whispering
As they leer
Into the last light they’ll see
Thinking
Not of what wraiths they have lost
But how good it would be
To die another day
|
Alistair Forrester bio
After studying poesy (among other topics) under some great names in undergraduate, Alistair went on to serve as an AmeriCorps working on some mean streets to assuage a lack of affordable urban housing. He is currently attending a masters program for sociology in the Big Apple. He’s known for late nights of doing nothing, deep conversations that scare people away, and a few poems here or there (under another name, to keep you on your toes). Alistair thanks you for this opportunity to heard, and hopes you enjoy his literary work.
|
I Stopped Wearing Bikinis at Age 16
Violet Mitchell
The crispy clean sports bra slides on hard, curling into itself on my chest like I do at family dinners. The mirror is big, too big, etching out all the smudges on the walls & bruises on my ribs. Next sale item: granny panties to wear under dresses and make my stomach look flatter, like there’s no organs under my skin. I can see pink little rivers drawn on my hips—from a pant seam? No, they don’t wipe off. Their riverbands are sharp and crooked like a knife got lost in the creamy whiteness. It’s like blood seeping from the cracks in my concrete foundation, secrets’ juices deciphering themselves whenever I wear shorts, all of the shattered-lightbulb voices stringing my genes into whispers. Letters and punctuation in my esophagus grope for air, only barely breathing. When I close the stall door behind me, I grip the shy bra in my fingers and the new scars in the archive of body-slimming exercises in my head.
|
Color Blind
Ryan Pahlkotter
The tick tock
is fading
to silence
the blacks grow dim
darker
and the whites accent
the difference
vision is a miracle that
coupled with consciousness
has the ability
to supersede many
things around it
in a vacuum
without even a
story of home
or where it came from
on its breath
|
the things warren says
Janet Kuypers
autumn 1996
I know about this guy,
he sucked his eyeball out
with a shop-vac
he went to the hospital
brought the shop-vac
with him
he was okay, but they
couldn’t put his eve
back in:
it was all mangled, and
besides, it was covered
in potato chips
|
Order this iTunes track: 
from the Chaotic Collection
...Or order the entire 5 CD set from iTunes:
CD:
|
Listen  to the DMJ Art Connection,
off the CD Indian Flux
|
Listen to the CD recording from the 09/20/05 performance art show
SIN
(Scars Internet News)
|
edit this poem in wandering words...
rearrange the words... or make a new poem
either in Flash or in Java (Windows only)!
|
Listen to this radio recording
from WZRD Radio (in a 2 CD set)
|
Watch the YouTube video
(:42, 05/05/07)
|
Watch this YouTube video
of the first 4 poems performed
(3:58) at the Red Lion Pub 08/14/07
at the live show Seeing Things Differently
|
Order this iTunes track:
from Chaotic Elements
(2 CD set, w/ live bonus track from the show Seeing Things Differently)...Or order the entire CD set from iTunes:
CD:
|
Watch this YouTube video
live at the Café in Chicago 03/30/10
|
Watch this YouTube video
(:28) live 06/14/11 at
|
See YouTube video of Kuypers’ feature Ten Minutes With Warren at the 06/14/11 open mic at the Café in Chicago, of her poems The Things Warren Says, No One Will, Warren Stories, Before I Can Put a Smile on my Face Again, It’s Someone’s Job, and You Carried It, & her covering the Eurythmics song I Need you, + her MFV song What We Need In Life
|
See YouTube video from camera#2 of Kuypers’ feature Ten Minutes With Warren at the 06/14/11 open mic at the Café in Chicago, of her poems The Things Warren Says, No One Will, Warren Stories, Before I Can Put a Smile on my Face Again, It’s Someone’s Job, and You Carried It, & her covering the Eurythmics song I Need you, + her MFV song What We Need In Life
|
See YouTube video from the intro to the 06/14/11 open mic at the Café in Chicago, & Kuypers’ poems The Things Warren Says, No One Will, Warren Stories, Before I Can Put a Smile on my Face Again, It’s Someone’s Job, and You Carried It, & her covering the Eurythmics’ I Need you, + her MFV song What We Need In Life
|
See YouTube video of Chicago poet Janet Kuypers reading her poems “Like I was Never There” and “The Things Warren Says” from her book “Chapter 48 (v1)”, plus her poem “Xynotyro: It’s Not Ricotta” live 6/23/18 at Austin#8217;s “Recycled Reads” (this video was filmed from a Panasonic Lumix 2500 camera).
|
See YouTube video of Chicago poet Janet Kuypers reading her poems “Like I was Never There” and “The Things Warren Says” from her book “Chapter 48 (v1)”, plus her poem “Xynotyro: It’s Not Ricotta” live 6/23/18 at Austin#8217;s “Recycled Reads” (from a Panasonic Lumix 2500 camera; Hue Cycling filter).
|
See YouTube video of Chicago poet Janet Kuypers reading her poems “Like I was Never There” and “The Things Warren Says” from her book “Chapter 48 (v1)”, plus her poem “Xynotyro: It’s Not Ricotta” live 6/23/18 at Austin#8217;s “Recycled Reads” (this video was filmed from a Panasonic Lumix T56 camera).
|
See YouTube video of Chicago poet Janet Kuypers reading her poems “Like I was Never There” and “The Things Warren Says” from her book “Chapter 48 (v1)”, plus her poem “Xynotyro: It’s Not Ricotta” live 6/23/18 at Austin#8217;s “Recycled Reads” (from a Panasonic Lumix T56 camera; Cyan Tone filter).
|
|
See YouTube video of Janet Kuypers’ November 2018 Book Release Reading 11/7/18, where she read her haiku “dreams” and her “Seeing Things Differently” poems “The Things Warren Says”, “Japanese Television”, “Kurt Irons (it’s just a girl)”, “Bizarre Sexual Stories in the News”, “Christmas Eve”, and “Coquinas” from the Down in the Dirt magazine 11-12/18 book “Hurricane Katrina”, during Community Poetry at Half Price Books (this video was filmed from a Panasonic Lumix 2500 camera).
|
|
See YouTube video of Janet Kuypers’ November 2018 Book Release Reading 11/7/18, where she read her haiku “dreams” and her “Seeing Things Differently” poems “The Things Warren Says”, “Japanese Television”, “Kurt Irons (it’s just a girl)”, “Bizarre Sexual Stories in the News”, “Christmas Eve”, and “Coquinas” from the Down in the Dirt magazine 11-12/18 book “Hurricane Katrina”, during Community Poetry at Half Price Books (this video was filmed from a Panasonic Lumix T56 camera).
|
Japanese Television
Janet Kuypers
5/20/97
as reported in the New York Times:
one new television show in Japan
boasts young women in bikinis
who attempt to smash aluminum cans
in between their breasts
another television show in Japan
brings a young boy on stage
to tell him his mother
has been shot and killed
to see how long it takes him
to cry
I wonder what they’d think
of Rosanne
and Married With Children
|
Listen to this from the CD release
from the first performance art show
(8/14/97) Seeing Things Differently
|
See YouTube video of Janet Kuypers performing the 1st 4 poems performed (“the Things Warren Says”, “Japanese Television”, “Kurt Irons”, and “Bizarre Sexual Stories in the News”, 3:58) at the Red Lion Pub 8/14/97 at her live show Seeing Things Differently.
|
edit this poem in wandering words...
rearrange the words... or make a new poem
either in Flash or in Java (Windows only)!
|
Listen to the CD recording from the
CD Rough Mixes, bscars.tvy Pointless Orchestra
|
Order this iTunes track:
from Chaotic Elements
(2 CD set, w/ live bonus track from the show Seeing Things Differently)...Or order the entire CD set from iTunes:
CD:
|
Watch this YouTube video
read live 10/04/11 in the the Café show 10/04/11, with music & video from the HA!man of South Africa
|
Watch this Complete feature video of Kuypers live 10/04/11 in the the Café show 10/04/11, performing this poem and more with video & music from musicians around the world
|
Watch this Complete feature video of the FULL SHOW of most everyone live 10/04/11 at the Café for Chicago Calling, including Kuypers performing poetry with music & video
|
Order this iTunes track from the poetry music CD Torture & Triumph ...Or order the entire CD set from iTunes:
|
|
See YouTube video of Janet Kuypers’ November 2018 Book Release Reading 11/7/18, where she read her haiku “dreams” and her “Seeing Things Differently” poems “The Things Warren Says”, “Japanese Television”, “Kurt Irons (it’s just a girl)”, “Bizarre Sexual Stories in the News”, “Christmas Eve”, and “Coquinas” from the Down in the Dirt magazine 11-12/18 book “Hurricane Katrina”, during Community Poetry at Half Price Books (this video was filmed from a Panasonic Lumix 2500 camera).
|
|
See YouTube video of Janet Kuypers’ November 2018 Book Release Reading 11/7/18, where she read her haiku “dreams” and her “Seeing Things Differently” poems “The Things Warren Says”, “Japanese Television”, “Kurt Irons (it’s just a girl)”, “Bizarre Sexual Stories in the News”, “Christmas Eve”, and “Coquinas” from the Down in the Dirt magazine 11-12/18 book “Hurricane Katrina”, during Community Poetry at Half Price Books (this video was filmed from a Panasonic Lumix T56 camera).
|
Kurt Irons
(it’s just a girl)
Janet Kuypers
spring 1997
Kurt Irons
was arrested
and charged
with vehicular
homicide
Kurt Irons
while intoxicated
stole a
truck
and drove it
straight
into another
truck
and killed
a thirty-seven
year-old woman
according to
police
reports,
Kurt Irons
was
surprised
by the arrest
by the fact
that he was
charged
with
vehicular
homicide
Kurt Irons
was quoted
as saying
“dudes
it’s just a
girl,
man
it’s a girl -
nothing
but a
girl”
|
Order this iTunes track:
from the Chaotic Collection
...Or order the entire 5 CD set from iTunes:
CD:
|
Listen (or live: )
to the DMJ Art Connection,
off the CD Contact•Conflict•Control
|
See YouTube video of Janet Kuypers reading her poem Kurt Irons (it’s just a girl) (2:42) 4/1/05 (April Fool’s Day) Live at the DvA Chicago Art Gallery show Conflict • Contact • Control.
|
Order this iTunes track:
from Chaotic Elements
(2 CD set, w/ live bonus track from the show Seeing Things Differently)...Or order the entire CD set from iTunes
CD:
|
Listen to this from the CD release
from the first performance art show
(8/14/97) Seeing Things Differently
|
See YouTube video of Janet Kuypers performing the 1st 4 poems performed (“the Things Warren Says”, “Japanese Television”, “Kurt Irons”, and “Bizarre Sexual Stories in the News”, 3:58) at the Red Lion Pub 8/14/97 at her live show Seeing Things Differently.
|
Order this iTunes track:
from Chaos in Motion
(a 6 CD set)...Or order the entire CD set from iTunes
CD:
|
Watch this YouTube video
live at the Café in Chicago 08/03/10 |
Watch this YouTube video
of Kuypers (as open mic host) introducing the open mic at the Café in Chicago 08/03/10 before Kuypers read this poem while playing the guitar |
Watch this YouTube video
live at Beach Poets 8/15/10 in Chicago (with John on guitar)
|
Watch this YouTube video
11/06/10 in Lake Villa at Swing State, in Sexism and other stories
|
Watch this YouTube video
11/06/10 from the TV camera in Lake Villa’s Swing State, live in her “Visual Nonsense” show Sexism and other stories
|
See the full show of Kuypers reading in the “Sexism and other stories” show, live in Lake Villa 11/06/10 with this writing at Swing State
|
See the full show of Kuypers reading from the TV monitor in the “Sexism and other stories” show, live in Lake Villa’s “Visual Nonsense” 10/20/011/06/10 with this poem at Swing State
|
See YouTube video
05/03/11 at the Café in Chicago (in the ISBN# books Unknown and Sexism and Other Stories and in cc&d mag v220, the 05/11 issue)
|
See YouTube video
of Janet Kuypers reading her poem Kurt Irons (it’s just a girl) live 1/6/16 at Rad Radam Open Stage in Austin TX (Nikon Cool Pix S7000).
|
See YouTube video
of Janet Kuypers reading her poem Kurt Irons (it’s just a girl) live 1/6/16 at Rad Radam Open Stage in Austin TX (Canon Power Shot).
|
See a 36+ minute YouTube video (L T56) of Janet Kuypers and Thom Woodruff going back and forth with poetry; where Janet Kuypers read her poems “Helping Men in Public Places”, “I Want”, and “Last Before Extinction”, then John Yotko read a poem he just wrote the day before, then Janet Kuypers read her poems “Warren Stories” and “Kurt Irons”, then Thom spoke, then Janet Kuypers read her poems “Never Did the Same”, “All These Reminders”, “Who You Tell Your Dreams To”, and “You and Me and Your Girlfriend”, then Thom spoke, then Janet Kuypers read her poems “My Mother My Mother My Mother”, then her prose “NASA Project”. and finally her poem “Moonlight”, all read from her performance art collection book “Chapter 38 v1” 4/29/18 at Austin’s the 2018 Poetry Bomb at the Baylor Street Art Wall.
|
See a 36+ minute YouTube video (L2500) of Janet Kuypers and Thom Woodruff going back and forth with poetry; where Janet Kuypers read her poems “Helping Men in Public Places”, “I Want”, and “Last Before Extinction”, then John Yotko read a poem he just wrote the day before, then Janet Kuypers read her poems “Warren Stories” and “Kurt Irons”, then Thom spoke, then Janet Kuypers read her poems “Never Did the Same”, “All These Reminders”, “Who You Tell Your Dreams To”, and “You and Me and Your Girlfriend”, then Thom spoke, then Janet Kuypers read her poems “My Mother My Mother My Mother”, then her prose “NASA Project”. and finally her poem “Moonlight”, all read from her performance art collection book “Chapter 38 v1” 4/29/18 at Austin’s the 2018 Poetry Bomb at the Baylor Street Art Wall.
|
See YouTube video of Janet Kuypers reading her poems “Kurt Irons (it’s just a girl)”,
“The Muse, the Messiah”, and “Paranois” from her book “Chapter 38 v2” (followed by a song by John) at “Poetry Aloud” 5/26/18 (this video was filmed from a Panasonic Lumix 2500 camera).
|
See YouTube video of Janet Kuypers reading her poems “Kurt Irons (it’s just a girl)”,
“The Muse, the Messiah”, and “Paranois” from her book “Chapter 38 v2” (followed by a song by John) at “Poetry Aloud” 5/26/18 (this video was filmed from a Panasonic Lumix T56 camera).
|
|
See YouTube video of Janet Kuypers’ November 2018 Book Release Reading 11/7/18, where she read her haiku “dreams” and her “Seeing Things Differently” poems “The Things Warren Says”, “Japanese Television”, “Kurt Irons (it’s just a girl)”, “Bizarre Sexual Stories in the News”, “Christmas Eve”, and “Coquinas” from the Down in the Dirt magazine 11-12/18 book “Hurricane Katrina”, during Community Poetry at Half Price Books (this video was filmed from a Panasonic Lumix 2500 camera).
|
|
See YouTube video of Janet Kuypers’ November 2018 Book Release Reading 11/7/18, where she read her haiku “dreams” and her “Seeing Things Differently” poems “The Things Warren Says”, “Japanese Television”, “Kurt Irons (it’s just a girl)”, “Bizarre Sexual Stories in the News”, “Christmas Eve”, and “Coquinas” from the Down in the Dirt magazine 11-12/18 book “Hurricane Katrina”, during Community Poetry at Half Price Books (this video was filmed from a Panasonic Lumix T56 camera).
|
Bizarre Sexual Stories in the News
Janet Kuypers
1995
from the los angeles times:
two gay men, during sexual activity,
decide to push a live hamster into
the anal cavity of one of the men.
however, after they realized they
couldn’t get the hamster out, they
tried to figure out what to do. the
man without the hamster inside
him decided to light a match to see
if he could see where the hamster
was. so man-without-hamster is
perched underneath man-with-
hamster, and lights a match right
under man-with-hamster’s anus.
at that time man-with-hamster
passes wind, and it causes a small
streak of fire to jump out and singe
the man-without-hamster’s eye-
brows and facial hair. however,
because there was gas in the anal
cavity, the fireball then shot into
the man-with-hamster, circled
around the hamster, burning the
inside of the man-with-hamster.
Furthermore, the gas change and
pressure shot the hamster out
of the man-with-hamster’s anus
and into the man-without-hamster’s
face, breaking his nose.
|
Listen to this from the CD release
from the first performance art show
(8/14/97) Seeing Things Differently
|
Order this iTunes track:
from Chaotic Elements
(2 CD set, w/ live bonus track from the show Seeing Things Differently)...Or order the entire CD set from iTunes
CD:
|
See YouTube video of Janet Kuypers performing the 1st 4 poems performed (“the Things Warren Says”, “Japanese Television”, “Kurt Irons”, and “Bizarre Sexual Stories in the News”, 3:58) at the Red Lion Pub 8/14/97 at her live show Seeing Things Differently.
|
|
Listen to the CD from the 09/20/05 performance art show SIN
(Scars Internet News)
|
Watch the YouTube video
1:32, live at Jesse Oaks 04/17/08
|
You can also see the above YouTube video
at Watch U Online
|
Watch this YouTube video
(1:21) from the Chicago performance
art show SIN live 09/20/05
|
see the entire performance
of SIN (the Scars Internet News show) live 09/20/05, via the Internet Archive
|
Order this iTunes track:
from Chaots in Motion
(a 6 CD set)...Or order the entire CD set from iTunes
CD:
|
|
See YouTube video of Janet Kuypers’ November 2018 Book Release Reading 11/7/18, where she read her haiku “dreams” and her “Seeing Things Differently” poems “The Things Warren Says”, “Japanese Television”, “Kurt Irons (it’s just a girl)”, “Bizarre Sexual Stories in the News”, “Christmas Eve”, and “Coquinas” from the Down in the Dirt magazine 11-12/18 book “Hurricane Katrina”, during Community Poetry at Half Price Books (this video was filmed from a Panasonic Lumix T56 camera).
|
|
See YouTube video of Janet Kuypers’ November 2018 Book Release Reading 11/7/18, where she read her haiku “dreams” and her “Seeing Things Differently” poems “The Things Warren Says”, “Japanese Television”, “Kurt Irons (it’s just a girl)”, “Bizarre Sexual Stories in the News”, “Christmas Eve”, and “Coquinas” from the Down in the Dirt magazine 11-12/18 book “Hurricane Katrina”, during Community Poetry at Half Price Books (this video was filmed from a Panasonic Lumix 2500 camera).
|
Christmas Eve
Janet Kuypers
spring 1997
we made dinner
fettuccini alfredo
with chicken and duck
vegetables
bread
we ate
couldn’t finish everything
we were putting on our coats
getting ready to go
to midnight mass
i decided to pack up
our leftovers
give them
to some homeless people
on the main street
we got in the car
and drove
to broadway and berwyn
i got out of the car
walked over to a man there
asked him if he was hungry
i got the bowl of noodles
and the gallon of milk
out of the car
another man walked over to me
i told them to promise
that they would share
i got in the car
we were just driving
and all i could think of
was these two men
in the cold
eating pasta with their fingers
on Christmas Eve
|
Listen  to the CD recording from the
CD Rough Mixes, by Pointless Orchestra
|
Watch this YouTube video
poem video broadcast on Nashville
TV, show #1 of Speer Presents |
Watch this video
This film is from
the Internet Archive |
Watch this YouTube video
(1:21)
|
Listen to this from the CD release
from the first performance art show
(08/14/97) Seeing Things Differently
|
Listen Live at the Cafe,
now available in a 3 CD set
|
Watch the YouTube video
(2:01) live 03/16/08, at WordSlingers radio feature, WLUW Chicago 88.9FM
|
Watch the YouTube video
read Christmas Day in Naples FLA 2008
|
Watch this YouTube video
live at Regina’s Place 12/18/09
|
See the YouTube video
05/24/11 at the Café in Chicago (read from the ISBN# book the Window)
|
See YouTube video of the intro to the 05/24/11 open mic at the Café in Chicago, plus her poems He Told Me His Dreams 5, He Told Me His Dreams 6, She Told Me Her Dreams 3, Ice Cream, Games, Vittorio Carli reading her poem Christmas Eve, and Kuypers reading her poem Private Lives 2
|
See YouTube video (9:35) of Kuypers 05/24/11 at the Café reading her poems He Told Me His Dreams 5, He Told Me His Dreams 6, She Told Me Her Dreams 3, Ice Cream, Games, Vittorio Carli reading her poem Christmas Eve, and Kuypers reading her poem Private Lives 2
|
Watch this YouTube video
read live 12/18/11, at the Café weekly poetry open mic she hosts in Chicago (with Opera vocals by Suzanne Hettinger)
|
Watch this YouTube video
of her reading many poems 12/18/11 at the Café in Chicago (music by the HA!man of South Africa, vocals by Suzanne Hettinger, guitar by John Yotko) including this writing
|
Watch this YouTube video
read live 12/18/11, at the Café weekly poetry open mic she hosts in Chicago (with Opera vocals by Suzanne Hettinger), from the Samsung Camera
|
Watch this YouTube video
read live 12/18/11, at the Café weekly poetry open mic she hosts in Chicago (with Opera vocals by Suzanne Hettinger), from the Kodak Camera
|
See YouTube video of Janet Kuypers reading her poems “Christmas Eve” and “Coquinas” live 12/3/16 at the Expressions “Festive Seasons” open mic at the Bahá’í Faith Center in Austin (from a Canon Power Shot camera).
|
See YouTube video of Janet Kuypers reading her poems “Christmas Eve” and “Coquinas” live 12/3/16 at the Expressions “Festive Seasons” open mic at the Bahá’í Faith Center in Austin (video filmed from a Sony camera).
|
See YouTube video of Janet Kuypers 12/25/17 reading her poem “Christmas Eve”, then singing the WHAM! song “Last Christmas” with John on guitar, then reading her poem “Visiting Pristine Places on the Planet” at the “Buzz Mill” open mic in Austin (Panasonic Lumix 2500 camera).
|
See YouTube video of Janet Kuypers 12/25/17 reading her poem “Christmas Eve”, then singing the WHAM! song “Last Christmas” with John on guitar, then reading her poem “Visiting Pristine Places on the Planet” at the “Buzz Mill” open mic in Austin (Lumix 2500; Hue Cycling).
|
See YouTube video of Janet Kuypers 12/25/17 reading her poem “Christmas Eve”, then singing the WHAM! song “Last Christmas” with John on guitar, then reading her poem “Visiting Pristine Places on the Planet” at the “Buzz Mill” open mic in Austin (Lumix 2500; Threshold filter).
|
See YouTube video of Janet Kuypers 12/25/17 reading her poem “Christmas Eve”, then singing the WHAM! song “Last Christmas” with John on guitar, then reading her poem “Visiting Pristine Places on the Planet” at the “Buzz Mill” open mic in Austin (Lumix 2500; Edge Detection).
|
|
See YouTube video of Janet Kuypers’ November 2018 Book Release Reading 11/7/18, where she read her haiku “dreams” and her “Seeing Things Differently” poems “The Things Warren Says”, “Japanese Television”, “Kurt Irons (it’s just a girl)”, “Bizarre Sexual Stories in the News”, “Christmas Eve”, and “Coquinas” from the Down in the Dirt magazine 11-12/18 book “Hurricane Katrina”, during Community Poetry at Half Price Books (this video was filmed from a Panasonic Lumix T56 camera).
|
|
See YouTube video of Janet Kuypers’ November 2018 Book Release Reading 11/7/18, where she read her haiku “dreams” and her “Seeing Things Differently” poems “The Things Warren Says”, “Japanese Television”, “Kurt Irons (it’s just a girl)”, “Bizarre Sexual Stories in the News”, “Christmas Eve”, and “Coquinas” from the Down in the Dirt magazine 11-12/18 book “Hurricane Katrina”, during Community Poetry at Half Price Books (this video was filmed from a Panasonic Lumix 2500 camera).
|
Coquinas
Janet Kuypers
spring 1993
1
I can’t imagine
the number of times
I’ve been there
visiting Florida,
Christmas with my parents
a plastic tree
decorated
with sand dollars
and red
ribbons
eating Christmas dinner
listening to Johnny Mathis
and after the Irish coffee,
father with his brandy snifter
in hand
mother and the other
girls
putting away the dishes
the carolers would come,
walking in front of our home
singing “We wish you a
merry Christmas”
over and over again
we would walk outside
and the cool breeze
almost felt like Christmas
after the hot
humid days
and we would stand on our driveway
smile and nod
you could see down the road
all the candles in
paper bags
lining the street
and for a few lights
the bag
burned
2
and we would take
boat rides
off the coast
my parents and their friends
to a tiny island
dad drinking beer
sometimes steering the boat
control
the women sitting together in the shade
worrying about their hair
i would sit at the front
sunglasses, swimsuit and sunburn
feeling the wind
slapping me
in the face
and turning my head away from the boat
into the wind
away from them
to face it again
docking at a shoreline
everyone jumping out
little bags in their hands
the women go looking for shells
the men go barbecue
after an hour or two
the sandwiches, potato chips eaten
the soda and beer almost
gone
we turn around
and head back
we have conquered
3
and I remember
the coquinas
the little shells
you could find them alive
on the beaches north of the pier in
Naples
going to the beach
I would look for a spot
to find them
they were all my own
they burrowed their way into the
sand
to avoid the light
worming their way away from me
I unearthed a group of coquinas once,
fascinated with their color of
their shells, the way
they moved
before they could hide
I collected them
in a jar,
took them home with me
what did you teach me
what have you taught me to do
is this it
is this what it has become
is this what has become of me
of you of us
and I took them home
I added salt water and sand
but I couldn’t feed them
I realized soon that they
would die
so I let them
|
Order this iTunes track
from the poetry audio CD
“Oh.” audio CD
...Or order
the entire CD set from iTunes:
|
Order this iTunes track
from the poetry audio CD
Hope Chest In The Attic
13 Years of Poetry & Prose ...Or order
the entire CD set from iTunes:
|
Watch the YouTube video
Live at Taking Poetry to the Streets, in New Orleans 12/28/08
|
Order this iTunes track:
from Chaots in Motion
(a 6 CD set)...Or order the entire CD set from iTunes
CD:
|
Listen to the DMJ Art Connection,
off the CD Manic Depressive or Something
Listen to & download
 this track from the DMJ Art Connection
|
Order this iTunes track:
from Chaotic Elements
(a 2 CD set)...Or order the entire CD set from iTunes
CD:
|
Listen tto this from her 8/14/97 first performance art show “Seeing Things Differently” - or order ANT Track off the CD “Seeing Things Differently” through iTunes.
|
Listen to this poem Live at the Café, now available in a 3 CD set where ANY track can be ordered at iTunes.
|
Order this iTunes track:
at two locations:
from the Chaotic Collection
...Or order the entire 5 CD set from iTunes:
CD:
|
Watch this YouTube video
(3:47) recorded on the Pacific Ocean
12/07 near the Galapagos Islands
|
Watch the YouTube video
from IPB: the feature 06/29/11 of Impromptu Poetry on the Beach
|
See feature-length YouTube
video of many poems read at Beach Poets from IPB: the Impromptu Poetry on the Beach feature 06/29/11
|
Watch this YouTube video
read live 12/18/11, at the Café weekly poetry open mic she hosts in Chicago (with Opera vocals by Suzanne Hettinger)
|
Watch this YouTube video
of ther reading many poems 12/18/11 at the Café in Chicago (music bt the HA!man of South Africa, vocals by Suzanne Hettinger, guitar by John Yotko) including this writing
|
Watch this YouTube video
of the intro to the 12/18/11 poetry open mic at the Café in Chicago, & her reading poems (music from the HA!man of South Africa, vocals by Suzanne Hettinger, guitar by John Yotko) with this writing
|
Watch this YouTube video
read live 12/18/11, at the Café weekly poetry open mic she hosts in Chicago (with Opera vocals by Suzanne Hettinger), from the Kodak Camera
|
Watch this YouTube video
read live 12/18/11, at the Café weekly poetry open mic she hosts in Chicago (with Opera vocals by Suzanne Hettinger), from the Samsung Camera
|
See YouTube video of Janet Kuypers reading her poems “Christmas Eve” and “Coquinas” live 12/3/16 at the Expressions “Festive Seasons” open mic at the Bahá’í Faith Center in Austin (from a Canon Power Shot camera).
|
See YouTube video of Janet Kuypers reading her poems “Christmas Eve” and “Coquinas” live 12/3/16 at the Expressions “Festive Seasons” open mic at the Bahá’í Faith Center in Austin (video filmed from a Sony camera).
|
See YouTube video from 4/29/18 of Janet Kuypers reading her poems “Coquinas” and “How Do I Explain It” from her performance art collection book “Chapter 38 v1” before the official beginning of the Austin installment of the 2018 Poetry Bomb at the Baylor Street Art Wall (video filmed from a Panasonic Lumix T56 camera).
|
See YouTube video from 4/29/18 of Janet Kuypers reading her poems “Coquinas” and “How Do I Explain It” from her performance art collection book “Chapter 38 v1” before the official beginning of the Austin installment of the 2018 Poetry Bomb at the Baylor Street Art Wall (video filmed from a Panasonic Lumix 2500 camera).
|
|
See YouTube video of Janet Kuypers’ November 2018 Book Release Reading 11/7/18, where she read her haiku “dreams” and her “Seeing Things Differently” poems “The Things Warren Says”, “Japanese Television”, “Kurt Irons (it’s just a girl)”, “Bizarre Sexual Stories in the News”, “Christmas Eve”, and “Coquinas” from the Down in the Dirt magazine 11-12/18 book “Hurricane Katrina”, during Community Poetry at Half Price Books (this video was filmed from a Panasonic Lumix T56 camera).
|
|
See YouTube video of Janet Kuypers’ November 2018 Book Release Reading 11/7/18, where she read her haiku “dreams” and her “Seeing Things Differently” poems “The Things Warren Says”, “Japanese Television”, “Kurt Irons (it’s just a girl)”, “Bizarre Sexual Stories in the News”, “Christmas Eve”, and “Coquinas” from the Down in the Dirt magazine 11-12/18 book “Hurricane Katrina”, during Community Poetry at Half Price Books (this video was filmed from a Panasonic Lumix 2500 camera).
|
|
Janet Kuypers has a Communications degree in News/Editorial Journalism (starting in computer science engineering studies) from the UIUC. She had the equivalent of a minor in photography and specialized in creative writing. A portrait photographer for years in the early 1990s, she was also an acquaintance rape workshop facilitator, and she started her publishing career as an editor of two literary magazines. Later she was an art director, webmaster and photographer for a few magazines for a publishing company in Chicago, and this Journalism major was even the final featured poetry performer of 15 poets with a 10 minute feature at the 2006 Society of Professional Journalism Expo’s Chicago Poetry Showcase. This certified minister was even the officiant of a wedding in 2006.
She sang with acoustic bands “Mom’s Favorite Vase”, “Weeds and Flowers” and “the Second Axing”, and does music sampling. Kuypers is published in books, magazines and on the internet around 9,300 times for writing, and over 17,800 times for art work in her professional career, and has been profiled in such magazines as Nation and Discover U, won the award for a Poetry Ambassador and was nominated as Poet of the Year for 2006 by the International Society of Poets. She has also been highlighted on radio stations, including WEFT (90.1FM), WLUW (88.7FM), WSUM (91.7FM), WZRD (88.3FM), WLS (8900AM), the internet radio stations ArtistFirst dot com, chicagopoetry.com’s Poetry World Radio and Scars Internet Radio (SIR), and was even shortly on Q101 FM radio. She has also appeared on television for poetry in Nashville (in 1997), Chicago (in 1997), and northern Illinois (in a few appearances on the show for the Lake County Poets Society in 2006). Kuypers was also interviewed on her art work on Urbana’s WCIA channel 3 10 o’clock news.
She turned her writing into performance art on her own and with musical groups like Pointless Orchestra, 5D/5D, The DMJ Art Connection, Order From Chaos, Peter Bartels, Jake and Haystack, the Bastard Trio, and the JoAnne Pow!ers Trio, and starting in 2005 Kuypers ran a monthly iPodCast of her work, as well mixed JK Radio — an Internet radio station — into Scars Internet Radio (both radio stations on the Internet air 2005-2009). She even managed the Chaotic Radio show (an hour long Internet radio show 1.5 years, 2006-2007) through BZoO.org. She has performed spoken word and music across the country - in the spring of 1998 she embarked on her first national poetry tour, with featured performances, among other venues, at the Albuquerque Spoken Word Festival during the National Poetry Slam; her bands have had concerts in Chicago and in Alaska; in 2003 she hosted and performed at a weekly poetry and music open mike (called Sing Your Life), and from 2002 through 2005 was a featured performance artist, doing quarterly performance art shows with readings, music and images. Starting at this time Kuypers released a large number of CD releases currently available for sale at iTunes or amazon, including “Across the Pond”(a 3 CD set of poems by Oz Hardwick and Janet Kuypers with assorted vocals read to acoustic guitar of both Blues music and stylized Contemporary English Folk music), “Made Any Difference” (CD single of poem reading with multiple musicians), “Letting It All Out”, “What we Need in Life” (CD single by Janet Kuypers in Mom’s Favorite Vase of “What we Need in Life”, plus in guitarist Warren Peterson’s honor live recordings literally around the globe with guitarist John Yotko), “hmmm” (4 CD set), “Dobro Veče” (4 CD set), “the Stories of Women”, “Sexism and Other Stories”, “40”, “Live” (14 CD set), “an American Portrait” (Janet Kuypers/Kiki poetry to music from Jake & Haystack in Nashville), “Screeching to a Halt” (2008 CD EP of music from 5D/5D with Janet Kuypers poetry), “2 for the Price of 1” (Janet Kuypers poetry to music from Peter Bartels), “the Evolution of Performance Art” (13 CD set), “Burn Through Me” (Janet Kuypers poetry to music from The HA!Man of South Africa), “Seeing a Psychiatrist” (3 CD set), “The Things They Did To You” (Janet Kuypers poetry to music from the DMJ Art Connection), “Hope Chest in the Attic” (audio CD set), “St. Paul’s” (3 CD set), “the 2009 Poetry Game Show” (3 CD set), “Fusion” (Janet Kuypers poetry in multi CD set with Madison, WI jazz music from the Bastard Trio, the JoAnne Pow!ers Trio, and Paul Baker), “Chaos In Motion” (tracks from Internet radio shows on Chaotic Radio), “Chaotic Elements” (audio CD set for the poetry collection book and supplemental chapbooks for The Elements), “etc.” audio CD set, “Manic Depressive or Something” (Janet Kuypers poetry to music from the DMJ Art Connection), “Singular”, “Indian Flux” (Janet Kuypers poetry to music from the DMJ Art Connection), “The Chaotic Collection #01-05”, “The DMJ Art Connection Disc 1” (Janet Kuypers poetry to music from the DMJ Art Connection), “Oh.” audio CD, “Live At the Café” (3 CD set), “String Theory” (Janet Kuypers reading other people's poetry, with music from “the DMJ Art Connection), “Scars Presents WZRD radio” (2 CD set), “SIN - Scars Internet News”, “Questions in a World Without Answers”, “Conflict • Contact • Control”, “How Do I Get There?”, “Sing Your Life”, “Dreams”, “Changing Gears”, “The Other Side”, “Death Comes in Threes”, “the final”, “Moving Performances”, “Seeing Things Differently”, “Live At Cafe Aloha”, “the Demo Tapes” (Mom’s Favorite Vase), “Something Is Sweating” (the Second Axing), “Live In Alaska” EP (the Second Axing), “the Entropy Project”, “Tick Tock” (with 5D/5D), “Six Eleven”
“Stop. Look. Listen.”, “Stop. Look. Listen to the Music” (a compilation CD from the three bands “Mom’s Favorite Vase”, “Weeds & Flowers” and “The Second Axing”), and “Change Rearrange” (the performance art poetry CD with sampled music).
From 2010 through 2015 Kuypers also hosted the Chicago poetry open mic the Café Gallery, while also broadcasting weekly feature and open mic podcasts that were also released as YouTube videos.
In addition to being published with Bernadette Miller in the short story collection book Domestic Blisters, as well as in a book of poetry turned to prose with Eric Bonholtzer in the book Duality, Kuypers has had many books of her own published: Hope Chest in the Attic, The Window, Close Cover Before Striking, (woman.) (spiral bound), Autumn Reason (novel in letter form), the Average Guy’s Guide (to Feminism), Contents Under Pressure, etc., and eventually The Key To Believing (2002 650 page novel), Changing Gears (travel journals around the United States), The Other Side (European travel book), the three collection books from 2004: Oeuvre (poetry), Exaro Versus (prose) and L’arte (art), The Boss Lady’s Editorials, The Boss Lady’s Editorials (2005 Expanded Edition), Seeing Things Differently, Change/Rearrange, Death Comes in Threes, Moving Performances, Six Eleven, Live at Cafe Aloha, Dreams, Rough Mixes, The Entropy Project, The Other Side (2006 edition), Stop., Sing Your Life, the hardcover art book (with an editorial) in cc&d v165.25, the Kuypers edition of Writings to Honour & Cherish, The Kuypers Edition: Blister and Burn, S&M, cc&d v170.5, cc&d v171.5: Living in Chaos, Tick Tock, cc&d v1273.22: Silent Screams, Taking It All In, It All Comes Down, Rising to the Surface, Galapagos, Chapter 38 (v1 and volume 1), Chapter 38 (v2 and Volume 2), Chapter 38 v3, Finally: Literature for the Snotty and Elite (Volume 1, Volume 2 and part 1 of a 3 part set), A Wake-Up Call From Tradition (part 2 of a 3 part set), (recovery), Dark Matter: the mind of Janet Kuypers , Evolution, Adolph Hitler, O .J. Simpson and U.S. Politics, the one thing the government still has no control over, (tweet), Get Your Buzz On, Janet & Jean Together, po•em, Taking Poetry to the Streets, the Cana-Dixie Chi-town Union, the Written Word, Dual, Prepare Her for This, uncorrect, Living in a Big World (color interior book with art and with “Seeing a Psychiatrist”), Pulled the Trigger (part 3 of a 3 part set), Venture to the Unknown (select writings with extensive color NASA/Huubble Space Telescope images), Janet Kuypers: Enriched, She’s an Open Book, “40”, Sexism and Other Stories, the Stories of Women, Prominent Pen (Kuypers edition), Elemental, the paperback book of the 2012 Datebook (which was also released as a spiral-bound cc&d ISSN# 2012 little spiral datebook, , Chaotic Elements, and Fusion, the (select) death poetry book Stabity Stabity Stab Stab Stab, the 2012 art book a Picture’s Worth 1,000 words (available with both b&w interior pages and full color interior pages, the shutterfly ISSN# cc&d hardcover art book life, in color, Post-Apocalyptic, Burn Through Me, Under the Sea (photo book), the Periodic Table of Poetry, a year long Journey, Bon Voyage!, and the mini books Part of my Pain, Let me See you Stripped, Say Nothing, Give me the News, when you Dream tonight, Rape, Sexism, Life & Death (with some Slovak poetry translations), Twitterati, and 100 Haikus, that coincided with the June 2014 release of the two poetry collection books Partial Nudity and Revealed. 2017, after hr October 2015 move to Austin Texas, also witnessed the release of 2 Janet Kuypers book of poetry written in Austin, “(pheromemes) 2015-2017 poems” and a book of poetry written for her poetry features and show, “(pheromemes) 2015-2017 show poems” (and both pheromemes books are available from two printers).
|
this page was downloaded to your computer
|
Thank you to Thom Woodruff for taking photos of Janet Kuypers reading from the Scars Publications Down in the Dirt magazine 11-12/18 book “Hurricane Katrina”, during Community Poetry at Half Price Books in Austin, Texas 11/7/18.
