She can hear the sound of the water from the porch; if she leaves the back door open the sound fills the kitchen. She stirs the oatmeal with her back to the door, teasing herself. The blue bowl today, she thinks. She pours a cup of coffee, spoons up the oatmeal, adds sugar to both. She loads up the teak tray with her breakfast, a book, pencil and pad and carries it all out to the porch.
It’s not close enough. She bypasses the patio table and crosses the back yard down the slope to the river’s edge. She sets the tray down on the old log, picks up her coffee. Still not close enough.
Two feet, five feet, ah. She steps from the bank into the water and feels the river whispering over her toes. Here, right here.
She sits on the flat rock her kids used to jump off of, her feet in the river listening, while her oatmeal gets cold.
Saturday, January 24, 2009
Where I Wish I Was - Jackie Davis Martin
“Where I wish I was—” The man of forty—we’ll call him Bill—fell into his new sofa, legs lofting and falling also before they settled. “Where I wish I was,” he said again, punching one of the throw pillows that came with the sofa, satisfied that her attention was focused on him, “is—”
“Were,” Trish said. She’d deliberated only a split second; the smugness had decided her: his new place, his sofa, his stage-y collapse onto it, his thought. “It’s ‘where I wish I were.’ It’s subjunctive case. Like ‘if.’ ‘If I were a rich man.’ You use the plural.” Trish was thirty, sitting on the living room stairs, uncarpeted as yet. The sofa had arrived out of sync—a brown suede of great length, lots of pillows.
Bill swung his legs back to the floor so he could face her. “What in hell are you talking about?” he said. His brown hair fell forward and he jerked his head to toss it back. The boy-man gesture made her heart lurch.
She smiled, recrossed her legs. They were pretty and tan under the jeans, which she knew he knew. They’d been dating several years. “Verbs,” she said. “Never mind. You were wishing.” She poised herself to listen, elbow on knee, chin on hand.
Bill stretched back out but was quiet a few minutes. “I think I’ve done an incredible job on this place,” he said, staring at the ceiling, new. “I mean we have. Do you remember what it looked like when I bought it? You ran screaming from that back area”—here he gestured toward the red-tiled kitchen—“scared that you were sweeping up bugs in your dustpan!” He rolled his head, looked at her affectionately.
“Or worse,” she said. They had worn masks, both of them, to clean out the abandoned house he’d purchased, he who could purchase what he wanted! They’d mingled with the other gentrifiers on the Philadelphia street, comparing who was doing what. They were a dirty, grubby team, standing out front in their grimy clothes, their hair sprouting from the masks that cupped their faces, like survivors. They’d shower later—at her place or his—and, spanking clean, pleased with themselves, make love.
From her perch in the stairwell, Trish stared at Bill. The big brown sofa (masculine—that was what he said when he chose it) in the middle of the bare room, the sawhorses off to one side, the paint lined up (he had let her choose the pale gold color) on the tarp under the window, the man in the center. She was supposed to join him here, he said. But she had two little kids at home, with a sitter now, and the rooms—a hobby room, a library (he loved the word), a rompingly big bedroom-- were clearly not designed for kids.
“Honey,” Bill said. “What are you doing way over there? Come sit with me. You’ll really like this sofa.”
He nestled his head on her lap. “Where I wish I was,” he said. “Is here. Isn’t that funny?”
“Were,” Trish said. She’d deliberated only a split second; the smugness had decided her: his new place, his sofa, his stage-y collapse onto it, his thought. “It’s ‘where I wish I were.’ It’s subjunctive case. Like ‘if.’ ‘If I were a rich man.’ You use the plural.” Trish was thirty, sitting on the living room stairs, uncarpeted as yet. The sofa had arrived out of sync—a brown suede of great length, lots of pillows.
Bill swung his legs back to the floor so he could face her. “What in hell are you talking about?” he said. His brown hair fell forward and he jerked his head to toss it back. The boy-man gesture made her heart lurch.
She smiled, recrossed her legs. They were pretty and tan under the jeans, which she knew he knew. They’d been dating several years. “Verbs,” she said. “Never mind. You were wishing.” She poised herself to listen, elbow on knee, chin on hand.
Bill stretched back out but was quiet a few minutes. “I think I’ve done an incredible job on this place,” he said, staring at the ceiling, new. “I mean we have. Do you remember what it looked like when I bought it? You ran screaming from that back area”—here he gestured toward the red-tiled kitchen—“scared that you were sweeping up bugs in your dustpan!” He rolled his head, looked at her affectionately.
“Or worse,” she said. They had worn masks, both of them, to clean out the abandoned house he’d purchased, he who could purchase what he wanted! They’d mingled with the other gentrifiers on the Philadelphia street, comparing who was doing what. They were a dirty, grubby team, standing out front in their grimy clothes, their hair sprouting from the masks that cupped their faces, like survivors. They’d shower later—at her place or his—and, spanking clean, pleased with themselves, make love.
From her perch in the stairwell, Trish stared at Bill. The big brown sofa (masculine—that was what he said when he chose it) in the middle of the bare room, the sawhorses off to one side, the paint lined up (he had let her choose the pale gold color) on the tarp under the window, the man in the center. She was supposed to join him here, he said. But she had two little kids at home, with a sitter now, and the rooms—a hobby room, a library (he loved the word), a rompingly big bedroom-- were clearly not designed for kids.
“Honey,” Bill said. “What are you doing way over there? Come sit with me. You’ll really like this sofa.”
He nestled his head on her lap. “Where I wish I was,” he said. “Is here. Isn’t that funny?”
Another Drunken Episode - Ariana Speyer
I was a fool. More than a fool, a dangerous lunatic, but it felt good. It always does. We were at the beach, at a wedding, and I was feeling good even before the tequila. But the tequila helped. It certainly did. I could have guessed what would happen. Things would be broken, feelings would be hurt, shoes would be lost. But tequila doesn’t want to know about those things. Tequila wants what it wants. I think the chair went first. I used it to climb over a fence to get to a private beach that everyone else was avoiding. Pussies! The beach is for everybody, I thought. Why didn’t they know that? It broke after I stood on it, but I still got over the fence. I think that’s when I lost the shoe. But it didn’t matter. The sand was cold and crunchy beneath my feet. The water drew me near. I could hear people yelling on the other side but it didn’t matter. The water seemed magnificent and alive, as alive as me. I started taking my clothes off, shirt first, hopped out of my pants, fell over, I believe. I think I was wearing tighty whiteys, but I was proud. There was a small moon that picked up on the waves and made them sparkle. The water felt cold and free, and then I was gone, inside it, inside the moon. Then my breath left me and a small part of my brain woke up and started screaming at me. But the tequila was still king. Which was a good thing. If I had been fully aware of myself I probably would have really panicked. Instead, I let the waves roll me around and laughed to myself about Jaws. Isn’t that how those poor movie folks died? Swimming at night, drunk? When I felt really cold, which means I must have been freezing for it to penetrate, I got out and lay on the sand, looking at the sky. There were clouds in front of the moon now and the breeze made me shiver. I felt an epiphany then but I can’t remember what it was. Something about my place in the cosmos and all that crap.
What Broke My Heart - Lisa Kastner
He opened the door. The cold air broke into the warmth of the room. I shivered as he closed the door behind me. I kissed him on the lips. A brief kiss. A hesitant one. I hadn’t seen him in a month. I peeled my coat off and wondered if I should be there.
We grocery shopped together. The fruits ripe. The vegetables fresh. He explained to me the different vegetables and how to make them. “This one’s a root vegetable, like a potato.”
“What do you do with it?” I asked, holding the oversized chunk of something that looked like a tree trunk.
He dug through red onions, picking one up then another. Finally settling on one that looked half peeled. “You peel it and can either boil it or bake it. It’s good.” He cupped the onion and put it into a plastic bag. Knotting the end shut.
I watched as he made dinner. I offered to help but he refused. He peeled the onions and chopped the cilantro. Mixed it all with the bits of shrimp (or shrimps as he called them), salmon, flounder and then poured over it the freshly squeezed lemon juice. He put the concoction in the fridge and we waited.
I sat across from him at the dinner table. His eyes darting to his phone. He would pull it out and check it every once in awhile.
I wondered if I should leave.
We watched a movie. A rare treat for me. While he put in the DVD, he whipped out his phone and quickly texted someone. A few seconds later it beeped and he smirked at the response. A private joke.
On the old couch that had lumps of wear we sat together but apart. I could feel him next to me. The heat of him. I wanted to hold his hand but didn’t think I could. From the moment I walked in the door I only wanted to hold him, kiss him, talk to him like he was the only person there. For me he was.
We returned to the kitchen. He checked on our food. He made rice. Like his momma makes it. We chewed almost silently, his phone before him. We talked some. He was brief. Hesitant. Guarded.
I almost left a hundred times. But I wanted to see if he would tell me. I wanted to see if he would be honest with me. Or if he would let it hang there.
When I left I said goodbye. His phone churped with the receipt of another text.
We grocery shopped together. The fruits ripe. The vegetables fresh. He explained to me the different vegetables and how to make them. “This one’s a root vegetable, like a potato.”
“What do you do with it?” I asked, holding the oversized chunk of something that looked like a tree trunk.
He dug through red onions, picking one up then another. Finally settling on one that looked half peeled. “You peel it and can either boil it or bake it. It’s good.” He cupped the onion and put it into a plastic bag. Knotting the end shut.
I watched as he made dinner. I offered to help but he refused. He peeled the onions and chopped the cilantro. Mixed it all with the bits of shrimp (or shrimps as he called them), salmon, flounder and then poured over it the freshly squeezed lemon juice. He put the concoction in the fridge and we waited.
I sat across from him at the dinner table. His eyes darting to his phone. He would pull it out and check it every once in awhile.
I wondered if I should leave.
We watched a movie. A rare treat for me. While he put in the DVD, he whipped out his phone and quickly texted someone. A few seconds later it beeped and he smirked at the response. A private joke.
On the old couch that had lumps of wear we sat together but apart. I could feel him next to me. The heat of him. I wanted to hold his hand but didn’t think I could. From the moment I walked in the door I only wanted to hold him, kiss him, talk to him like he was the only person there. For me he was.
We returned to the kitchen. He checked on our food. He made rice. Like his momma makes it. We chewed almost silently, his phone before him. We talked some. He was brief. Hesitant. Guarded.
I almost left a hundred times. But I wanted to see if he would tell me. I wanted to see if he would be honest with me. Or if he would let it hang there.
When I left I said goodbye. His phone churped with the receipt of another text.
Saturday, January 17, 2009
Mark Maynard - Where I Was Last Night
Poker night. Everything works in a circular fashion. Once everyone is seated at the large felt table top – round with drink holders and slots for the chips – it begins. We play in a friend’s garage, even in the dead of winter. There are no cars inside, there is plenty of room on the property to park plow trucks, pickups and all of our vehicles too. Instead, we are flanked by shelves with skis, snowboards, winter gear, rafts, kayaks and a stained, torn couch. Each chair is its own challenge, most are retired patio furniture or worn canvas camp chairs, all are well beyond their last legs and ready to flip or collapse if pushed too hard.
Then the clockwise world begins its revolutions. Everything is dictated by the rhythm of play. Beer runs to the fridge in the back of the garage, the lighting and passing of the joint, pee breaks in the frigid night air with the mountains and stars as a backdrop.
Play always starts slowly. Even those we have played with for years will change up their style on any given night, just to try and squeeze luck from some untapped corner. Besides, it is too soon to bluff your way into a big pot.
I’m drawing dead nearly every hand but I still have a nice stack of chips and play more for camaraderie and to get the feel for tonight’s game more than anything else. In the second hour, on my second beer, I finally catch a good hand and play it well, avoiding the temptation to be overeager and scare the others out of what looks to be a good pot for me.
Later, Reggie the dog comes back inside after patrolling the sagebrush and scrub outside. He comes straight up to me and presses himself against my legs. I pet him and feel a sticky wetness on the scruff of his neck. I figure one of us must have spilled a beer on him until I bring my hand near my face and catch a whiff of something horrible that he has rolled in.
“Reggie – go lie down!” I tell him sternly and he aims his yellow eyes at me and gives me a look that says, “dogs are just really little people – you love me.”
The smell is intense. Unnatural. Even so, I must honor the rhythms of the game. I wait to fold and then rise to wash my hands in the small bathroom just off the garage. The rest of the night the dog will distract me from my play – a split brain schizophrenia trying to play my cards inside my head while trying to avoid letting Reggie rub his foul fluid on my legs as he patrols counterclockwise under the table looking for scraps of popcorn and roasted almonds.
Then the clockwise world begins its revolutions. Everything is dictated by the rhythm of play. Beer runs to the fridge in the back of the garage, the lighting and passing of the joint, pee breaks in the frigid night air with the mountains and stars as a backdrop.
Play always starts slowly. Even those we have played with for years will change up their style on any given night, just to try and squeeze luck from some untapped corner. Besides, it is too soon to bluff your way into a big pot.
I’m drawing dead nearly every hand but I still have a nice stack of chips and play more for camaraderie and to get the feel for tonight’s game more than anything else. In the second hour, on my second beer, I finally catch a good hand and play it well, avoiding the temptation to be overeager and scare the others out of what looks to be a good pot for me.
Later, Reggie the dog comes back inside after patrolling the sagebrush and scrub outside. He comes straight up to me and presses himself against my legs. I pet him and feel a sticky wetness on the scruff of his neck. I figure one of us must have spilled a beer on him until I bring my hand near my face and catch a whiff of something horrible that he has rolled in.
“Reggie – go lie down!” I tell him sternly and he aims his yellow eyes at me and gives me a look that says, “dogs are just really little people – you love me.”
The smell is intense. Unnatural. Even so, I must honor the rhythms of the game. I wait to fold and then rise to wash my hands in the small bathroom just off the garage. The rest of the night the dog will distract me from my play – a split brain schizophrenia trying to play my cards inside my head while trying to avoid letting Reggie rub his foul fluid on my legs as he patrols counterclockwise under the table looking for scraps of popcorn and roasted almonds.
Trina Wood - What I Threw Away
It sounds so cliché, like the title of some cheesy country western song, “I threw away the love of the best man I’ve ever known…” But that’s the painful reality or near so anyway. The man who had stuck $1.86 in coins on his forehead on a sultry August night to charm my five year old daughter and make her think he was magic, the man who peeled pomegranates from the tree in his backyard to pull out the seeds for a reduction sauce over pork chops the first time he cooked for me, the man who made me take the three week gig in France at the Cannes Film Festival and watched my daughter part of the time I was gone, the man who stood under a massive oak and told me he loved me just a little bit more every day in front of our small group of wedding guests. All for another man who was equally a good cook, who encouraged me to follow my passion for photography, who looked me in the eyes as if seeing through to their depths below. But he wasn’t mine to have and what he gave was dishonesty and pain in the end. I foolishly believed I’d lost everything for short bursts of illicit passion, to feel like a 16 year old once again, but the love I thought I’d thrown away took root in the garbage and began to grow once more.
Jackie Davis Martin: I was the first to spot them
I was probably the first one to spot them. As a couple, I mean. Me and Lila were crashing the party, sort of, not exactly not wanted but not begged to come either. So, we put on our new sundresses, hers modest as all hell around the flouncy skirt part but then clinging like a sinking skin to her bosom which seemed too heavy for the strings that were the straps. We laughed they might pop. Mine was a halter thing, bright red, sort of like the picture we’d seen in the frame at the Ocean City gift shop, Monroe or somebody, and my tanned shoulders gleamed, I thought, seductively. We were going to try the booze, too, when no one was watching.
But I saw her Dad—Roger, I always called him Roger—with Mrs. Higgins laughing together in a corner of the deck. Roger liked to joke with us, to make us laugh, I always felt that Lila was the best thing that ever happened to him and anyone Lila liked—which was me—was wonderful too. With us he always did a ha-ha laugh, sort of from his face, but there on the deck—I can’t explain it—his laugh came from somewhere inside, soft and gentle, and his eyes looked dreamy and soft, too, as Mrs. Higgins smiled across the rim of her wine glass.
We all knew Mrs. Higgins—the wife of Doctor Higgins; they had the summer home five houses down to the right and had someone to watch their kids—four of them all around six years old—to keep them from drowning in the ocean. Mrs. Higgins was a joke to me and Lila—someone absolutely strapped with stupid responsibility even though she had help with it. On her own she looked frazzled, her hair falling in strands from a careless pony tail, her grappling with a stroller at the shopping center or chasing a toddler. She was always wiping and sighing.
Now Mrs. Higgins was sighing in a new way over her wine glass. Her hair hung to her shoulders, shiny and bouncy, and she said something to Roger who leaned forward to hear. Leaning forward he enfolded her hand in his, almost hidden in the folds of her skirt, a sort of peasant thing which you can bet cost a lot, and she kissed him on his ear! Briefly! The whole scene dissolved in two seconds and they sort of each took a step back.
I looked wildly around to see who else saw that. Lila was over by the punch bowl, furtively adding vodka to the two glasses of pink punch in front of her. She was a great friend. By the time she got to me her shoulders were looped with those thin straps and her bosom distinctly sagging. “Hold these,” she said, boosting the arrangement back into place. “See anything?”
But I saw her Dad—Roger, I always called him Roger—with Mrs. Higgins laughing together in a corner of the deck. Roger liked to joke with us, to make us laugh, I always felt that Lila was the best thing that ever happened to him and anyone Lila liked—which was me—was wonderful too. With us he always did a ha-ha laugh, sort of from his face, but there on the deck—I can’t explain it—his laugh came from somewhere inside, soft and gentle, and his eyes looked dreamy and soft, too, as Mrs. Higgins smiled across the rim of her wine glass.
We all knew Mrs. Higgins—the wife of Doctor Higgins; they had the summer home five houses down to the right and had someone to watch their kids—four of them all around six years old—to keep them from drowning in the ocean. Mrs. Higgins was a joke to me and Lila—someone absolutely strapped with stupid responsibility even though she had help with it. On her own she looked frazzled, her hair falling in strands from a careless pony tail, her grappling with a stroller at the shopping center or chasing a toddler. She was always wiping and sighing.
Now Mrs. Higgins was sighing in a new way over her wine glass. Her hair hung to her shoulders, shiny and bouncy, and she said something to Roger who leaned forward to hear. Leaning forward he enfolded her hand in his, almost hidden in the folds of her skirt, a sort of peasant thing which you can bet cost a lot, and she kissed him on his ear! Briefly! The whole scene dissolved in two seconds and they sort of each took a step back.
I looked wildly around to see who else saw that. Lila was over by the punch bowl, furtively adding vodka to the two glasses of pink punch in front of her. She was a great friend. By the time she got to me her shoulders were looped with those thin straps and her bosom distinctly sagging. “Hold these,” she said, boosting the arrangement back into place. “See anything?”
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