Thursday, February 18, 2010
Hazardous - Kaye Doiron
It would be hazardous to my health to delve into the hazards of deep thought today, or even to gaze upon the unconscious dribblings of my fingers as I try to make my way through the muck. Instead, I will skirt along the outer edge of consciousness, and refuse to go any farther.
Hazardous - Jackie Davis-Martin
The hazard was the exposure. She couldn’t possibly tell either of them.
That’s the way Audrey determined she’d set up the story. She’d call her character Ava, close but not exact, since everyone knew she wrote mostly about herself in one way or another. Everyone. She laughed there—a little harrumph to herself—since ‘everyone’ meant those who read what she wrote, which was a small set to begin with.
Ava could not possibly tell either Paul or Malik that she was sleeping with another man. If she told Paul, she risked several reactions that she could not endure. One was his refusal to ever see her again, to ever have those lovely moments in his big big bed bent over a volume of Yeats or Snodgrass, heads together and legs under the sheets, reading aloud, until they’d be entangled again.
Audrey re-read what she’d just made up about Ava. The name Ava maybe sounded too exotic, suggesting Gardner. But possibly a younger audience wouldn’t think of that, and besides, her audience wasn’t young; she didn’t have much of an audience really. So: Ava.
Paul was lovely! That’s all Ava could think. His body, his mind. She loved his clothes. She couldn’t give him up, give up their weekends together. Or their every-other weekend since Paul had a child, Paulie, who lived out of state, whom he visited on the weekends in between.
Ava had it made. If it weren’t for her conscience.
In between there was Malik. Malik worked weekends, conveniently for Ava, worked at a newspaper publishing plant actually working the presses. Malik was perhaps even smarter than Paul, although Paul had a smarter job. Ava would drive to Malik’s house (the way she drove to Paul’s) and he’d fix them breakfast or dinner depending on the time of day. She accommodated his schedule. Malik knew a great deal about psychology, about analysis; Ava felt she had to be forthright with him at all times (which she knew was a bit of a joke, considering her dilemma) and felt, when she was with him, that the air was purer, freer than it was with Paul who really postured a bit.
So: why did Ava have to admit anything? She’d gone on like this for six months—maybe more?—with the tension of one discovering the other and what it would mean.
Audrey paused in her writing. Did she have enough of a conflict going on? What was at stake for Ava now that wasn’t before?
The problem was that Malik changed his job. He applied for and actually received a teaching position at the community college in an effort to change his lot, to invite Ava fully into his life, he said. He hadn’t had much to offer her, but he would; he’d work at it. Besides, they’d have the weekends together now, far more suitable for her teaching schedule, too. Ava had told Malik she marked her students’ compositions on weekends, or went on outdoor club hikes with her girlfriends. Malik was so emotionally available—Ava guessed that was the word—that she could only imagine his reaction to her breaking things off with him. He’d cry; he’d openly grieve, not at the loss of her, but at the loss of what he perceived her to be; he’d cry that she was not the forthright woman he saw her as, frank and open and smart. He’d called her “my bright penny.” Then he’d probably throw something, too. He thought physical release was good, maybe why sex with Malik was one of the most satisfying experiences she’d ever had. That and the fact that he was so well endowed.
Audrey hesitated. Why not say “that and his big penis.”Big dick. Why not eliminate those words all together? The words themselves were hazardous.
So: Ava would have to endure hurting Malik if she told him. Worse, she’d have to give him up; she wouldn’t have that comfort in her life. She’d just have Paul. But was ‘having Paul’ even an option? Paul was playful; they’d go out to dinner, to an occasional concert, they’d play around in bed, but he seemed distracted with his other life, too, the child. Suppose she told Paul about Malik? “Are you some whore?” he’d say. “What the hell’s the matter with you?” He’d turn his back, right there in his own living room, forcing her to get in her car and drive home. How could she live without Paul?
Audrey sighed. Was Ava’s choice enough of a hazard? Maybe she’d re-write Paul a bit, make him a teacher at Ava’s school, hazard that exposure too. She’d have to think about it more. She’d decide something. She had to finish the story.
That’s the way Audrey determined she’d set up the story. She’d call her character Ava, close but not exact, since everyone knew she wrote mostly about herself in one way or another. Everyone. She laughed there—a little harrumph to herself—since ‘everyone’ meant those who read what she wrote, which was a small set to begin with.
Ava could not possibly tell either Paul or Malik that she was sleeping with another man. If she told Paul, she risked several reactions that she could not endure. One was his refusal to ever see her again, to ever have those lovely moments in his big big bed bent over a volume of Yeats or Snodgrass, heads together and legs under the sheets, reading aloud, until they’d be entangled again.
Audrey re-read what she’d just made up about Ava. The name Ava maybe sounded too exotic, suggesting Gardner. But possibly a younger audience wouldn’t think of that, and besides, her audience wasn’t young; she didn’t have much of an audience really. So: Ava.
Paul was lovely! That’s all Ava could think. His body, his mind. She loved his clothes. She couldn’t give him up, give up their weekends together. Or their every-other weekend since Paul had a child, Paulie, who lived out of state, whom he visited on the weekends in between.
Ava had it made. If it weren’t for her conscience.
In between there was Malik. Malik worked weekends, conveniently for Ava, worked at a newspaper publishing plant actually working the presses. Malik was perhaps even smarter than Paul, although Paul had a smarter job. Ava would drive to Malik’s house (the way she drove to Paul’s) and he’d fix them breakfast or dinner depending on the time of day. She accommodated his schedule. Malik knew a great deal about psychology, about analysis; Ava felt she had to be forthright with him at all times (which she knew was a bit of a joke, considering her dilemma) and felt, when she was with him, that the air was purer, freer than it was with Paul who really postured a bit.
So: why did Ava have to admit anything? She’d gone on like this for six months—maybe more?—with the tension of one discovering the other and what it would mean.
Audrey paused in her writing. Did she have enough of a conflict going on? What was at stake for Ava now that wasn’t before?
The problem was that Malik changed his job. He applied for and actually received a teaching position at the community college in an effort to change his lot, to invite Ava fully into his life, he said. He hadn’t had much to offer her, but he would; he’d work at it. Besides, they’d have the weekends together now, far more suitable for her teaching schedule, too. Ava had told Malik she marked her students’ compositions on weekends, or went on outdoor club hikes with her girlfriends. Malik was so emotionally available—Ava guessed that was the word—that she could only imagine his reaction to her breaking things off with him. He’d cry; he’d openly grieve, not at the loss of her, but at the loss of what he perceived her to be; he’d cry that she was not the forthright woman he saw her as, frank and open and smart. He’d called her “my bright penny.” Then he’d probably throw something, too. He thought physical release was good, maybe why sex with Malik was one of the most satisfying experiences she’d ever had. That and the fact that he was so well endowed.
Audrey hesitated. Why not say “that and his big penis.”Big dick. Why not eliminate those words all together? The words themselves were hazardous.
So: Ava would have to endure hurting Malik if she told him. Worse, she’d have to give him up; she wouldn’t have that comfort in her life. She’d just have Paul. But was ‘having Paul’ even an option? Paul was playful; they’d go out to dinner, to an occasional concert, they’d play around in bed, but he seemed distracted with his other life, too, the child. Suppose she told Paul about Malik? “Are you some whore?” he’d say. “What the hell’s the matter with you?” He’d turn his back, right there in his own living room, forcing her to get in her car and drive home. How could she live without Paul?
Audrey sighed. Was Ava’s choice enough of a hazard? Maybe she’d re-write Paul a bit, make him a teacher at Ava’s school, hazard that exposure too. She’d have to think about it more. She’d decide something. She had to finish the story.
Hazardous - Maria Robinson
I wanted to get away from my mother and all of the refinement, the stifling propriety, even the femininity of her world. Mother hadn't actually come from money, but had a great lineage, old WASP New York for generations in the same schools and clubs but without the flash and glamour of the nouveau-riche.
She'd gone to Spence then Barnard for two years as a day student, living at home in the family's crumbling apartment on Park. Once Mother married into Dad's clan, she became more traditional than ever. She finally had real money and stability. At Spence, I'd dropped acid and smoked dope like all of the other girls, but ultimately, I knew that we were all going to end in the same place, back on Park, as neighbors with children and dogs and husbands that we never saw or maybe even knew except for around the time of our weddings.
That's why I ran away with Sean. I imagined living in a great London 2 flat, converted to family and public space, with Sean's clients and artists always about. With two international sons, who'd feel as comfortable in Rome as they did in New York. But Sean was a "comer" and left me high and dry in the Chelsea house after he had worked all of my father's business contacts and sold them art.
It being London, I found some marijuana and was high for about a week until Mother came over from New York to take charge of things.
She'd gone to Spence then Barnard for two years as a day student, living at home in the family's crumbling apartment on Park. Once Mother married into Dad's clan, she became more traditional than ever. She finally had real money and stability. At Spence, I'd dropped acid and smoked dope like all of the other girls, but ultimately, I knew that we were all going to end in the same place, back on Park, as neighbors with children and dogs and husbands that we never saw or maybe even knew except for around the time of our weddings.
That's why I ran away with Sean. I imagined living in a great London 2 flat, converted to family and public space, with Sean's clients and artists always about. With two international sons, who'd feel as comfortable in Rome as they did in New York. But Sean was a "comer" and left me high and dry in the Chelsea house after he had worked all of my father's business contacts and sold them art.
It being London, I found some marijuana and was high for about a week until Mother came over from New York to take charge of things.
To Hazard Oneself - Donna Shomer
To hazard oneself
To sit here,
In this Thai Restaurant
Watching the beautiful girls
Waiting for take-out
I pull out my computer
and I write.
Maybe about their beauty
we always think that this place
might really be a front
for trafficking in human beauty
Or maybe about independence
about group versus alone
about trust versus suspicion
Or maybe about steadiness
about rhythm versus random
It is all the hazard
of setting it down
To sit here,
In this Thai Restaurant
Watching the beautiful girls
Waiting for take-out
I pull out my computer
and I write.
Maybe about their beauty
we always think that this place
might really be a front
for trafficking in human beauty
Or maybe about independence
about group versus alone
about trust versus suspicion
Or maybe about steadiness
about rhythm versus random
It is all the hazard
of setting it down
Hazardous - Camilla Basham
She says she was in love once before PaPoo. I ask her what he was like.
"King Cake." Silence followed as if that was self-explanatory.
"King Cake?"
"Sometimes he was fresh and sweet and something inside of him would surprise you; sometimes he was just plain stale and dry and you'd choke on his damn surprises." She chuckles, removes her bottle thick glasses, spits on them, then whips them on her bathrobe and returns them to the brim of her nose.
Her crooked bony finger points to a crow outside the window sitting on the fence.
"He's ungrateful."
"The crow?"
"Plops himself down on my windowsill every evening. I threw him some Saltine crackers. He tells me the ground is nice and wet and full with plenty of worms, but thanks anyway, he'll pass." She sits in silence as if she just said something as commonplace as "Nice day out."
"The crow said that to you, Maw Maw?"
"Who do I look like, Dr. Doolittle?" she lets out a raucous opened mouth laugh.
For Maw Maw there's no distinction between life and art. She’s a crazy poet and a court jester. Like the Marx brothers or Salvador Dali, she doesn’t see the world realistically. She reflects it in continually surprising and fascinating ways.
What I'm supposed to do now is put a small plastic cup to her mouth and tell her to take her pills. Instead, I sit across from her holding the cup between us on my flat palm, like some church tea candle; the flame we both stare into.
"Do you like taking these?" I finally ask.
"No, sha, not really. They just make me feel dumber than I already am, but quieter. Dumb but quiet. It's not liked that's going to cure me, anyway. There's no cure for crazy." She lets out a laugh and pulls her rosary and an old photo of PaPoo from the torn pocket of her bathrobe. The look in her grey eyes is suddenly that of complete lucidity. “Savages, those doctors are, savages.” Her hands massage her rosary beads; her lips move in silent prayer.
"I like you just the way you are, Maw Maw. I won't tell anybody if you don't."
She raises her twisted finger to her lips, "Shhhh." Tears moisten her eyes.
I medicate the toilet bowl instead, kiss her goodnight on the forehead, soften the lights and leave her to her enchanted world.
"King Cake." Silence followed as if that was self-explanatory.
"King Cake?"
"Sometimes he was fresh and sweet and something inside of him would surprise you; sometimes he was just plain stale and dry and you'd choke on his damn surprises." She chuckles, removes her bottle thick glasses, spits on them, then whips them on her bathrobe and returns them to the brim of her nose.
Her crooked bony finger points to a crow outside the window sitting on the fence.
"He's ungrateful."
"The crow?"
"Plops himself down on my windowsill every evening. I threw him some Saltine crackers. He tells me the ground is nice and wet and full with plenty of worms, but thanks anyway, he'll pass." She sits in silence as if she just said something as commonplace as "Nice day out."
"The crow said that to you, Maw Maw?"
"Who do I look like, Dr. Doolittle?" she lets out a raucous opened mouth laugh.
For Maw Maw there's no distinction between life and art. She’s a crazy poet and a court jester. Like the Marx brothers or Salvador Dali, she doesn’t see the world realistically. She reflects it in continually surprising and fascinating ways.
What I'm supposed to do now is put a small plastic cup to her mouth and tell her to take her pills. Instead, I sit across from her holding the cup between us on my flat palm, like some church tea candle; the flame we both stare into.
"Do you like taking these?" I finally ask.
"No, sha, not really. They just make me feel dumber than I already am, but quieter. Dumb but quiet. It's not liked that's going to cure me, anyway. There's no cure for crazy." She lets out a laugh and pulls her rosary and an old photo of PaPoo from the torn pocket of her bathrobe. The look in her grey eyes is suddenly that of complete lucidity. “Savages, those doctors are, savages.” Her hands massage her rosary beads; her lips move in silent prayer.
"I like you just the way you are, Maw Maw. I won't tell anybody if you don't."
She raises her twisted finger to her lips, "Shhhh." Tears moisten her eyes.
I medicate the toilet bowl instead, kiss her goodnight on the forehead, soften the lights and leave her to her enchanted world.
Savages - Judy Radin
Eileen Savage was my best friend for most of the fifteen years I lived in Berkeley. When we met she was a graduate student in anthropology and I was a junior. With an eight year age difference between us we were unlikely friends, but somehow we fit. Somehow we hit it off.
Eileen treated me like a kid at first – but I was a kid! She came to my twenty-first birthday party. She took me to Ledger’s Liquors on University Avenue to buy my first beer with my newly-legal ID, but for the first time ever the clerk didn’t ask. We had a big laugh about that.
It took a few years for my friendship with Eileen to take off. I couldn’t believe she actually wanted to be friends with me. We didn’t have much in common. She, a San Jose WASP, myself a New York Jew. But when a flat in her duplex on Southside opened up, she suggested I call her landlord and rent it.
Eileen was writing her dissertation in those days, but she was taking a short break when I moved in. It was the summer of 1975. I had just graduated, sort of. At the last minute, halfway through Spring quarter, the College of Letters and Science informed me that I was a half unit short for graduation. Unless I make up the unit I can’t graduate. I’d already been admitted to the University of Chicago graduate school and they said they would take me anyway. All they wanted was for Berkeley to certify my graduation. But the dean of Letters and Science wouldn’t cooperate – even though I was graduating with a 3.9 grade point average, with several A+ grades on my transcript, and Phi Beta Kappa to boot. A half unit is a half unit. My professors in the anthropology department let me go through the ceremony, and but it was pretend.
I never really wanted to move to Chicago. After growing up in New York I had no interest in returning to that kind of climite. Also, when I visited Chicago several months earlier, I learned from the students I met that there were frequent shootings across from the anthropology building. The south side of Chicago didn’t sound like a place I wanted to be. But how could I turn it down? It was such a good school.
Then I had a loophole. I wasn’t graduating. I took it as a sign from the Universe that I should hold off, take another year of classes, learn how to use a computer, then figure out what I was going to do. The half unit was giving me a chance to have another look at my future.
Eileen and I had a lot of fun that sumer, most of which revolved around drugs. We dabbled in peyote and mushrooms and speed, but mostly we smoked pot. Occasionally we drank gin or something, but we both considered alcohol of our parents’ world, so we mostly avoided it.
At the beginning of that summer, the summer I graduated but didn’t, I started getting strange sensations in my body. My fingers would get pink and puffy, or one of my feet would swell up. Sometimes I’d get a bumpy red rash on my face. I felt okay, and I mostly looked okay, but something weird was going on. That’s when I started to use the skills I learned in college, in archaeology classes, to dig into what was going on with me. Eileen was my companion and assistant on that journey. She almost had a Ph.D so she was a master at doing research.
I went to see a doctor, but he told me I was imaging it. “You crazy Berkeley kids,” he said. “You’re probably hallucinating.”
I studied everything I could find on food allergies and nutrition. “Diet for a Small Planet” was my favorite resource. Eileen was really into Adele Davis, a nutritionist who wrote about the interaction of food and illness. I changed my diet drastically. I stopped eating meat, drinking diet soda and coffee, and I tried to keep my food as clean and free of additives as was possible in the seventies. I tried to pretend that it was helping, but Eileen and I both knew that it wasn’t.
At the end of summer I had to start classes and Eileen had to get back to her dissertation. My symptoms subsided. I even forgot about my crazy body for a while. I took classes in computers and geography, subjects I knew would help me in graduate school. I wrote papers about climate change and animal extinctions during the Stone Age, and I learned to illustrate stone artifcats in ink. It was my favorite Fall quarter ever. To think I almost missed it.
Just after the Christmas holiday, though, my hands started to hurt again. It became difficult for me to hold a pen. Fortunately I could write my papers on a typewriter, but taking notes in class became impossible, as did my job working for my professor illustrating his finds from a recent dig in Kenya.
By then Eileen was becoming impatient with my complaining and constant pain. I didn’t know what was wrong with me and I was terrified. My fear frequently spilled over onto Eileen. She was my best friend. She had to listen to me. And she was too polite to tell me she couldn’t take it anymore. So she listened beyond her limit, tried to be supportive, but it didn’t take long for our friendship to be strained.
It was eight years before I was diagnosed with lupus. By then Eileen and I didn’t hang out as much. Sometimes when I knew she was home I’d knock on her door but she wouldn’t answer. That really hurt. But she had a dissertation to write. She had a life to live. I understood.
Eileen treated me like a kid at first – but I was a kid! She came to my twenty-first birthday party. She took me to Ledger’s Liquors on University Avenue to buy my first beer with my newly-legal ID, but for the first time ever the clerk didn’t ask. We had a big laugh about that.
It took a few years for my friendship with Eileen to take off. I couldn’t believe she actually wanted to be friends with me. We didn’t have much in common. She, a San Jose WASP, myself a New York Jew. But when a flat in her duplex on Southside opened up, she suggested I call her landlord and rent it.
Eileen was writing her dissertation in those days, but she was taking a short break when I moved in. It was the summer of 1975. I had just graduated, sort of. At the last minute, halfway through Spring quarter, the College of Letters and Science informed me that I was a half unit short for graduation. Unless I make up the unit I can’t graduate. I’d already been admitted to the University of Chicago graduate school and they said they would take me anyway. All they wanted was for Berkeley to certify my graduation. But the dean of Letters and Science wouldn’t cooperate – even though I was graduating with a 3.9 grade point average, with several A+ grades on my transcript, and Phi Beta Kappa to boot. A half unit is a half unit. My professors in the anthropology department let me go through the ceremony, and but it was pretend.
I never really wanted to move to Chicago. After growing up in New York I had no interest in returning to that kind of climite. Also, when I visited Chicago several months earlier, I learned from the students I met that there were frequent shootings across from the anthropology building. The south side of Chicago didn’t sound like a place I wanted to be. But how could I turn it down? It was such a good school.
Then I had a loophole. I wasn’t graduating. I took it as a sign from the Universe that I should hold off, take another year of classes, learn how to use a computer, then figure out what I was going to do. The half unit was giving me a chance to have another look at my future.
Eileen and I had a lot of fun that sumer, most of which revolved around drugs. We dabbled in peyote and mushrooms and speed, but mostly we smoked pot. Occasionally we drank gin or something, but we both considered alcohol of our parents’ world, so we mostly avoided it.
At the beginning of that summer, the summer I graduated but didn’t, I started getting strange sensations in my body. My fingers would get pink and puffy, or one of my feet would swell up. Sometimes I’d get a bumpy red rash on my face. I felt okay, and I mostly looked okay, but something weird was going on. That’s when I started to use the skills I learned in college, in archaeology classes, to dig into what was going on with me. Eileen was my companion and assistant on that journey. She almost had a Ph.D so she was a master at doing research.
I went to see a doctor, but he told me I was imaging it. “You crazy Berkeley kids,” he said. “You’re probably hallucinating.”
I studied everything I could find on food allergies and nutrition. “Diet for a Small Planet” was my favorite resource. Eileen was really into Adele Davis, a nutritionist who wrote about the interaction of food and illness. I changed my diet drastically. I stopped eating meat, drinking diet soda and coffee, and I tried to keep my food as clean and free of additives as was possible in the seventies. I tried to pretend that it was helping, but Eileen and I both knew that it wasn’t.
At the end of summer I had to start classes and Eileen had to get back to her dissertation. My symptoms subsided. I even forgot about my crazy body for a while. I took classes in computers and geography, subjects I knew would help me in graduate school. I wrote papers about climate change and animal extinctions during the Stone Age, and I learned to illustrate stone artifcats in ink. It was my favorite Fall quarter ever. To think I almost missed it.
Just after the Christmas holiday, though, my hands started to hurt again. It became difficult for me to hold a pen. Fortunately I could write my papers on a typewriter, but taking notes in class became impossible, as did my job working for my professor illustrating his finds from a recent dig in Kenya.
By then Eileen was becoming impatient with my complaining and constant pain. I didn’t know what was wrong with me and I was terrified. My fear frequently spilled over onto Eileen. She was my best friend. She had to listen to me. And she was too polite to tell me she couldn’t take it anymore. So she listened beyond her limit, tried to be supportive, but it didn’t take long for our friendship to be strained.
It was eight years before I was diagnosed with lupus. By then Eileen and I didn’t hang out as much. Sometimes when I knew she was home I’d knock on her door but she wouldn’t answer. That really hurt. But she had a dissertation to write. She had a life to live. I understood.
On Drugs - Jennifer Baljko
Drugs could be a good thing right now. Maybe they would help me sort out that illusionary state of being I feel suspended in at 6:46 a.m. I’ve got my running shoes laced and am waiting for a time in the morning when the roads between my house and the park have more people scurrying about and the streets criss-crossing the park have more traffic. It’s Barcelona. Life doesn’t start early here. Even the sun doesn’t get up before 8 a.m. this time of year. Running before 7 a.m. is too lonely and creepy for me. So I’ll wait a few more minutes before slipping in reality.
After my run, I have to mentally prepare for four hours of Spanish class. My head is swirling with vocabulary and verb conjugations. I’m dreaming about the verb ser – to be - soy, eres, es, somos, sois, son, and confusing it with the Catalan I’m been speaking for a couple of years already. Same verb, different words. Soc, ets, es, som, sou, son. States of being make my head foggy. Drugs or sleep may remedy the mind game I’m torturing myself with. I guess, for now, I’ll opt for adrenaline.
After my run, I have to mentally prepare for four hours of Spanish class. My head is swirling with vocabulary and verb conjugations. I’m dreaming about the verb ser – to be - soy, eres, es, somos, sois, son, and confusing it with the Catalan I’m been speaking for a couple of years already. Same verb, different words. Soc, ets, es, som, sou, son. States of being make my head foggy. Drugs or sleep may remedy the mind game I’m torturing myself with. I guess, for now, I’ll opt for adrenaline.
In the Stew - Karen Oliver
Stew. To stew. Beef stew. Strew. Strong, Bong, Long. Fong. Taiwan. Taiwan? It doesn’t take long to travel in the mind. I can stew in the words in my mind all day long, and I do. When i pause and notice, it astounds me the places I go. In seconds I have taken my mind and senses from the cinders I got in my knees as a child living near a coal–heated building to a particularly gory scene in a book I read yesterday to the palpable feeling of grace in the Blue Mosque in Istanbul. There is even an expression, don’t stew over it, Don’t obsess and let those thought spin around and around, biting the snake’s tail. It is fascinating to think that the thoughts are ephemeral; they have no substance at all. They are pure energy or pure nothingness. Thinking about a traumatic event, however, will make the body excrete the same hormones and have the same sensory reactions as the original event until we disconnect the two. That is why they think Eye Movement DR works for Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. It works on the brain to unfreeze the brain and stop the body from having the knee jerk reaction to the thought. I work on that with every thought.
In the Stew - Judy Albietz
“You must have a lot of questions,” Sophia said, as she bent down to talk to Lily.”Let’s sit down here,” she said, walking over to one of the rocks lining the path. Sam nodded his head. He wouldn’t let anyone hurt her. Now, as she sat next to Sophia, she could look closer into her face. Actually, she didn’t look so strange anymore, if you can get beyond the blueness of her. I can even imagine this weird-looking blue monkey medicine woman as my friend.
Something about Sophia reminded Lily of Gramma Jennie, who was always there for Lily, who always had time to listen. Her grandmother lived a mile away and Lily loved to spend the night at her apartment. They did things together. Organized photo albums, took Tango, her little border terrier, on a walk. They baked cakes and bread and cookies—mainly chocolate chip. She had all sorts of cool ways of saying things—old-fashioned expressions from her time. Like when she had a problem to solve and she would say “there are two ways around the barn.”
Sophia said, “We need to work out a plan to get you and Sam to safety … I do not want to scare you, but you are in grave danger here. That landslide was planned by Mort and the Pack. They want to kill you and Sam. And they will try again soon. We need to get to the safety of the Time Portal Temple.”
It took Lily no time to register she was terrified. She clutched her chest to keep the panic inside. Right, they want to kill us! Got the message about danger. Need to calm down. Then Lily, almost hysterical, wanted to laugh as she remembered another one of Gramma Jennie’s sayings: “Don’t get into a stew about this.”
Something about Sophia reminded Lily of Gramma Jennie, who was always there for Lily, who always had time to listen. Her grandmother lived a mile away and Lily loved to spend the night at her apartment. They did things together. Organized photo albums, took Tango, her little border terrier, on a walk. They baked cakes and bread and cookies—mainly chocolate chip. She had all sorts of cool ways of saying things—old-fashioned expressions from her time. Like when she had a problem to solve and she would say “there are two ways around the barn.”
Sophia said, “We need to work out a plan to get you and Sam to safety … I do not want to scare you, but you are in grave danger here. That landslide was planned by Mort and the Pack. They want to kill you and Sam. And they will try again soon. We need to get to the safety of the Time Portal Temple.”
It took Lily no time to register she was terrified. She clutched her chest to keep the panic inside. Right, they want to kill us! Got the message about danger. Need to calm down. Then Lily, almost hysterical, wanted to laugh as she remembered another one of Gramma Jennie’s sayings: “Don’t get into a stew about this.”
What He Couldn't Say - Carol Arnold
The words were simple enough, only five of them, all but one only one syllable, but strung together they were so complicated it hurt my brain just to say them in my head. How could I possibly say them aloud?
We had only three days this trip, and since neither of us had been to Italy before we decided to drive the whole country in one fell swoop. I am a romantic by nature, and what could be more so than driving the back roads of Italy tip to toe? It’s long and narrow as countries go, giving us plenty of time to talk. But we didn’t. We spent the drive staring out our respective windows, her’s the back left, mine the back right, both of us absorbed in our own scenery, none of which had anything to do with the landscape outside.
There we were in the most boisterous of countries, and the car was like a tomb. Paulo too seemed to be the silent type, our driver possibly the only such person in the entire country. Everyone else, the shopkeepers and hotel clerks, the waiters and policemen, all of them spoke volumes at the loudest pitch, all the while waving their arms around in great dramatic circles. It occurred to me that maybe that was how I should say the words, at the top of my lungs, waving my arms like a conductor leading the Philharmonic.
We made it all the way down to the tip of the boot, spending the night in a small house near the sea. The owner rented out one room, a tiny square of ancient stucco and tile, a yellow-paned window overlooking the surf-swept beach.
In the end, I never did say the words. I wrote them, accidentally. I had been staring out the window at a teenage girl, her face both happy and brooding in the way only Italian women can manage. She was negotiating a small herd of goats down to the water’s edge. Why she was doing this I don’t know, but the goats seemed to enjoy it, tripping in and out of the shallows like playful children.
A pad of pink notepaper and a pen were lying on the little table I was leaning on. As I squinted out at that flat blue horizon, I began to doodle and when I looked down I saw them. There they were, the words I couldn’t speak, written in fancy cursive with curly-cues endings, the words that made my brain hurt, the words that could destroy my life.
I don’t love you anymore.
The next morning we drove to Rome to catch our plane. She never did see it, the note. I crumpled it up and threw it in the wastebasket. True to form, I left it to find its home in some landfill on a wind-swept terrace overlooking the Mediterranean Sea, a romantic to the end.
We had only three days this trip, and since neither of us had been to Italy before we decided to drive the whole country in one fell swoop. I am a romantic by nature, and what could be more so than driving the back roads of Italy tip to toe? It’s long and narrow as countries go, giving us plenty of time to talk. But we didn’t. We spent the drive staring out our respective windows, her’s the back left, mine the back right, both of us absorbed in our own scenery, none of which had anything to do with the landscape outside.
There we were in the most boisterous of countries, and the car was like a tomb. Paulo too seemed to be the silent type, our driver possibly the only such person in the entire country. Everyone else, the shopkeepers and hotel clerks, the waiters and policemen, all of them spoke volumes at the loudest pitch, all the while waving their arms around in great dramatic circles. It occurred to me that maybe that was how I should say the words, at the top of my lungs, waving my arms like a conductor leading the Philharmonic.
We made it all the way down to the tip of the boot, spending the night in a small house near the sea. The owner rented out one room, a tiny square of ancient stucco and tile, a yellow-paned window overlooking the surf-swept beach.
In the end, I never did say the words. I wrote them, accidentally. I had been staring out the window at a teenage girl, her face both happy and brooding in the way only Italian women can manage. She was negotiating a small herd of goats down to the water’s edge. Why she was doing this I don’t know, but the goats seemed to enjoy it, tripping in and out of the shallows like playful children.
A pad of pink notepaper and a pen were lying on the little table I was leaning on. As I squinted out at that flat blue horizon, I began to doodle and when I looked down I saw them. There they were, the words I couldn’t speak, written in fancy cursive with curly-cues endings, the words that made my brain hurt, the words that could destroy my life.
I don’t love you anymore.
The next morning we drove to Rome to catch our plane. She never did see it, the note. I crumpled it up and threw it in the wastebasket. True to form, I left it to find its home in some landfill on a wind-swept terrace overlooking the Mediterranean Sea, a romantic to the end.
What He Couldn't Say - John Fetto
Hawley sat in the auditorium, mouth clamped shut, as he listened to people up on a stage framed by red velvet drapes, talk about what would happened if they went to war. They were angry, righteous, not scared, they were full of venom and condemnation, not fear or guilt, talking about how they were right and the other wrong, not shaking inside to think of the deep craters there would be where there once were villages, couldn’t say that American foreign policy was flawed. It was still a kind of war dance, festive, dancing around a fire, not thinking of the youthful bodies turned bloody and black. Hawley couldn’t tell them about any of that, because it made him sick to think about it, but he couldn’t tell Gil he didn’t want to come, and now he couldn’t tell these people what they wouldn’t understand, what made him sick just thinking about. That another batch of fresh faced young men, would sign up to go to a country where they would be hated, walking like armed guards though a cemetery that grew with each day, waiting for someone to pat them on the back, and all they did was look at them in horror, knowing that wherever they went, so went death, so that even if the young men didn’t die, when they came back, they’d feel horribly old. Hawley couldn’t say any of that.
What I Wished I Had Said - Melody Cryns
How do I tell Mike Halloran how great I think he is, that as I get to know him better and see him, I like him more and more? Maybe I should not tell him, because I don’t want the magic to end. I’d rather bask in his strength and warmth as we hung out together at the Superbowl party we attended – at my favorite hang-out place, Woodham’s.
I finally got the nerve up to send an email to Daveed letting him know I only want to be friends, but he is not going down without a fight. Now he’s counter-offered with a “friends with benefits” option, detailing the specifics of this type of relationship in several paragraphs of a rather long, voluminous email. And I found myself thinking, is that what people do when they’re in relationships? They outline it? No, no, this can’t be. So I haven’t had the heart to tell him no…my heart isn’t with you. I like you, but my heart isn’t with you…how does one break another’s heart?
Then there’s my long-time friend and guitar teacher, Mike Sult – because of Mike Sult, my life is surrounded by music and wonderful musician friends. Because of Mike, I still play guitar. He’s inspired so many people – and then I got to know Kenny, who owns Woodham’s, and the rest is history. There was a time, like all those years he was separated from his wife, that I would’ve given anything in the world to ask him out…yet I didn’t. He’s kind of a shy guy, and well…I didn’t know how complicated is life was so I kept my feelings to myself. A couple of years ago, his wife moved back in, so whatever chance I might or might not have had went out the window. But we’re still such good friends, and Mike Sult remains my wonderful guitar teacher friend.
He was at the superbowl party yesterday and I introduced Mike Halloran to him, and Mike Sult won the grand prize of a 10-person tent…and we both noted that we had matching superbowl necklaces on.
It was so good to spend time with Mike Halloran and for him to talk to all of the awesome bass players and musicians – he’s a great man who has seen and done so much but he had a stroke eight months ago that left one side of his body paralyzed, yet he doesn’t let it get him down.
After the game, Mike H. drove me home because he had come over earlier and hung out with me and we’d driven over in my car. Then reality hit and I had to go pick up my daughter from her friend’s house and bring her home.
Once Megan was all settled in and all was well, I thought – what the heck? Lemme go check out what’s happenin’ at Woodham’s tonight? I still had my football superbowl necklace on and when I got there, Mike Sult was playing guitar – he had never left! Larry was hosting the jam – he’s an excellent guitarist. He wasn’t at the superbowl party yesterday though. It took me a few moments to realize that my good friend Mike Sult was totally SMASHED! In all the years I’ve known him, I have never seen him like that. Something about him walking up to me and slurring … “Oh yeah, I remember you from earlier! Look, we’ve got matching necklaces!”
Kenny came up and said that Mike was attempting to ride his bike home. It was like, no way dude. You are NOT riding your bike home in your condition. “Am I really that smashed?” Mike slurred…all I could say was, “I’ve seen worse.”
How I wanted to hug him and maybe even kiss him still…even after all these years. And I knew it wouldn’t have been difficult. But of course it just wasn’t something I’d do.
Needless to say, Kenny was also pretty drunk although you couldn’t tell, and so was everyone else there. Since I was sober, I told Mike I was driving him home as he has to teach a class at Foothill this morning. Kenny had to physically bring Mike’s bike inside and tell him it would be safe ‘til the next day and he was NOT riding it home. It took a lot of convincing, like about an hour or so!
Finally, I just said, “C’mon, you’re going home. You’re my friend and I’m not going to let you ride your bike.” I brought Mike out to my car and made him get in! It was weird seeing him that way. I mean, this is my teacher and friend…and Mike is usually such a calm, cool and collected dude you know? He fretted over what his wife would think of him not being able to ride his bike home, and I said that was the least of his worries. The funny thing was, the whole time I was driving Mike home (a little ways and the dude never would’ve made it on his bike, trust me on that!), he was using the butter knife to attempt to get that CD out of my CD player and you know what? That sucker STILL won’t come out! When I see you again, I have to get you to check it out. I just don’t know what to do. It’s like that CD is stuck in there FOREVER!
Of course, Mike Sult was not himself so maybe that’s why he couldn’t get the CD out!
So I dropped Mike off at his house and he gave me a hug and kiss and told me I was a good friend and then he said, “You’re not going to tell anyone in my class about this are you?” He looked like a kid who had done something terribly wrong. “No, of course not!” I said.
And, of course I mean that. I would never say anything to people in our class.
So I headed back to Woodham’s and just stayed for a little bit…told Kenny that Mike S. made it home safely. listened to some good blues and rock n’ roll and then headed home. I had done my good deed of the day!
I finally got the nerve up to send an email to Daveed letting him know I only want to be friends, but he is not going down without a fight. Now he’s counter-offered with a “friends with benefits” option, detailing the specifics of this type of relationship in several paragraphs of a rather long, voluminous email. And I found myself thinking, is that what people do when they’re in relationships? They outline it? No, no, this can’t be. So I haven’t had the heart to tell him no…my heart isn’t with you. I like you, but my heart isn’t with you…how does one break another’s heart?
Then there’s my long-time friend and guitar teacher, Mike Sult – because of Mike Sult, my life is surrounded by music and wonderful musician friends. Because of Mike, I still play guitar. He’s inspired so many people – and then I got to know Kenny, who owns Woodham’s, and the rest is history. There was a time, like all those years he was separated from his wife, that I would’ve given anything in the world to ask him out…yet I didn’t. He’s kind of a shy guy, and well…I didn’t know how complicated is life was so I kept my feelings to myself. A couple of years ago, his wife moved back in, so whatever chance I might or might not have had went out the window. But we’re still such good friends, and Mike Sult remains my wonderful guitar teacher friend.
He was at the superbowl party yesterday and I introduced Mike Halloran to him, and Mike Sult won the grand prize of a 10-person tent…and we both noted that we had matching superbowl necklaces on.
It was so good to spend time with Mike Halloran and for him to talk to all of the awesome bass players and musicians – he’s a great man who has seen and done so much but he had a stroke eight months ago that left one side of his body paralyzed, yet he doesn’t let it get him down.
After the game, Mike H. drove me home because he had come over earlier and hung out with me and we’d driven over in my car. Then reality hit and I had to go pick up my daughter from her friend’s house and bring her home.
Once Megan was all settled in and all was well, I thought – what the heck? Lemme go check out what’s happenin’ at Woodham’s tonight? I still had my football superbowl necklace on and when I got there, Mike Sult was playing guitar – he had never left! Larry was hosting the jam – he’s an excellent guitarist. He wasn’t at the superbowl party yesterday though. It took me a few moments to realize that my good friend Mike Sult was totally SMASHED! In all the years I’ve known him, I have never seen him like that. Something about him walking up to me and slurring … “Oh yeah, I remember you from earlier! Look, we’ve got matching necklaces!”
Kenny came up and said that Mike was attempting to ride his bike home. It was like, no way dude. You are NOT riding your bike home in your condition. “Am I really that smashed?” Mike slurred…all I could say was, “I’ve seen worse.”
How I wanted to hug him and maybe even kiss him still…even after all these years. And I knew it wouldn’t have been difficult. But of course it just wasn’t something I’d do.
Needless to say, Kenny was also pretty drunk although you couldn’t tell, and so was everyone else there. Since I was sober, I told Mike I was driving him home as he has to teach a class at Foothill this morning. Kenny had to physically bring Mike’s bike inside and tell him it would be safe ‘til the next day and he was NOT riding it home. It took a lot of convincing, like about an hour or so!
Finally, I just said, “C’mon, you’re going home. You’re my friend and I’m not going to let you ride your bike.” I brought Mike out to my car and made him get in! It was weird seeing him that way. I mean, this is my teacher and friend…and Mike is usually such a calm, cool and collected dude you know? He fretted over what his wife would think of him not being able to ride his bike home, and I said that was the least of his worries. The funny thing was, the whole time I was driving Mike home (a little ways and the dude never would’ve made it on his bike, trust me on that!), he was using the butter knife to attempt to get that CD out of my CD player and you know what? That sucker STILL won’t come out! When I see you again, I have to get you to check it out. I just don’t know what to do. It’s like that CD is stuck in there FOREVER!
Of course, Mike Sult was not himself so maybe that’s why he couldn’t get the CD out!
So I dropped Mike off at his house and he gave me a hug and kiss and told me I was a good friend and then he said, “You’re not going to tell anyone in my class about this are you?” He looked like a kid who had done something terribly wrong. “No, of course not!” I said.
And, of course I mean that. I would never say anything to people in our class.
So I headed back to Woodham’s and just stayed for a little bit…told Kenny that Mike S. made it home safely. listened to some good blues and rock n’ roll and then headed home. I had done my good deed of the day!
Monday, February 15, 2010
A Small Loan - Darcy Vebber
Lisa kept money on the top of her bureau, in her bedroom. Small bills and change, in a wide mouthed blue bowl. She liked seeing it there. Extra. Casual. Money left lying around. Like all her routines, the coffee in the morning, the cold beer at night, it made her feel safe. The money went here, her watch was placed there, the cell in its charger in the back, next to the photographs of her family and her friends.
Kate must have seen the money when she was looking at the photographs. She was particularly interested in one of the family, Kate, Lisa, their parents Alice and Marc, on the front porch of the house in Window Rock. She said she didn’t remember Marc at all.
Lisa had been in bed, trying to read. When Kate was drinking she didn’t sleep and when she didn’t sleep, she liked to argue. Lisa knew better than to say, as she had said before, you were thirteen when he died, you must remember something. Instead, she had nodded and held the script she was reading a little higher. It was another romantic comedy, written by an older man who had dozens of produced films in his past. It seemed mostly sad to Lisa. Too much longing. Too much disappointment.
Kate must have taken the money then. When Lisa got up to go to the kitchen for a glass of water, she saw that the money was gone. She didn’t really register it until she walked through the living room where Kate was meant to be sleeping. The TV was off, the blankets were still folded on the couch.
In the morning, Kate explained it this way. She got a text from Sam. He wanted to talk. Kate thought maybe he wanted to talk about Lisa. Maybe he wanted to see if she would take him back.
“So I said I’d meet him, right? I mean, if I hadn’t ..?” Kate was lying on the couch now, tangled up in the blanket and sheets, her short thin hair standing up on end and her eyelids puffy. She lifted her head to see her sister standing in the doorway but did not sit all the way up. “I wanted to help.”
Lisa cradled her coffee cup in both hands. She felt pressure, below her heart, maybe at the level of the diaphragm. Like someone was pushing in. Talking about Sam always made her feel that. Hearing someone else talk about him. His on going life, his life without her. Especially hearing Kate talk about it in her calm, distracted way. “So, what did he want to talk about?”
“Jesus,” said Kate. She yawned. “You know, how happy he is with Jesus. And money. He wanted to know if I could lend him money.” She laughed. “What an idiot.” Turning her face to the cushions, she said, “I’ve got to get some sleep.”
Kate must have seen the money when she was looking at the photographs. She was particularly interested in one of the family, Kate, Lisa, their parents Alice and Marc, on the front porch of the house in Window Rock. She said she didn’t remember Marc at all.
Lisa had been in bed, trying to read. When Kate was drinking she didn’t sleep and when she didn’t sleep, she liked to argue. Lisa knew better than to say, as she had said before, you were thirteen when he died, you must remember something. Instead, she had nodded and held the script she was reading a little higher. It was another romantic comedy, written by an older man who had dozens of produced films in his past. It seemed mostly sad to Lisa. Too much longing. Too much disappointment.
Kate must have taken the money then. When Lisa got up to go to the kitchen for a glass of water, she saw that the money was gone. She didn’t really register it until she walked through the living room where Kate was meant to be sleeping. The TV was off, the blankets were still folded on the couch.
In the morning, Kate explained it this way. She got a text from Sam. He wanted to talk. Kate thought maybe he wanted to talk about Lisa. Maybe he wanted to see if she would take him back.
“So I said I’d meet him, right? I mean, if I hadn’t ..?” Kate was lying on the couch now, tangled up in the blanket and sheets, her short thin hair standing up on end and her eyelids puffy. She lifted her head to see her sister standing in the doorway but did not sit all the way up. “I wanted to help.”
Lisa cradled her coffee cup in both hands. She felt pressure, below her heart, maybe at the level of the diaphragm. Like someone was pushing in. Talking about Sam always made her feel that. Hearing someone else talk about him. His on going life, his life without her. Especially hearing Kate talk about it in her calm, distracted way. “So, what did he want to talk about?”
“Jesus,” said Kate. She yawned. “You know, how happy he is with Jesus. And money. He wanted to know if I could lend him money.” She laughed. “What an idiot.” Turning her face to the cushions, she said, “I’ve got to get some sleep.”
A Small Loan...or Maybe a Big One - Carol Arnold
The way I look at it, it’s a loan that I’ve already paid back. I mean look what I’ve had to put up with all those years, Johnny spending his days at the Philosopher’s Club, coming home high as a kite and me having to listen yet again to one more get rich scheme while cooking up another batch of beans I bought in sacks from Food-for-Less. And then the house! I agree twenty-four days isn’t long in the whole scheme of things, but in THIS house, it’s the rest of your life. How would you like to sit all day in an attic with your nose burning from that under-smell, the one I couldn’t quite figure out until I pried up that board? And that’s on top of the over-smell that wafted all through the house, that just plain rotten stench that made my skin shrivel so much I had to load on a whole bottle of Jergin’s every night just to bring it back to something resembling human. So many years of wretched rain soaked up into that big sponge of a house made everything smell like wet cow-pie, or worse. You couldn’t give me enough money to get rid of that smell, or all those wasted years. So, what me and Gwennie found under that board was just a little down payment if you ask me.
A Small Loan - Maria Robinson
Vera's pottery studio had begun with a small loan from her then-husband Ted. A small crew had built the cinderblock shed in their Berkeley backyard and a professional kiln was installed. Ted, a Berkeley prof had moved them from Chicago and Vera had not established an office for her immigration law practice, yet alone taken the California Bar.
Despite being a dyed in the wool feminist, she was being "kept" and felt miserable about it. She never fit into the faculty wives club. She was always covered in an apron splashed with clay, with dust filled fingernails. Yet, she'd met her mentor in Berkeley, a Japanese ceramicist, Matsu Oribe, who had guided her hand into the world of earth and fire, clay and ash, and the study how to transform mud into glass.
Despite being a dyed in the wool feminist, she was being "kept" and felt miserable about it. She never fit into the faculty wives club. She was always covered in an apron splashed with clay, with dust filled fingernails. Yet, she'd met her mentor in Berkeley, a Japanese ceramicist, Matsu Oribe, who had guided her hand into the world of earth and fire, clay and ash, and the study how to transform mud into glass.
Eating Breakfast - John Fetto
Col. Firth did a half hour of calisthenics and another thirty minute run around the compound before breakfast. Every day. Rain or shine, knees pumping, racing the last hundred yards, a little kick. When he walked into the mess, he was wide awake, already fine tuned, on edge. He’d pull his chair out noisily and chuckle as he sat down, gloating over the sleepy eyed staff, heads bowed over their bowls. They were physically younger, stronger, but Firth was stronger in spirit. He’d always been stronger. That was why he sat where he was and they sat where they were. He was sure of it. So he smiled broadly, waiting to be served.
Eating Breakfast - Judy Albietz
Lucky for Sam and Lily they found that cave. They dove into it just as the crazed pack of dogs had caught up with them. Shaking with exhaustion and fear, Lily hunkered against Sam’s warm furry body. “I could hear them licking their chops, like we’re their main course for dinner,” she whispered. “So … why aren’t they coming in after us?”
“I do not know why, but they are not trying to get inside, so we are safe in here,” Sam replied, gently laying his head on Lily’s shoulder. He blinked his worried brown eyes. “These nasty creatures are not the dogs I used to know. They must be infected with some illness, some virus. I hardly recognize them. Their heads are twice as big as they used to be. And they have grown those large fangs. Their tongues used to be pink. Now they are gray. The pack never let their coats get so ragged and filthy.”
“What do we do now?” Lily asked.
“Rest and we will make our escape after they fall asleep,” Sam replied.
From the back of the cave room, Lily knew there was no way she was going to sleep as she laid curled up next to the big dog. They both looked out through the doorway to the frightening scene outside.
“They are not slowing down,” Lily said, trying to keep her voice from shaking. As the night wore on, the insane dogs didn’t even lie down. In fact, they never stopped moving.
Outside, the dogs ran and trotted back and forth, leaped in the air, rolled around in the dirt, dug holes and pulled plants out of the ground. They got angrier and angrier, nipping and fighting with each other—all the time yelping and growling while they were in perpetual motion.
Looks like their plan is to wait us out, hoping we get hungry in the morning and try to leave,” Sam replied.
“Right … and then we’ll be their main course for breakfast. Okay, Sam, we need our own plan. Is there any other way out of the cave?”
“Yes, I have considered that. But it is too dangerous.”
“What do you mean? Dangerous … as opposed to what … our other option?”
“Lily, as you say, ‘here’s the story.’ These caves were designed by humans when they lived here thousands of years ago. As you can see, I barely fit in this front room. There are more rooms behind us—usually about three to five rooms were dug deep into the hillside. The rooms are linked to each other with small entrances. At the end of the last room will be a narrow tunnel leading to another outside opening to this cave house. It will be on the other side of the slope. But I’m too big. I can’t go out that way. I can’t even fit through the entrance to the next room. I can do a lot of things, but I cannot make myself that small.”
Lily sat quietly for a moment. Then she reached over to scratch behind Sam’s ears. “Sam, here’s the deal. I’ll do it. I’ll go to the back, make a lot of noise and the pack dogs’ll think we’re leaving out the back door. You know, they really look way too stupid to realize that you’re stuck in this front room.
“I do not know why, but they are not trying to get inside, so we are safe in here,” Sam replied, gently laying his head on Lily’s shoulder. He blinked his worried brown eyes. “These nasty creatures are not the dogs I used to know. They must be infected with some illness, some virus. I hardly recognize them. Their heads are twice as big as they used to be. And they have grown those large fangs. Their tongues used to be pink. Now they are gray. The pack never let their coats get so ragged and filthy.”
“What do we do now?” Lily asked.
“Rest and we will make our escape after they fall asleep,” Sam replied.
From the back of the cave room, Lily knew there was no way she was going to sleep as she laid curled up next to the big dog. They both looked out through the doorway to the frightening scene outside.
“They are not slowing down,” Lily said, trying to keep her voice from shaking. As the night wore on, the insane dogs didn’t even lie down. In fact, they never stopped moving.
Outside, the dogs ran and trotted back and forth, leaped in the air, rolled around in the dirt, dug holes and pulled plants out of the ground. They got angrier and angrier, nipping and fighting with each other—all the time yelping and growling while they were in perpetual motion.
Looks like their plan is to wait us out, hoping we get hungry in the morning and try to leave,” Sam replied.
“Right … and then we’ll be their main course for breakfast. Okay, Sam, we need our own plan. Is there any other way out of the cave?”
“Yes, I have considered that. But it is too dangerous.”
“What do you mean? Dangerous … as opposed to what … our other option?”
“Lily, as you say, ‘here’s the story.’ These caves were designed by humans when they lived here thousands of years ago. As you can see, I barely fit in this front room. There are more rooms behind us—usually about three to five rooms were dug deep into the hillside. The rooms are linked to each other with small entrances. At the end of the last room will be a narrow tunnel leading to another outside opening to this cave house. It will be on the other side of the slope. But I’m too big. I can’t go out that way. I can’t even fit through the entrance to the next room. I can do a lot of things, but I cannot make myself that small.”
Lily sat quietly for a moment. Then she reached over to scratch behind Sam’s ears. “Sam, here’s the deal. I’ll do it. I’ll go to the back, make a lot of noise and the pack dogs’ll think we’re leaving out the back door. You know, they really look way too stupid to realize that you’re stuck in this front room.
Making Breakfast - Darlene Nelson
The morning after my mother died, I made my father breakfast.
I opened the cabinets and pulled out two skillets, a small one for eggs, and the larger for bacon. I plugged in the old toaster and placed two slices of wheat bread in it. I noticed the dark crumbs that were at the bottom of the toaster, who knew how long they had been there crisping. When the scent of the bacon filled my nostrils, I began to cry. I distracted myself with scrambling the eggs.
I set the table with all of my mother’s things – her plates, silverware, salt and pepper shakers. I did not cry again until I took the butter out of the refrigerator. The container was half-empty and I knew my mother had consumed part of it. She had touched it.
I looked at the oven clock. It was 8:16.
I opened the cabinets and pulled out two skillets, a small one for eggs, and the larger for bacon. I plugged in the old toaster and placed two slices of wheat bread in it. I noticed the dark crumbs that were at the bottom of the toaster, who knew how long they had been there crisping. When the scent of the bacon filled my nostrils, I began to cry. I distracted myself with scrambling the eggs.
I set the table with all of my mother’s things – her plates, silverware, salt and pepper shakers. I did not cry again until I took the butter out of the refrigerator. The container was half-empty and I knew my mother had consumed part of it. She had touched it.
I looked at the oven clock. It was 8:16.
Eating Breakfast - Donna Shomer
Breakfast is often prehistoric
by this I mean: Before history sets in
before the daily rush of must and should
there is toast.
there is coffee and dog.
there may be a novel or a poem but
no science yet. Alright
it all seeps in but slowly –
it’s a good trick but
I don’t know how I do it –
because sometimes in the depth of night
I awake to urgent histories
real, possible, pressing –
and I cannot banish them.
by this I mean: Before history sets in
before the daily rush of must and should
there is toast.
there is coffee and dog.
there may be a novel or a poem but
no science yet. Alright
it all seeps in but slowly –
it’s a good trick but
I don’t know how I do it –
because sometimes in the depth of night
I awake to urgent histories
real, possible, pressing –
and I cannot banish them.
Eating Breakfast - Jennifer Baljko
Breakfast is my favorite meal of the day, most days. Sometimes it’s lunch, or my late afternoon tea and chocolate snack. But, that’s neither here or there. Breakfast tends to rule as king of my table. I love the variety breakfast offers almost equally as much as I love the routine it creates. Some mornings, like today, where breakfast is besides the computer as I type, I’m struck by the simplicity – and worldliness – of it all.
Dollops of creamy Greek yogurt bought by the kilo at the Boqueria market in downtown Barcelona resemble meringue clouds. Bright red Goji berries they say come from the Tibetan side of the Himalayas, dried cranberries I’m certain are from New England, walnuts shipped from California, hazelnuts grown in the southern Catalonia around Reus, shredded coconut hand-carried back from the Philippines swirled together with locally produced honey. Sinful sweetness. Next to the yogurt, bananas from the Canary Islands dot my American peanut butter-slathered French baguette. And, the smooth Arabic blend from Kenya warms my throat. It’s the kitchen table world tour.
Dollops of creamy Greek yogurt bought by the kilo at the Boqueria market in downtown Barcelona resemble meringue clouds. Bright red Goji berries they say come from the Tibetan side of the Himalayas, dried cranberries I’m certain are from New England, walnuts shipped from California, hazelnuts grown in the southern Catalonia around Reus, shredded coconut hand-carried back from the Philippines swirled together with locally produced honey. Sinful sweetness. Next to the yogurt, bananas from the Canary Islands dot my American peanut butter-slathered French baguette. And, the smooth Arabic blend from Kenya warms my throat. It’s the kitchen table world tour.
Smoking - Camilla Basham
I stand alone in the corner watching the door. Singing a happy song in my head to drown out the snickers and laughter directed my way. “How long can you withstand torture, Ruthie?” an inner voice interrupts. And I have a feeling that voice isn’t referring to just this night. “No more.” I answer back. It’s obvious he’s not coming: no first dance, no first kiss.
I pass two of the mean girls smoking in the corner and leave the sweaty gym to the strains of some mushy generic love song and giggles from some other girls who will no doubt grow up to be total bitches (sorry God). I hear the metal door slam shut behind me just as the chorus kicks in. Now the only sounds are the crickets and the distant rumble of the oil refineries. The only light besides the full moon is from a windowpane a good hundred yards past the rice field. I hike up my dress kick off my Mary Janes for the last time and follow that light towards Will’s house. A breeze delivers the scent of honeysuckle to my nose and a chill to my bare arms. About twenty yards into the already flooded rice field the sky opens up; lightening sizzles the air and I feel raindrops the size of buckshot pelting my falling hair, the occasional warm crayfish hole squishing between my toes.
I stare at that light the way MawMaw, when she forgets to take her medicine, stares at the test pattern on the TV screen long after the station signs off for the night: half disappointed, half hopeful. I make it to Will’s windowsill and see the light is coming from his kitchen, so I tap, but no one answers. I walk around to the back to an opened kitchen window and hear the faint sound of a radio playing somewhere inside. The sheer curtains dance in the breeze and I put my lips to them and whisper, “Will.” In the air a familiar smell, an out of place scent. It reminds me of the time my brother took me dove hunting against my will and I hid behind sand bags in the marsh covering my ears as he pumped away at the falling birds overhead.
I pass two of the mean girls smoking in the corner and leave the sweaty gym to the strains of some mushy generic love song and giggles from some other girls who will no doubt grow up to be total bitches (sorry God). I hear the metal door slam shut behind me just as the chorus kicks in. Now the only sounds are the crickets and the distant rumble of the oil refineries. The only light besides the full moon is from a windowpane a good hundred yards past the rice field. I hike up my dress kick off my Mary Janes for the last time and follow that light towards Will’s house. A breeze delivers the scent of honeysuckle to my nose and a chill to my bare arms. About twenty yards into the already flooded rice field the sky opens up; lightening sizzles the air and I feel raindrops the size of buckshot pelting my falling hair, the occasional warm crayfish hole squishing between my toes.
I stare at that light the way MawMaw, when she forgets to take her medicine, stares at the test pattern on the TV screen long after the station signs off for the night: half disappointed, half hopeful. I make it to Will’s windowsill and see the light is coming from his kitchen, so I tap, but no one answers. I walk around to the back to an opened kitchen window and hear the faint sound of a radio playing somewhere inside. The sheer curtains dance in the breeze and I put my lips to them and whisper, “Will.” In the air a familiar smell, an out of place scent. It reminds me of the time my brother took me dove hunting against my will and I hid behind sand bags in the marsh covering my ears as he pumped away at the falling birds overhead.
Making Breakfast - Karen Oliver
Break fast. I wonder what the origin of “fast” is? Its meaning is so different from the way we use the word. Breakfast. It doesn’t seem like a fast if you are sleeping through it. Fast implies some sort of discipline or sacrifice to me. I guess if I was breaking a fast I would do it with consciousness and be very delicate in my attitude. I would eat fruit, only fresh and organic ,or maybe yogurt or a smoothie with great ingredients like wheat germ or special honey.
I never think like that though. We have big family breakfasts whenever everyone is around. Pancakes made with the special recipe written in pencil on the back page of the old organizer, handed down from mother to son and worked with for years. A slight change in the flour or baking soda and it is a completely different creation and brings comments from the peanut gallery (for those of you who know what that is). Fresh “fruit goop” which is a cooked concoction that is exactly what it says it is and, of course, bacon. The best. No delicate “fast breaking” for our family.
I never think like that though. We have big family breakfasts whenever everyone is around. Pancakes made with the special recipe written in pencil on the back page of the old organizer, handed down from mother to son and worked with for years. A slight change in the flour or baking soda and it is a completely different creation and brings comments from the peanut gallery (for those of you who know what that is). Fresh “fruit goop” which is a cooked concoction that is exactly what it says it is and, of course, bacon. The best. No delicate “fast breaking” for our family.
Smoking - Judy Radin
She was sixteen when she smoked her first joint. She’d already been smoking cigarettes for a while so she didn’t cough as much as some of the other kids who were also trying pot for the first time. It was a Saturday evening in May. They all just returned from an afternoon in the city. Just about every Saturday this group of six girls took the train from Hicksville Station on Long Island into Manhattan. Their favorite place to go was the Hip Bagel on Bleeker Street. They’d sit around a big table drinking coffee, picking at bagels and cream cheese, feeling grown up and so cool with cigarettes dangling from their lips. Greenwich Village was always buzzing on Saturday afternoons. It was a younger crowd than downtown – more of a hippie scene, with so many cute guys to meet. It was always harmless fun, just a few laughs over lunch. Then they’d get back on the train and head back to the burbs.
The group was sitting around her backyard trying to figure out what to do for the rest of the day. All their their money was gone, spent on coffee and bagels and train fare, so going to see the new Kubrick movie at the Meadowbrook was definitely out. Luckily Mike Simmons called and asked if he could stop by. Mike had a little crush on one of them, so whenever he knew she was visiting he’d want to come over.
With no parents around Mike felt safe pulling out a slightly-crumpled white stick and lighting it up. It looked like a cigarette that had been in his pocket for a long time, all twisted and messy-looking. Mike held it up to his mouth and struck a match. He inhaled deeply until the end of the stick was glowing red. Then he passed it around.
“Inhale,” he said. “Breathe deeply and hold it for a bit.”
She complied.
It wasn’t like smoking a cigarette. Something new and wonderful was happening inside her brain. At first she didn’t notice anything. She’d heard people say that the sky gets bluer when you’re stoned on pot, and the trees are greener. None of that was happening. It was just an average beautiful spring evening. But then she felt like a puff of silky cotton was being injected in her brain. Instant peace. Everything slowed down. After all the years of speed, which she’d been taking since first grade, it was such a relief to slow down. Forty years later, it was still a relief. And that was the problem.
The group was sitting around her backyard trying to figure out what to do for the rest of the day. All their their money was gone, spent on coffee and bagels and train fare, so going to see the new Kubrick movie at the Meadowbrook was definitely out. Luckily Mike Simmons called and asked if he could stop by. Mike had a little crush on one of them, so whenever he knew she was visiting he’d want to come over.
With no parents around Mike felt safe pulling out a slightly-crumpled white stick and lighting it up. It looked like a cigarette that had been in his pocket for a long time, all twisted and messy-looking. Mike held it up to his mouth and struck a match. He inhaled deeply until the end of the stick was glowing red. Then he passed it around.
“Inhale,” he said. “Breathe deeply and hold it for a bit.”
She complied.
It wasn’t like smoking a cigarette. Something new and wonderful was happening inside her brain. At first she didn’t notice anything. She’d heard people say that the sky gets bluer when you’re stoned on pot, and the trees are greener. None of that was happening. It was just an average beautiful spring evening. But then she felt like a puff of silky cotton was being injected in her brain. Instant peace. Everything slowed down. After all the years of speed, which she’d been taking since first grade, it was such a relief to slow down. Forty years later, it was still a relief. And that was the problem.
Making Breakfast - Elizabeth Weld Nolan
The girl knew before she got to the end of the hall that it wasn’t a good day for Mama. The kitchen was empty, the stove cold. The only smell was sour and fishy, coming from the wet cat food under the green enamel legs of the stove. The cats didn’t like it either, so they didn’t eat it. She walked softly to the door of their dim bedroom. Mama was lying on her back with one arm over her eyes, Daddy a lump beyond her. This was a day the girl was not to be cheerful.
Back in the kitchen, the girl held the ice box door open and ran her eyes over the shelves. She pulled out a half-used package of bacon and smelled it. It was OK. She pulled out the gray cardboard egg carton, the butter dish and a pitcher half-filled with frozen orange juice.
In the black iron frying pan, the one they used for chicken, the white bacon strips began to render and the toaster sent quivering waves of heat into the sunlight from the window over the sink. The bacon smell, rich, delicious, rose through the kitchen with the yeasty smell of the toast. Her spirits rose with them and she set the table for herself: red place mat, napkin, fork and knife, little glass with orange juice, the butter, and strawberry jam in the jar with a spoon sticking out. She turned the bacon strips, ran back to her room to get her book, ``King of the Wind,’’ put it beside her place and buttered the toast. When she put the strips to drain onto the paper towel, it was time for the eggs. She cracked two into the hot fat and spooned it over them until they developed a veil over their sunny faces. She shook the coarse ground pepper on them and the salt and put them on her plate, then the three bacon strips around them like a triangle, The toast was on a little plate.
The girl looked at her place. She had done it exactly how Mama did it on a good day, how her grandmother did it every day. She made a bite composed of toast dipped in egg yolk with bacon on top and lifted it. The crunch went through her teeth, the salt filled her mouth, and the world settled into normal.
Back in the kitchen, the girl held the ice box door open and ran her eyes over the shelves. She pulled out a half-used package of bacon and smelled it. It was OK. She pulled out the gray cardboard egg carton, the butter dish and a pitcher half-filled with frozen orange juice.
In the black iron frying pan, the one they used for chicken, the white bacon strips began to render and the toaster sent quivering waves of heat into the sunlight from the window over the sink. The bacon smell, rich, delicious, rose through the kitchen with the yeasty smell of the toast. Her spirits rose with them and she set the table for herself: red place mat, napkin, fork and knife, little glass with orange juice, the butter, and strawberry jam in the jar with a spoon sticking out. She turned the bacon strips, ran back to her room to get her book, ``King of the Wind,’’ put it beside her place and buttered the toast. When she put the strips to drain onto the paper towel, it was time for the eggs. She cracked two into the hot fat and spooned it over them until they developed a veil over their sunny faces. She shook the coarse ground pepper on them and the salt and put them on her plate, then the three bacon strips around them like a triangle, The toast was on a little plate.
The girl looked at her place. She had done it exactly how Mama did it on a good day, how her grandmother did it every day. She made a bite composed of toast dipped in egg yolk with bacon on top and lifted it. The crunch went through her teeth, the salt filled her mouth, and the world settled into normal.
Smoking - Melody Cryns
I sat on the cool hardwood floor in the den playing with my new doll house and looked over into the kitchen at my Mom who sat at that same, special spot she always sat, her yellow plastic chair at an angle as she read her ever-present book, a tall thin glass bottle of Tab always on the table next to her alongside an ashray with twirls of smoke floating up into the air and around my mother’s head making her look magical and mysterious. Every now and again Mom would take a swig of her tab and a puff of her long, skinny cigarette, probably Benson & Hedges. I knew what kind of cigarettes Mom smoked because I’d go to the store and get them for her almost every day. Mom had written a note to the clerks, Ned and Jack, at UC Market, a small market right around the corner from us. There was never a question when I’d say, “Three packs of Benson & Hedges. Ned and Jack knew exactly what I meant. I never had any desire to touch those cigarettes either. They belonged to my mom and I smelled the smoke and that was more than enough for me.
It never occurred to me as I watched my mom sitting here, so engrossed in her book, in her Tab and her cigarettes, that the smoke might be bad for us. Sometimes all the smoke made me cough for blow my nose, but that was about it. It was just a part of who my mother was, and the smell of the smoke made me feel happy and secure – it meant my mother wasn’t too far off.
To this day, even 40 years later after we all found out how awful cigarettes really are for people, I find the smell of cigarette smoke comforting in a weird sort of way that I’d never be able to explain to anyone. No, I’d never take a puff. They’re pretty nasty – but the smell reminds me that Mom is close by. It’s those blasted cigarettes that probably caused her to die at the age of 63, but who knows? Mom didn’t have lung cancer and she breathed on her own until she died.
Sometimes I’m sad because a couple of my kids smoke and I want to shake them and tell them to stop, but I don’t know how.
When Mom lay in her bed where she said she “wanted to die at home,” her best friend since 1962, Vicki, actually lit up a cigarette and placed it between my mother’s lips so she could take a long, hard puff.
“What the heck?” Vicki shrugged as she took the cigarette away waiting for Mom to get ready for the next puff. She’s going to die anyway. We might as well give her exactly what she wants.
I nodded. I had to agree.
It never occurred to me as I watched my mom sitting here, so engrossed in her book, in her Tab and her cigarettes, that the smoke might be bad for us. Sometimes all the smoke made me cough for blow my nose, but that was about it. It was just a part of who my mother was, and the smell of the smoke made me feel happy and secure – it meant my mother wasn’t too far off.
To this day, even 40 years later after we all found out how awful cigarettes really are for people, I find the smell of cigarette smoke comforting in a weird sort of way that I’d never be able to explain to anyone. No, I’d never take a puff. They’re pretty nasty – but the smell reminds me that Mom is close by. It’s those blasted cigarettes that probably caused her to die at the age of 63, but who knows? Mom didn’t have lung cancer and she breathed on her own until she died.
Sometimes I’m sad because a couple of my kids smoke and I want to shake them and tell them to stop, but I don’t know how.
When Mom lay in her bed where she said she “wanted to die at home,” her best friend since 1962, Vicki, actually lit up a cigarette and placed it between my mother’s lips so she could take a long, hard puff.
“What the heck?” Vicki shrugged as she took the cigarette away waiting for Mom to get ready for the next puff. She’s going to die anyway. We might as well give her exactly what she wants.
I nodded. I had to agree.
A Piece of Evidence - Kaye Doiron
He sits watching the clock, he has finished every beer in the house and is about to move on to the hard stuff, the stuff he knows he shouldn’t…It is five fifteen, she said she’d be home early today. He fights the urge to call and check up on her, to rifle through her personal things, to look at her calendar, to open her email. The ice makes a crisp sound that cuts through his thoughts as he pours another shot of whiskey over it. His brow is deeply furrowed, he sits bent over his knees, his tall lanky body gracefully balanced on his elbows, the cigarette burning beside him. The jealousy boils inside him and turns to rage, he can see her now, in the process, right in front of him making love to someone else. He lives it like it’s really happening. He knows he cannot allow himself to trust her. He knows that she is just like all of the other women he has known. They’re all whores. Look at her. She is magnificent, she is talented, she is successful. He cannot bear to think what she does all day alone at her office, without him. Who is there with her, who will she meet while she is not with him, who will she betray him with?
She can feel his energy the moment she opens the door and walks into the hall. She smells his anger. She remembers now that she told him she’d try to come home early today, but the work just didn’t stop pouring in. She tries to put all the happy energy she can into her voice, “ Sweetheart, I’m home!” No response. She wants to turn and go back to work, go down the street and have a drink, but she is compelled to smooth his brow, to run her hand along his tight shoulders, to tell him he is the only man in the world for her. She also knows it will not work. She knows there is not one piece of evidence she can offer him that will ease his troubled heart, this is his demon and he must learn to tame it.
She can feel his energy the moment she opens the door and walks into the hall. She smells his anger. She remembers now that she told him she’d try to come home early today, but the work just didn’t stop pouring in. She tries to put all the happy energy she can into her voice, “ Sweetheart, I’m home!” No response. She wants to turn and go back to work, go down the street and have a drink, but she is compelled to smooth his brow, to run her hand along his tight shoulders, to tell him he is the only man in the world for her. She also knows it will not work. She knows there is not one piece of evidence she can offer him that will ease his troubled heart, this is his demon and he must learn to tame it.
Friday, February 5, 2010
If I Only Had Time - Kaye Doiron
Oh the possibilities. I would play more with my children, in the yard, in the house, on the Wii, doing puzzles. They are my bliss. I would stop chasing my tail to pay the bills, 70 hours a week at a desk does not leave much time for anything else. I added up the bills this morning, yes, before my morning writing, oops...6000 dollars a month JUST TO LIVE, not including groceries, clothes, shoes...JFC. All by my little self it can be a little daunting, who am I kidding it’s fucking terrifying. Breathe. I have the time to breathe.
What I would do with time? The hair on my legs would get waxed, soon I’ll be able to braid it. I would lie next to my Granny and bury my nose in her neck, where time stops, because she doesn’t have much more...time. I would lie in bed all day with my dark lover and let him whisper things to me that I will try very hard to believe. I would ride a horse across the midwest and camp out in the open air. I would raft the rapids in Colorado, I would snow ski. I would wander the streets of New York and allow myself the pleasure of getting lost. I would sit in awe and stare at the banks of the Seine on a sunny day in Paris. I would sit in the presence of greatness. I would listen more.
Let’s break it down to the simple things...I would brush my hair, I would wax my legs, I would take a long, hot bath, brush my teeth every morning, make a wholesome lunch for my kids to take to school, cook a healthy dinner, do yoga, run, drink more wine, most of all...sing.
Time, a funny thing. Fleeting, like love. How it slips effortlessly and without notice through our hands when there is love is frightening, how slowly it crawls when there is none is terrifying.
What I would do with time? The hair on my legs would get waxed, soon I’ll be able to braid it. I would lie next to my Granny and bury my nose in her neck, where time stops, because she doesn’t have much more...time. I would lie in bed all day with my dark lover and let him whisper things to me that I will try very hard to believe. I would ride a horse across the midwest and camp out in the open air. I would raft the rapids in Colorado, I would snow ski. I would wander the streets of New York and allow myself the pleasure of getting lost. I would sit in awe and stare at the banks of the Seine on a sunny day in Paris. I would sit in the presence of greatness. I would listen more.
Let’s break it down to the simple things...I would brush my hair, I would wax my legs, I would take a long, hot bath, brush my teeth every morning, make a wholesome lunch for my kids to take to school, cook a healthy dinner, do yoga, run, drink more wine, most of all...sing.
Time, a funny thing. Fleeting, like love. How it slips effortlessly and without notice through our hands when there is love is frightening, how slowly it crawls when there is none is terrifying.
If I Only Had Time - Donna Shomer
Time we trash it
we take it or are
taken by it
we are hopelessly
windtunnelled
grit-teethed and
brightminded
time it slips through us
we take it or are
taken by it
we are hopelessly
windtunnelled
grit-teethed and
brightminded
time it slips through us
If I Only Had Time - Darlene Nelson
Oh, if only I had time in the palm of my hand – what a gift! I could turn back the clock and do so many things over, a different way, a different out-come. I would be wiser – knowing not everyone who seemed to be my friend would be. I would know, from a youthful age that you cannot judge a book by its cover and people come in many covers. Some are old and tattered, some strikingly beautiful, others are the in-between never really knowing what shelf to rest upon. All are worthwhile. I would know to engage people of different cultures in conversation: something can be learned from everyone. I would know that, even from people that hurt me, the difference to my life would be remembering the good. I would know that the harshest people would teach me the toughest lessons – to better myself, to have a greater conscience. I would know to ignore the critics – wear a red wedding dress – (they do in China, you know), listen to 70’s disco hits blaring loud, and eat the frosting leaving the cake behind. Tick Tock. It is never too late.
If I Only Had Time - Patricia Spencer
I would like to remain anonymous though I suppose it won’t matter much in the end. Soon everyone will know and I will be long gone, but for now, please grant me this small indulgence. If only I’d had more time I could’ve made things right, corrected the horrible misunderstanding that is about to explode. Billy wouldn’t have minded though. He loved scandal. Lived for it. I miss him more than ever. I didn’t know losing him would hurt this much.
What I Wanted in That Second - Melody Cryns
I wanted her to live – I wanted Mom to keep fighting and not give up. Instead when I arrived to her apartment with the four kids right before Christmas 1996, I found my mother sitting on her bed in that blue and white flannel nightgown she always wore going through all of her “junk” jewelry, as Mom always called it. Mom looked gaunt, thinner than I’d ever seen her, and she had stopped dying her hair so it had turned snow white and fell only below her shoulders. She still looked so young though with those huge gray blue eyes that were exactly like my older daughter Melissa’s who usually wore loads of eye liner at the age of 14 to make her eyes look even bigger – and sometimes scarier.
She and Melissa were two peas in a pod, I thought.
“I’m just wondering if there’s anything in this pile you want!” my mother said so matter-of-factly as if she was getting ready to go on a long journey and talk about the weather. “I’m going through everything.”
“Mom, why are you going through everything? There’s still time, plenty of time…please?”
Baby Megan who was only four years old tugged at my arm. “Mommy I have to go to the bafroom.”
I grabbed Megan’s hand and took her down the hallway of the apartment my mother said she hated because she was surrounded by old people – low income housing for seniors. “I’m going to die here!” she’d said dramatically just a year before. That thought horrified me because a year was when I got that fateful call from my mother telling me that the cancer was terminal.
“I hope you’re sitting down dear” Mom had said on the phone, sounding like this was just another one of her casual conversations.
I hadn’t been sitting down. I was standing in the kitchen and me and the kids had just burst into the house.
Damn it, damn it! I thought after I hung up with my mom. She’s gotta fight! She’s strong. She always taught me to be independent and strong. She can and will fight this.
When I walked back into Mom’s bedroom, Melissa, dark, dramatic and 14, hissed at me, “Mother, I hate you. You never tell me the truth and I hate you.”
“What?” I looked at my mother who still sat on the bed going through her jewelry like an excited kid and not like a 63-year-old woman with cancer, and then at Melissa who stood in the corner.
Mom sighed. “I just told her the truth. She needs to know…”
“The truth? The truth is, you’ve gotta keep fighting Mom, don’t give up. Please. I know you can do this.”
I looked over at the nightstand next to Mom’s bed which contained a ceramic Buddha and a cross and a book which Mom grabbed, called “The Tibetan Book of the Dead,” and the ashtray filled with cigarette butts…Mom’s death sentence, I thought.
“Why didn’t you tell me Grandma was going to die!” Melissa yelled. “Why? I needed to know…why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because…because…” I melted down on to the bed like a small child not having any idea what to say, because I didn’t believe it myself so I thought maybe it wasn’t so… or did I really just want to protect my kids? Who knows?
“Come sit here,” Mom said looking right at Melissa, “And we’ll talk about this.” Melissa obediently ran over to Mom’s bed and sat down and Mom put her arm around her. “It’s okay…dying isn’t as bad as you think…”
I couldn’t take it anymore. I ran out of the room past my boys who looked at me funny, threw myself on to the couch with the needlepoint bright colored pillows my mother had made in the 1960’s, and cried.
Here’s to you mom…October 27, 1932 to January 29, 1997…
She and Melissa were two peas in a pod, I thought.
“I’m just wondering if there’s anything in this pile you want!” my mother said so matter-of-factly as if she was getting ready to go on a long journey and talk about the weather. “I’m going through everything.”
“Mom, why are you going through everything? There’s still time, plenty of time…please?”
Baby Megan who was only four years old tugged at my arm. “Mommy I have to go to the bafroom.”
I grabbed Megan’s hand and took her down the hallway of the apartment my mother said she hated because she was surrounded by old people – low income housing for seniors. “I’m going to die here!” she’d said dramatically just a year before. That thought horrified me because a year was when I got that fateful call from my mother telling me that the cancer was terminal.
“I hope you’re sitting down dear” Mom had said on the phone, sounding like this was just another one of her casual conversations.
I hadn’t been sitting down. I was standing in the kitchen and me and the kids had just burst into the house.
Damn it, damn it! I thought after I hung up with my mom. She’s gotta fight! She’s strong. She always taught me to be independent and strong. She can and will fight this.
When I walked back into Mom’s bedroom, Melissa, dark, dramatic and 14, hissed at me, “Mother, I hate you. You never tell me the truth and I hate you.”
“What?” I looked at my mother who still sat on the bed going through her jewelry like an excited kid and not like a 63-year-old woman with cancer, and then at Melissa who stood in the corner.
Mom sighed. “I just told her the truth. She needs to know…”
“The truth? The truth is, you’ve gotta keep fighting Mom, don’t give up. Please. I know you can do this.”
I looked over at the nightstand next to Mom’s bed which contained a ceramic Buddha and a cross and a book which Mom grabbed, called “The Tibetan Book of the Dead,” and the ashtray filled with cigarette butts…Mom’s death sentence, I thought.
“Why didn’t you tell me Grandma was going to die!” Melissa yelled. “Why? I needed to know…why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because…because…” I melted down on to the bed like a small child not having any idea what to say, because I didn’t believe it myself so I thought maybe it wasn’t so… or did I really just want to protect my kids? Who knows?
“Come sit here,” Mom said looking right at Melissa, “And we’ll talk about this.” Melissa obediently ran over to Mom’s bed and sat down and Mom put her arm around her. “It’s okay…dying isn’t as bad as you think…”
I couldn’t take it anymore. I ran out of the room past my boys who looked at me funny, threw myself on to the couch with the needlepoint bright colored pillows my mother had made in the 1960’s, and cried.
Here’s to you mom…October 27, 1932 to January 29, 1997…
What She Wanted in That Second - Marigrace Bannon
What she wanted in that second was to go back and do it again. But when did that second pass and move into the minute, the hour, the day that she didn’t make a conscious decision to follow her, then heart. How could she know now? Years passed, a marriage, a divorce, an East Coast to West Coast transition, many friends, some remained, and some slipped away with a riptide of sorts. There was no reason for her to lament, because she was where she was supposed to be in that cosmic understanding of it all. And yet, there she was always with that wonder. But isn’t that just her dreamy heart imagining the many different scenarios, that couldn’t be her life, because they weren’t? Words have always been important to her. The sound, the meaning, the double entendre, the possibility that words meant something and could change a direction. I love you. I don’t love you anymore. He’s dead. They’re getting a divorce. You’re getting a divorce. There was an earthquake and….
Trash - Maria Robinson
When did I stop talking trash? Never? Inspired by old Mae West movies, watched on college weekends, my housemates and I made an art of imitating ole Mae and even trying to top her. The dares were at the college pub with 25 cent beers, where we wore tight skirts over black Danskins with the feet cut out. There we stand, hands on hips, and slide right into the West lexicon and sashay our way through the night before returning to our research papers. Twenty years on, I can still do it with the best of them, embarrass pretty presentable middle-aged men on the street with jokes and keep the fires burning at home.
Poison - Karen Oliver
There is poison all around me. Seems as if everything I eat has some negative belief associated with it. Don’t drink coffee. I look at the cup this morning and wonder whether the fact that I cut back to two cups is enough. I wonder whether the chemicals used on this non-organic coffee will be found to be horrible for all of us coffee addicts. Anything that feels like comfort food is always bad so the “comfort” is short-lived for thinking people. These oils are the only good ones, the animals I eat are raised in horrible conditions (do I want THAT energy in my body?), heaven help you if you eat ground beef made from 10 different cows and countries, organic produce from Salinas and bought from my local organic farm had e coli last year. Now it is wheat. I love bread and pasta. That too? All these people I know are avoiding gluten or dairy or whatever. They are told, and maybe it is true, that they have allergies to those foods. I realized lately that I don’t feel completely safe eating any food. There is always a subtle whisper about each one, telling me why it may be hurting me.
The poison is in the words too. The poison in the pens is erasing the love for the food I eat and maybe the grace and nourishment that I need. Who benefits by making us hate our food? Is it that we are Americans, privileged, so much richer than others in the world that we feel guilty about having food itself? We seem to be filling the existential vacuum with bottles of fake sweet drinks and excessive mountains of food many times a day. What is all this about? What is the antidote?
The poison is in the words too. The poison in the pens is erasing the love for the food I eat and maybe the grace and nourishment that I need. Who benefits by making us hate our food? Is it that we are Americans, privileged, so much richer than others in the world that we feel guilty about having food itself? We seem to be filling the existential vacuum with bottles of fake sweet drinks and excessive mountains of food many times a day. What is all this about? What is the antidote?
Poison - Jennifer Baljko
I’m not a bad person. I really do like most animals. I grew up in a house resembling the neighborhood zoo. At some point, at the same time, there were seven people, one dog, two cats, a hamster, a snake, and three fish sharing different corners of space. The bird flew away; he knew better.
Still, I can’t control this daily urge I get to kill the neighbor and her scrappy rat-like mutt. His constant small-dog yapping makes me want kick him across the patio and over the roof, and watch him splatter to the ground just as a bus squashes his stupid little brain. The shrilly clamoring has been going on for months, and I just figured out exactly which apartment it’s coming from. The owner, with her pretentiously coiffed graying blonde locks and god-awful fire engine red lipstick, doesn’t seem to give a shit.
For a few minutes every morning, I’m lost in homicidal thoughts. I want to wring her neck, slap her silly, and torture her until she agrees to better discipline the whiny monster. As for the beast, I keep devising ways I could string up a poisonous bone and slide it down onto the balcony a few floors below. I don’t do it because I know it’s cruel. And, I don’t know how to pull it off yet without getting caught.
Still, I can’t control this daily urge I get to kill the neighbor and her scrappy rat-like mutt. His constant small-dog yapping makes me want kick him across the patio and over the roof, and watch him splatter to the ground just as a bus squashes his stupid little brain. The shrilly clamoring has been going on for months, and I just figured out exactly which apartment it’s coming from. The owner, with her pretentiously coiffed graying blonde locks and god-awful fire engine red lipstick, doesn’t seem to give a shit.
For a few minutes every morning, I’m lost in homicidal thoughts. I want to wring her neck, slap her silly, and torture her until she agrees to better discipline the whiny monster. As for the beast, I keep devising ways I could string up a poisonous bone and slide it down onto the balcony a few floors below. I don’t do it because I know it’s cruel. And, I don’t know how to pull it off yet without getting caught.
Eating Alone - Judy Albietz
As she walked up the front steps of his house, Lindsey could see into Norman’s kitchen, where he sat, his back to the window as he was finishing up his dinner. She had called the investigator a half hour ago at his home office with several questions about the police file. He said, “Come on over…be glad to see you.”
The first day at the law firm Lindsey had met Norman, who briefed her on his investigation for a case she would be handling. After two months of working with him, she knew she could trust the short, pear-shaped, bald man, even though he told lousy jokes, sometimes more than once. When she found out a woman died in her house, she had asked Norman if he could help her. Somehow he got his hands on a copy of the police report on what was called a suicide. Recently she had filled Norman in on how she had flipped out when she saw her old boyfriend, David. Norman laughed when he told her, “Don’t be asking me for advice. I’m paying support to three ex-wives.”
Lindsey paused a second on the porch, looking in at Norman’s wide body precariously perched on a green vinyl dinette chair. On the far side of the matching green formica table the evening news was flashing on a small television. Norman wasn’t even looking down as he dug a forkful of whatever was piled on his plate. Lindsey thought about coming back later, but then remembered what she had in the paper bag in her hand. She rang the doorbell. She watched Norman wipe his mouth while he got out of his chair and moved to open the door. He was still chewing and looking at the TV as he waved her in. “I stopped and picked up a six-pack to go with a pie I baked yesterday. I didn’t want to eat it alone,” she grinned.
The first day at the law firm Lindsey had met Norman, who briefed her on his investigation for a case she would be handling. After two months of working with him, she knew she could trust the short, pear-shaped, bald man, even though he told lousy jokes, sometimes more than once. When she found out a woman died in her house, she had asked Norman if he could help her. Somehow he got his hands on a copy of the police report on what was called a suicide. Recently she had filled Norman in on how she had flipped out when she saw her old boyfriend, David. Norman laughed when he told her, “Don’t be asking me for advice. I’m paying support to three ex-wives.”
Lindsey paused a second on the porch, looking in at Norman’s wide body precariously perched on a green vinyl dinette chair. On the far side of the matching green formica table the evening news was flashing on a small television. Norman wasn’t even looking down as he dug a forkful of whatever was piled on his plate. Lindsey thought about coming back later, but then remembered what she had in the paper bag in her hand. She rang the doorbell. She watched Norman wipe his mouth while he got out of his chair and moved to open the door. He was still chewing and looking at the TV as he waved her in. “I stopped and picked up a six-pack to go with a pie I baked yesterday. I didn’t want to eat it alone,” she grinned.
Eating Alone - John Fetto
Ginny ate in the kitchen by herself while her daughter was out, who knows where. Her food was cold, ham folded between pieces of bread, a little mustard and mayonnaise, some lettuce. With her daughter gone she could eat what she wanted, so after the ham sandwich she wheeled over to the fridge and got out the half gallon tub of chocolate chip ice cream. She set the ice cream on her lap and opened the door wide, wondering where her daughter had hid it. It was behind the milk and the orange juice and she had to stretch up high to grab it, but slowly she worked the redi whip can towards her using a piece of celery. It fell on the floor and she chased it in her wheel chair, finally corning it. She scooped it up, set it on her lap wheeled over to the drawers and took out a large spoon, then wheeled into the living room, turned on the news and wheeled back. They were still going on about the protests at Port Chicago again. Ginny didn’t care. Johnny Carson would be in a few minutes. She shook the can of redi whip and filled the top of the ice cream carton. Then she took her spoon and dipped, trying to scoop up a bit, but it was too hard. So she waited. After a few minutes, Johnny came on, smiling, she dipped the spoon again, some soft ice cream around the sides with generous heaping of whip cream and spooned into her mouth. Her daughter wasn’t around. She could eat what she wanted.
Eating Alone - Darcy Vebber
She watched him from the doorway, leaning against the jamb. Sam sat with his back to her, looking out the window at the city. It was her seat, the place she sat, when she ate at the table. Out the window the light was turning blue and the trees on the hillside were green black against the winter sky.
He ate like a boy, grabbing, buttering, gulping. It was mostly food he’d brought with him, a loaf of white bread, half a package of bologna, a plastic container of supermarket coleslaw that dripped mayo onto the table. She supplied the quart of milk she kept for coffee and the half gallon of orange juice and glasses. The milk was already gone.
His backpack was on the floor next to him, close by his feet as if someone might take it. He leaned over and reached in, searching for something, his eyes still on the view and the red lip of the horizon.
“Can I get you something?” Lisa finally asked.
He looked around, startled. “Jesus, I .. uh …” He didn’t want to say he had forgotten she was there but he had. For one strange moment, his expression was wary, then he smiled his familiar smile. It was his gift, this smile. He invited her to join him. At her own table. He patted the chair seat next to him. “It’s so great to be inside, to be eating at a table like this.”
She hesitated, sorry to have interrupted. She knew all the stories of Sam’s rootless childhood. He had told her what it felt like, when he got to sit at a table, to have a regular bed for himself night after night. Having him in her life made her feel everything more vividly. Roof, floor, heat, light. She felt a little constriction at the base of her throat and potential tears. And always with the pleasure the fear. She batted it away but it wouldn’t go. “What? Ah, hot sauce, right?”
She knew that as a boy he had learned to put hot sauce on everything, to make any strange thing familiar, to give every new food the same burn.
He ate like a boy, grabbing, buttering, gulping. It was mostly food he’d brought with him, a loaf of white bread, half a package of bologna, a plastic container of supermarket coleslaw that dripped mayo onto the table. She supplied the quart of milk she kept for coffee and the half gallon of orange juice and glasses. The milk was already gone.
His backpack was on the floor next to him, close by his feet as if someone might take it. He leaned over and reached in, searching for something, his eyes still on the view and the red lip of the horizon.
“Can I get you something?” Lisa finally asked.
He looked around, startled. “Jesus, I .. uh …” He didn’t want to say he had forgotten she was there but he had. For one strange moment, his expression was wary, then he smiled his familiar smile. It was his gift, this smile. He invited her to join him. At her own table. He patted the chair seat next to him. “It’s so great to be inside, to be eating at a table like this.”
She hesitated, sorry to have interrupted. She knew all the stories of Sam’s rootless childhood. He had told her what it felt like, when he got to sit at a table, to have a regular bed for himself night after night. Having him in her life made her feel everything more vividly. Roof, floor, heat, light. She felt a little constriction at the base of her throat and potential tears. And always with the pleasure the fear. She batted it away but it wouldn’t go. “What? Ah, hot sauce, right?”
She knew that as a boy he had learned to put hot sauce on everything, to make any strange thing familiar, to give every new food the same burn.
Eating Alone - Camilla Basham
All I did was make him a mud pie. How was I supposed to know he’d eat it?
~ Ruthie
My days are pretty busy, Yep, I guess. Searching for the elves that live under the clover in my back yard, playing hotel with Charlie and cooking my world famous mud pies, I have a pretty full schedule for a kid. Some folks might think I’m a little old to be doing this sort of stuff, but really, there’s not much else to do.
Some of my weekends are busier than others, like the time my sister told me I was adopted. I spent days searching for those adoptions papers with my fingers crossed. I never did find them no matter how hard I looked. I would have waved them in the air, packed my Barbie suitcase, grabbed Charlie by the leash, said “Look, no hard feelings.” to my family leaving them each with a kiss and a pat on the head and headed out to the great unknown. Unfortunately, it turns out she was teasing me.
Some days when Mom is busy, I’m left to entertain my grandpa whom we call Pop. He had a stroke years earlier and calls me Ava for some reason, so I call him Frank. He drools a little, but then again so does Charlie, either way the two of them are just as much fun as any kid my age.
I figured we could play restaurant and I’d make him one of my fabulous mud pies with chocolate chips. My Lite Brite pegs could be the chips with the added benefit of being colorful. So, I went to work mixing it all together using my trusted yellow Frisbee as a pie pan. Charlie assisted me.
I presented Pop the work of art. “Sir, a dessert fit for a king.” He held it up to his face smiled and proceeded to tip the Frisbee to his wide opened mouth taking in all the mud and Lite Brite pegs. Make no mistake this made him the coolest playmate ever but at the same time it caused me to be jolted out of my make believe world. “Grow up, Ruthie!” a voice screamed in my head.
I tried to pry it from his hands but he had a death grip on it. “Frank, let go!” mud splattered his chin, dripped down his neck and I heard him gasp for air. “Pop, let go!” Not knowing what else to do, Charlie began humping his leg and panting.
Pop went to the hospital that night. I never made another mud pie and to be honest, I’m not even sure there are elves living in the clover.
~ Ruthie
My days are pretty busy, Yep, I guess. Searching for the elves that live under the clover in my back yard, playing hotel with Charlie and cooking my world famous mud pies, I have a pretty full schedule for a kid. Some folks might think I’m a little old to be doing this sort of stuff, but really, there’s not much else to do.
Some of my weekends are busier than others, like the time my sister told me I was adopted. I spent days searching for those adoptions papers with my fingers crossed. I never did find them no matter how hard I looked. I would have waved them in the air, packed my Barbie suitcase, grabbed Charlie by the leash, said “Look, no hard feelings.” to my family leaving them each with a kiss and a pat on the head and headed out to the great unknown. Unfortunately, it turns out she was teasing me.
Some days when Mom is busy, I’m left to entertain my grandpa whom we call Pop. He had a stroke years earlier and calls me Ava for some reason, so I call him Frank. He drools a little, but then again so does Charlie, either way the two of them are just as much fun as any kid my age.
I figured we could play restaurant and I’d make him one of my fabulous mud pies with chocolate chips. My Lite Brite pegs could be the chips with the added benefit of being colorful. So, I went to work mixing it all together using my trusted yellow Frisbee as a pie pan. Charlie assisted me.
I presented Pop the work of art. “Sir, a dessert fit for a king.” He held it up to his face smiled and proceeded to tip the Frisbee to his wide opened mouth taking in all the mud and Lite Brite pegs. Make no mistake this made him the coolest playmate ever but at the same time it caused me to be jolted out of my make believe world. “Grow up, Ruthie!” a voice screamed in my head.
I tried to pry it from his hands but he had a death grip on it. “Frank, let go!” mud splattered his chin, dripped down his neck and I heard him gasp for air. “Pop, let go!” Not knowing what else to do, Charlie began humping his leg and panting.
Pop went to the hospital that night. I never made another mud pie and to be honest, I’m not even sure there are elves living in the clover.
Eating Alone - Anne Wright
The Greyhound stopped at a town on the outskirts of Seattle around the time the sun was setting. Brady, sitting alone in the stiff double upholstered seat was ready to get out and move around. Outside the window he could see a diner, its windows glowing in the early evening, and he thought it looked warm. His feet were cold and his belly was hungry.
He waited until the other passengers disembarked. He sat with his eyes closed and thought about what he would like to eat. Maybe a bloody steak with a side of chili beans. Fries. Chocolate milkshake in a glass with the extra in the metal blender container. A plate of fresh baked cornbread, or rolls with lots of butter. A fat slice of apple pie with a blob of melting vanilla ice cream.
He heard the other passengers talking about their luggage outside the bus and the sound of the compartment thumping open. The driver had announced this stop was forty minutes for unloading. Brady, if he moved fast, could get to the diner before the others. He’d sit at the counter, alone. And maybe think about her and the way she cleared the plates from the table and always brushed the crumbs onto the floor with her tan, firm hands.
He waited until the other passengers disembarked. He sat with his eyes closed and thought about what he would like to eat. Maybe a bloody steak with a side of chili beans. Fries. Chocolate milkshake in a glass with the extra in the metal blender container. A plate of fresh baked cornbread, or rolls with lots of butter. A fat slice of apple pie with a blob of melting vanilla ice cream.
He heard the other passengers talking about their luggage outside the bus and the sound of the compartment thumping open. The driver had announced this stop was forty minutes for unloading. Brady, if he moved fast, could get to the diner before the others. He’d sit at the counter, alone. And maybe think about her and the way she cleared the plates from the table and always brushed the crumbs onto the floor with her tan, firm hands.
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