Death by black velvet is otherwise known as the Prada Fall 2008 runway skirt woven in twirling floral arabesques on a ground of black silk.
Think Louis XIV damask meets London 60s mini-skirt. It rocks with soft cashmere sweater and above-the-knee boots.
Mrs. Prada found a centuries-old weaving family in Lyon France to take up the challenge to create this piece of cross-century art.
On the body, it snuggles the hips. To the fingertips, it's like soft as bunny fur.
All I want to do is kiss it before I die.
Sunday, January 30, 2011
Death - Kate Bueler
Death. I have written about a death of a name. How can a name die for you? Good question. Just date a few guys with the same name and they seem to let you down in a heart and gut wrenching way. So much you begin to wonder there might be a tragic flaw in a name. I vowed to never date a man with the name C. I shake a hand with someone attached to this the name. And I cringe. Inside. I hear someone say the name from afar and I stay there. I stay away from them. From those C’s.
After I dated three men with the same name- I let the name die for me. I ended up being left with a doubled park dumping and an almost broken nose (my doing from a drunken night of debauchery-aftermath due to the break up). I was left with a bad highlight job of blonde- I needed a change-and him showing up on my doorstep with a b-day present months after he dumped me. And me not wanting him upon my door. He left me with one final email. I never responded. Later I heard he had gone off the deep end. At least I wasn’t left with that.
Another. He left me with one less book on my shelf- my favorite book Unbearable Lightness of Being and wondering what would have ever happened if he had really took a chance. He later found me. And came to give it round. Kissing me upon my doorstep. Anticipation of years made me feel faint. For the first time. But he ran away again. Left me wondering.
For years, I wondered. Until he almost died. And I had to tell him. And wonder until. I couldn’t anymore. We said goodbye in a hospital room. He might be healthy now. His body. But a fatal flaw of a man who would rather be full of potential than fail is not a tragic hero but a sad estate of affairs. If death doesn’t breath life into your bones into your body nothing will. Needless to say. He let me pass through his life again.
What ifs. Were better for him. He stopped being a what if. After one last summer of living out our past college days of infatuation. I walked down that hall of the cold clinical hallway and pushed the button to the elevator. Wanting to run down the hall and say goodbye. Or just say no. Don’t die. Not now. Because as I walked slowly and purposefully. I never wanted this what if to die. I wanted it to grow and flourish into something. But it had. As it lay lifeless inside of me. In that hospital. The elevators door open. Two faces appear before me. I hesitate. Not sure. If I can. Walk away. For good. I find my place in the elevator as the doors close in slow motion. Closing my view. Smaller each minute. Until it disappears. Dying. The death. Of me wanting it to work. He didn’t die. But we did.
After I dated three men with the same name- I let the name die for me. I ended up being left with a doubled park dumping and an almost broken nose (my doing from a drunken night of debauchery-aftermath due to the break up). I was left with a bad highlight job of blonde- I needed a change-and him showing up on my doorstep with a b-day present months after he dumped me. And me not wanting him upon my door. He left me with one final email. I never responded. Later I heard he had gone off the deep end. At least I wasn’t left with that.
Another. He left me with one less book on my shelf- my favorite book Unbearable Lightness of Being and wondering what would have ever happened if he had really took a chance. He later found me. And came to give it round. Kissing me upon my doorstep. Anticipation of years made me feel faint. For the first time. But he ran away again. Left me wondering.
For years, I wondered. Until he almost died. And I had to tell him. And wonder until. I couldn’t anymore. We said goodbye in a hospital room. He might be healthy now. His body. But a fatal flaw of a man who would rather be full of potential than fail is not a tragic hero but a sad estate of affairs. If death doesn’t breath life into your bones into your body nothing will. Needless to say. He let me pass through his life again.
What ifs. Were better for him. He stopped being a what if. After one last summer of living out our past college days of infatuation. I walked down that hall of the cold clinical hallway and pushed the button to the elevator. Wanting to run down the hall and say goodbye. Or just say no. Don’t die. Not now. Because as I walked slowly and purposefully. I never wanted this what if to die. I wanted it to grow and flourish into something. But it had. As it lay lifeless inside of me. In that hospital. The elevators door open. Two faces appear before me. I hesitate. Not sure. If I can. Walk away. For good. I find my place in the elevator as the doors close in slow motion. Closing my view. Smaller each minute. Until it disappears. Dying. The death. Of me wanting it to work. He didn’t die. But we did.
Drugged - Bonnie Smetts
Marjorie stood before the man in the saffron robe unable to feel her feet. The reflections from the mirrored tent ceiling dared to distract and unbalance her, but she focused on the kohl dot between the man’s eyes. He was the teacher she was sent to see. They’d told her to find him across the field behind the rock hills.
She doesn’t remember arriving, but now she stands before him, embarrassed. “You have come…” He says the only three words she understands, for each sound that comes from him thereafter is as if from a flute. Notes. One lovely note connected to the next.
I must stare at him, and not lose that dot. Then she is floating down a river on her back, the water is warm and she’s floating without a boat, a raft, anything to hold her. But she can’t move, she can’t be terrified. Her terror sits on the river’s bank, as if held in a glass box. She can’t touch it, but she sees it.
She floats on.
Fire burns inches below her feet. The fire sizzles when water from her dress drips onto its embers. She doesn’t see the fire, she feels its heat and the smell of burning wood.
“Please sit now and we will …” The swami is before her. She folds to the floor and a stiff cushion meets her before the hard rock of the tile floor.
“Sit, see the place beyond this room, let it come in and let it fill you. You are filled with this spot beyond space and time. Sit.” The swami never looked at her, and when she tried to look at him as he spoke the final words of the day, she could not find his shape. From the corner of her vision, he was there. But when she tried to see him, to see if he were real, she saw only a shimmer of saffron. And the glass box filled with her terror now sat shimmering in the reflection of the man’s robe.
She opened her mouth but nothing came out. She remembered seeing fish underwater, breathing their water-air.
She doesn’t remember arriving, but now she stands before him, embarrassed. “You have come…” He says the only three words she understands, for each sound that comes from him thereafter is as if from a flute. Notes. One lovely note connected to the next.
I must stare at him, and not lose that dot. Then she is floating down a river on her back, the water is warm and she’s floating without a boat, a raft, anything to hold her. But she can’t move, she can’t be terrified. Her terror sits on the river’s bank, as if held in a glass box. She can’t touch it, but she sees it.
She floats on.
Fire burns inches below her feet. The fire sizzles when water from her dress drips onto its embers. She doesn’t see the fire, she feels its heat and the smell of burning wood.
“Please sit now and we will …” The swami is before her. She folds to the floor and a stiff cushion meets her before the hard rock of the tile floor.
“Sit, see the place beyond this room, let it come in and let it fill you. You are filled with this spot beyond space and time. Sit.” The swami never looked at her, and when she tried to look at him as he spoke the final words of the day, she could not find his shape. From the corner of her vision, he was there. But when she tried to see him, to see if he were real, she saw only a shimmer of saffron. And the glass box filled with her terror now sat shimmering in the reflection of the man’s robe.
She opened her mouth but nothing came out. She remembered seeing fish underwater, breathing their water-air.
Drunk/Death - E. D. James
It startled her, the bird, when it fell at her feet. She was standing at the streetcar stop. The sky was reddening in the east, a few dark clouds silhouetted at the horizon. She felt the air move in front her and then the bird appeared on the ground. A soft thump accompanied its arrival, a sound she could barely hear over the noise of the traffic around her. She stared at the little body at her feet and then up at the brightening sky. She couldn’t see any other birds above her. The white-breasted body fairly glowed on the dark pavement and Sai guessed that it was a Nuthatch. The species was one of the few that made Toronto their home year round. Her father had favored the noisy little creatures and always delighted in finding places where they had stuffed the peanuts he left out for them into the bark of the trees in their back yard. She wondered what had driven the bird from the sky. She wondered if it had a family that was even now waiting for its return home. Her streetcar came into view down the track and the ground began the faint shaking that accompanied its passage. The vibrations seemed like the shock of a filibrator on the bird. It flipped off its back, stood on its feet for a second, shook its head, and then launched off into the sky again.
“Will you look at that!” a man standing a few feet further down the platform said, “Must have been drunk on the holly berries.”
Sai turned to examine the faces in the windows with a smile on her face. Perhaps the bird was a sign that tonight her search would be rewarded.
“Will you look at that!” a man standing a few feet further down the platform said, “Must have been drunk on the holly berries.”
Sai turned to examine the faces in the windows with a smile on her face. Perhaps the bird was a sign that tonight her search would be rewarded.
Disappearing - Donna Shomer
Friendships
Like
Cyclist in the Dutch
Fog seem to
Disappear along
The tram tracks
But being
Like Fish
They
Are just
Shimmering
Like
Cyclist in the Dutch
Fog seem to
Disappear along
The tram tracks
But being
Like Fish
They
Are just
Shimmering
Disappearing - Melody Cryns
Sometimes I wonder what it would be like for everyone if I just disappeared. Would anyone wonder what happened to me, worry about me? Megan’s constant text messages that say, “Get ruffles, peanutbutter, milk and juice at the store please,” would go unanswered. Good friends would not hear from me. I wouldn’t show up for work – and Global Word Processing couldn’t send me all those crappy, huge projects that no one else wants to do. Maybe someone would wonder – where is she? What happened to her? The older kids who live their own life would figure it out eventually.
That’s how I felt on my 11th birthday when everyone forgot about me – because my sister was sick in the hospital. I felt as if I’d disappeared – I didn’t really exist. Yet I finally did get it.
On Saturday morning, after a night of dancing all night long to awesome live classic rock music with a bunch of my friends, I managed to pull myself out of bed and jetted over the hill to Santa Cruz to play my ukulele on the beach and sing with at least 60 or 70 other people. They show up at this one beach rain or shine, and they play and sing. I try not to miss being there with the group that calls themselves either “Sons of the Beach” or “Babes of the Beach,” because there’s nothing like playing ukulele and singing on the beach with dozens of people – there’s always someone with an upright bass or even a bass ukulele, conga drum players, guitar players join in, you name it. We bring music stands and the Santa Cruz ukulele songbooks if we have them – something you should not do without – one can play songs on guitar, ukulele, anything.
I got there right before 10 am and when I walked around the building next to the Crow’s Nest Restaurant to set up with the gang, I had to stop because what I saw took my breath away, literally. The fog had lifted and the sun shined on the ocean, bright blue sky, sail boats close up gliding by, the lighthouse on the rocks majestically presiding over the beach to the right, waves crashing against the store and the birds…people playing volleyball on the beach, and the group the wonderful group of people I’d found who welcomed me each week – from all walks of life and backgrounds – no one cares who you were or where you came from. We were all there to have fun and play music. I had brought the sign someone had given me the week before with a picture of a guitar on it that said, “If it’s too loud, you’re too old!” Everyone loved that sign and wanted me to bring it back. There were many older people in the group, mixed in with younger ones, even children – and as we formed our large circle, I couldn’t stop thinking of how this reminded me of growing up in San Francisco when we sang along with random people sitting on stoops or standing around playing guitar – how we all played and sang together and no one ever cared or worried about who you were or where you came from. A different life.
Knowing that it still exists gave me great comfort somehow.
I felt as if I belonged with these people, and had already gotten to know a few of them from camping with them at Burning Uke for four days down at Big Sur, an amazing experience, one of the most wonderful experiences of my life. Music has always been such a huge part of my life.
Okay, here we go – we’re going to start to play and sing now – we always open with an old song called “All of Me” and later close with “Please Don’t Talk About me When I’m gone,” both old standards from the 1920’s and then we play dozens of songs that someone gets tapped to pick each week – from old standards to a couple of awesome Hawaiian songs, to folksy music, even Beatles and Bob Dylan and a bit of rock n’ roll. We play and sing it all. It doesn’t matter. We even got to do City of New Orleans, a song that tells a story – I never get tired of playing and singing them.
It was so warm that I got my shoes and socks off between songs, and my jacket went and we played and sang with the ocean stretched before us.
I couldn’t leave right after the jam, no way. I had to hang out all day. As I sat on a stone bench putting away my music stand, an older woman sitting along waiting for someone began to talk to me. She told me her name was Jean, and that she loved playing uke and singing. She asked where I lived, and I told her Sunnyvale.
“Oh yes, I lived there for many years, until we finally got to move here, about 25 or maybe 30 years ago now…”
I nodded. “That’s a long time.”
“Yes, I’m 94 now!”
Wow. Ninety-four? I looked over at this lovely, beautiful woman – yes, older with wrinkles, but still so spry and alert, holding a ukulele in her hands – maybe the uke somehow was like a time machine…hahaha! Funny thought.
She went on to tell me all about her kids and grandkids, and asked me questions about my life. I told her about all of my kids, that I was going to be a grandma for the first time this year and I was excited, that ‘d found music with the ukulele groups and it made me happy. She agreed.
As we both sat there, I thought again – I could disappear and stay right here in this spot and never go back. Oh yes. I could.
That’s how I felt on my 11th birthday when everyone forgot about me – because my sister was sick in the hospital. I felt as if I’d disappeared – I didn’t really exist. Yet I finally did get it.
On Saturday morning, after a night of dancing all night long to awesome live classic rock music with a bunch of my friends, I managed to pull myself out of bed and jetted over the hill to Santa Cruz to play my ukulele on the beach and sing with at least 60 or 70 other people. They show up at this one beach rain or shine, and they play and sing. I try not to miss being there with the group that calls themselves either “Sons of the Beach” or “Babes of the Beach,” because there’s nothing like playing ukulele and singing on the beach with dozens of people – there’s always someone with an upright bass or even a bass ukulele, conga drum players, guitar players join in, you name it. We bring music stands and the Santa Cruz ukulele songbooks if we have them – something you should not do without – one can play songs on guitar, ukulele, anything.
I got there right before 10 am and when I walked around the building next to the Crow’s Nest Restaurant to set up with the gang, I had to stop because what I saw took my breath away, literally. The fog had lifted and the sun shined on the ocean, bright blue sky, sail boats close up gliding by, the lighthouse on the rocks majestically presiding over the beach to the right, waves crashing against the store and the birds…people playing volleyball on the beach, and the group the wonderful group of people I’d found who welcomed me each week – from all walks of life and backgrounds – no one cares who you were or where you came from. We were all there to have fun and play music. I had brought the sign someone had given me the week before with a picture of a guitar on it that said, “If it’s too loud, you’re too old!” Everyone loved that sign and wanted me to bring it back. There were many older people in the group, mixed in with younger ones, even children – and as we formed our large circle, I couldn’t stop thinking of how this reminded me of growing up in San Francisco when we sang along with random people sitting on stoops or standing around playing guitar – how we all played and sang together and no one ever cared or worried about who you were or where you came from. A different life.
Knowing that it still exists gave me great comfort somehow.
I felt as if I belonged with these people, and had already gotten to know a few of them from camping with them at Burning Uke for four days down at Big Sur, an amazing experience, one of the most wonderful experiences of my life. Music has always been such a huge part of my life.
Okay, here we go – we’re going to start to play and sing now – we always open with an old song called “All of Me” and later close with “Please Don’t Talk About me When I’m gone,” both old standards from the 1920’s and then we play dozens of songs that someone gets tapped to pick each week – from old standards to a couple of awesome Hawaiian songs, to folksy music, even Beatles and Bob Dylan and a bit of rock n’ roll. We play and sing it all. It doesn’t matter. We even got to do City of New Orleans, a song that tells a story – I never get tired of playing and singing them.
It was so warm that I got my shoes and socks off between songs, and my jacket went and we played and sang with the ocean stretched before us.
I couldn’t leave right after the jam, no way. I had to hang out all day. As I sat on a stone bench putting away my music stand, an older woman sitting along waiting for someone began to talk to me. She told me her name was Jean, and that she loved playing uke and singing. She asked where I lived, and I told her Sunnyvale.
“Oh yes, I lived there for many years, until we finally got to move here, about 25 or maybe 30 years ago now…”
I nodded. “That’s a long time.”
“Yes, I’m 94 now!”
Wow. Ninety-four? I looked over at this lovely, beautiful woman – yes, older with wrinkles, but still so spry and alert, holding a ukulele in her hands – maybe the uke somehow was like a time machine…hahaha! Funny thought.
She went on to tell me all about her kids and grandkids, and asked me questions about my life. I told her about all of my kids, that I was going to be a grandma for the first time this year and I was excited, that ‘d found music with the ukulele groups and it made me happy. She agreed.
As we both sat there, I thought again – I could disappear and stay right here in this spot and never go back. Oh yes. I could.
Disappearing - Jennifer Baljko
“Crawl under the pot. Hurry. They won’t see you there.” Maybelle nudged Margo toward the corral where the rest of the cows were munching straw. Margo, who fancied herself more a cow than a chicken (an identity confusion that started after Margo’s family disappeared shortly after she cracked through the shell), wanted to trust Maybelle. She hadn’t been wrong before. This time, though, the pot seemed to small for Margo’s fluffy bum and her neck was longer, making it harder for her to crouch down completely out of view.
She had seen others around the field simply vanish. Maybelle called them the unlucky ones, the tasty ones. She had instructed Margo not to graze on the fine corn meal they kept scattering around. Maybelle had long ago calculated that eating too much of what those, those, uh, humans – yeah, that’s what she called them - directly correlated to the increased number of missing animals a few weeks later. Maybelle had figured out how to beat the system, and Margo was the latest one Maybelle took under her udder.
“Just squeeze in there. I’ll come over in a second and pretend I found something to nibble on over there.” It was Margo’s last chance. The loud little one was gaining speed as she ran downhill. She was the cute one, but still Maybelle had her doubts about that human’s long-term integrity.
She had seen others around the field simply vanish. Maybelle called them the unlucky ones, the tasty ones. She had instructed Margo not to graze on the fine corn meal they kept scattering around. Maybelle had long ago calculated that eating too much of what those, those, uh, humans – yeah, that’s what she called them - directly correlated to the increased number of missing animals a few weeks later. Maybelle had figured out how to beat the system, and Margo was the latest one Maybelle took under her udder.
“Just squeeze in there. I’ll come over in a second and pretend I found something to nibble on over there.” It was Margo’s last chance. The loud little one was gaining speed as she ran downhill. She was the cute one, but still Maybelle had her doubts about that human’s long-term integrity.
Dreaming - John Fetto
In Honor of Martin Luther King…
The day Hawley escaped the small, bigoted California town where he grew up, a cool crisp April wind bent the reeds of the estuary and wet the people standing around the outside the appliance store down from the bus stop where Hawley stood with his duffle bag. Still without a uniform, Hawley looked enough like them to fit in. Checkered shirt, blue jeans, short hair—he looked like most boys working the fields. But he didn’t want to join the crowd looking so happy. They weren’t happy because of the cloudless, blue sky or the bright sun. The crowd didn’t look at none of that. They were staring through the big, streaked window of the appliance, eyes fixed on the flickering pictures of the television sitting on display. If he was standing closer, they’d be wanting at him to join in and grin about what they saw. It was no great feat. Not even a hundred yards, closer than Oswald’s shot on Kennedy. No need to adjust for wind. No long night sitting out the cold. The shooter had level a 30-06 from out a bathroom window and shoot across a street and a toilet nearby while he waited. Still the people in front of the appliance store window, the people from his town, smiled in admiration, as if it were some great feat.
He stood up holding his duffle with his back toward them as if he were trying shield himself from the wet breeze, but mostly not wanting to be part of it. When the bus rumbled down the street, brakes squealing, he stepped on as soon as the doors swung opened. He sat down on the hard bench, and studied his green duffle. As the bus rumbled down the highway, Hawley thought about the shot. With a telescopic sight he’d see the pores on King’s face. He’d see him breathing and he still didn’t, just like the people giggling at the images on the black and white t.v. like school children.
Where ever the army sent him, Hawley told himself, he wasn’t coming back.
The day Hawley escaped the small, bigoted California town where he grew up, a cool crisp April wind bent the reeds of the estuary and wet the people standing around the outside the appliance store down from the bus stop where Hawley stood with his duffle bag. Still without a uniform, Hawley looked enough like them to fit in. Checkered shirt, blue jeans, short hair—he looked like most boys working the fields. But he didn’t want to join the crowd looking so happy. They weren’t happy because of the cloudless, blue sky or the bright sun. The crowd didn’t look at none of that. They were staring through the big, streaked window of the appliance, eyes fixed on the flickering pictures of the television sitting on display. If he was standing closer, they’d be wanting at him to join in and grin about what they saw. It was no great feat. Not even a hundred yards, closer than Oswald’s shot on Kennedy. No need to adjust for wind. No long night sitting out the cold. The shooter had level a 30-06 from out a bathroom window and shoot across a street and a toilet nearby while he waited. Still the people in front of the appliance store window, the people from his town, smiled in admiration, as if it were some great feat.
He stood up holding his duffle with his back toward them as if he were trying shield himself from the wet breeze, but mostly not wanting to be part of it. When the bus rumbled down the street, brakes squealing, he stepped on as soon as the doors swung opened. He sat down on the hard bench, and studied his green duffle. As the bus rumbled down the highway, Hawley thought about the shot. With a telescopic sight he’d see the pores on King’s face. He’d see him breathing and he still didn’t, just like the people giggling at the images on the black and white t.v. like school children.
Where ever the army sent him, Hawley told himself, he wasn’t coming back.
Dreaming - Judy Albietz
Josh recognized this nightmare. There he was, again, in a dark basement. Oh yes, there was a real basement in his house. The only entrance was through the door in the upstairs hall. Looked like a coat closet. The stairs were inside to the left. Josh never went down there, except in his horrible basement dream. It always started like what was happening now—he would be lying on the cold cement floor. He wouldn’t know how he’d gotten there. There were always the sounds of things down there in the darkness—coming after him. Like those sounds he was now hearing coming from the other side of the room. Could be footsteps. Okay, now would be a good time to wake up.
Josh felt his head clearing. Maybe he was waking up. Or not. As his eyes adjusted to the dim light, he saw he was surrounded on all sides by dark stone walls. So was this still the dream? His hands were tied behind his back. His wrists burned. So did his shoulder. He struggled to sit up. He heard metallic sounds coming from above. He looked up and saw movement. Something was crawling out of the ceiling toward him. Its head slowly swiveled. Two bright blinking eyes looked down at him. He had seen that face. It was in that video he’d downloaded. Right before he’d fallen asleep.
Josh felt his head clearing. Maybe he was waking up. Or not. As his eyes adjusted to the dim light, he saw he was surrounded on all sides by dark stone walls. So was this still the dream? His hands were tied behind his back. His wrists burned. So did his shoulder. He struggled to sit up. He heard metallic sounds coming from above. He looked up and saw movement. Something was crawling out of the ceiling toward him. Its head slowly swiveled. Two bright blinking eyes looked down at him. He had seen that face. It was in that video he’d downloaded. Right before he’d fallen asleep.
Dreaming - Kent Wright
Alice caught circus fever from a book read to her when she was five. It raged for her until well after her chums had moved on to other amusements, and dominated the fantasies she nourished behind her closed bedroom door. Much as she wished to she never went to the circus. It never came to town, so she spent countless hours dreaming of a life under the big top. In her circus world she was not part of administration favoring instead the glamorous heights of a trapeze and high wire performer. She designed and wore wonderful pink tights with rose red spangles in her imagination and soared over hushed, awed audiences bathed only in a lavender spot light. She suffered injuries of course, every performer does, and during one such period, conjured her dog as an elephant that sat up and counted and wore a doll’s pastel tutu. In her circus she was always a svelte, graceful headliner.
She eventually set aside the fantasies and abandoned the box with all the props and memories at the back of the hall closet. The circus lived on, however, but at night and in dreams that insisted on repeated viewings and that weren’t much fun. The beginning was always exciting and irresistible. Alice was entering the circus grounds with a crush of people all on their way to the three-ring spectacle under a brightly striped big top. The way to the big tent was lined with the gaudy sideshows that came with the circus. Barkers screamed for attention. The snake charmer leered, freaks with absurd bodies posed and sickened, midgets strutted, fat ladies overflowed stools. There was much to see on the way to the big top. In each dream, however, Alice was prevented from going inside to see the show she so desperately wanted to see. Some nights when she reached the sign that said Entrance the opening had disappeared. Or the ticket she had so carefully placed in a coat pocket was gone when she reached for it, and, while Alice stood wretched and starting to cry, the rest of the mob pushed past her into the magic of the tent without a glance. Some dreams ended with the stairs, which was the worst. Alice was forced to climb a wide, steep, slippery blue stairway that reached almost out of sight. It never had a banister. Far above she could just make out an alabaster orb resting on a slender pedestal. She needed the orb to see the circus so she climbed. She climbed and climbed until only blue sky and thin air surrounded the stairs. She panted but there were only 4 stairs left and the orb would be hers. Suddenly a short clown in a white tuxedo with sequined lapels stepped forward and looked down at Alice with darkly decorated eyes. His initial amusement quickly turned into a horrid sneer and with a theatrical flourish he brought forth his right arm. Between the thumb and index finger he daintily held a large, exquisitely sharp silver pin. He looked from Alice to the orb, no not an orb Alice realized in that moment but a cheap white balloon. He looked at Alice one more time before he stabbed the balloon and Alice’s hopes of the circus into oblivion.
She eventually set aside the fantasies and abandoned the box with all the props and memories at the back of the hall closet. The circus lived on, however, but at night and in dreams that insisted on repeated viewings and that weren’t much fun. The beginning was always exciting and irresistible. Alice was entering the circus grounds with a crush of people all on their way to the three-ring spectacle under a brightly striped big top. The way to the big tent was lined with the gaudy sideshows that came with the circus. Barkers screamed for attention. The snake charmer leered, freaks with absurd bodies posed and sickened, midgets strutted, fat ladies overflowed stools. There was much to see on the way to the big top. In each dream, however, Alice was prevented from going inside to see the show she so desperately wanted to see. Some nights when she reached the sign that said Entrance the opening had disappeared. Or the ticket she had so carefully placed in a coat pocket was gone when she reached for it, and, while Alice stood wretched and starting to cry, the rest of the mob pushed past her into the magic of the tent without a glance. Some dreams ended with the stairs, which was the worst. Alice was forced to climb a wide, steep, slippery blue stairway that reached almost out of sight. It never had a banister. Far above she could just make out an alabaster orb resting on a slender pedestal. She needed the orb to see the circus so she climbed. She climbed and climbed until only blue sky and thin air surrounded the stairs. She panted but there were only 4 stairs left and the orb would be hers. Suddenly a short clown in a white tuxedo with sequined lapels stepped forward and looked down at Alice with darkly decorated eyes. His initial amusement quickly turned into a horrid sneer and with a theatrical flourish he brought forth his right arm. Between the thumb and index finger he daintily held a large, exquisitely sharp silver pin. He looked from Alice to the orb, no not an orb Alice realized in that moment but a cheap white balloon. He looked at Alice one more time before he stabbed the balloon and Alice’s hopes of the circus into oblivion.
Drilling Down - Francisco Mora
The two guards who abducted Dr. Jackson were taking her through the gates into the building that Ace had been standing by watching, in pursuit of the doctor. Ace ran up to the gate door to try to catch it before it closed. The gates were scalable but no easily so. They were over fifteen feet high. He got through it. But the door to the building was nearly closed. He catapulted over to the door jumping like a frog and then leaping by bending at the waist like a four-legged animal.
The door hadn’t closed. Relieved. Slowly, slowly, he opened it, so slowly he could almost not hear the metal door latch moving out of its socket.
Dr. Jackson’s howling was muffled by their hands. Ace walked the empty corridor in her direction, but had to stop. The sounds of her voice were bouncing making it difficult to identify her location. He went downstairs, drilling down into the building three, four, five floors. It was difficult to tell if some of the landings were actual floors.
They disappeared. He wasn’t where to exit. He peered through the glass window over a door handle. What he walked out to was a catwalk that cut across a vast open space. It was filled with stations of circular lab tables that were on different levels. Columns of these circular tables were connected by cables with bubbling liquid. The doctor was being carried away on a catwalk one level down. Ace got down on all fours to not be seen; the area was bright with glowing catacombs of extra large tubes that were filled with globular tissue.
On one circular table there were large glass tubes with embryo-looking forms. Oh my god, that couldn’t be human.
The door hadn’t closed. Relieved. Slowly, slowly, he opened it, so slowly he could almost not hear the metal door latch moving out of its socket.
Dr. Jackson’s howling was muffled by their hands. Ace walked the empty corridor in her direction, but had to stop. The sounds of her voice were bouncing making it difficult to identify her location. He went downstairs, drilling down into the building three, four, five floors. It was difficult to tell if some of the landings were actual floors.
They disappeared. He wasn’t where to exit. He peered through the glass window over a door handle. What he walked out to was a catwalk that cut across a vast open space. It was filled with stations of circular lab tables that were on different levels. Columns of these circular tables were connected by cables with bubbling liquid. The doctor was being carried away on a catwalk one level down. Ace got down on all fours to not be seen; the area was bright with glowing catacombs of extra large tubes that were filled with globular tissue.
On one circular table there were large glass tubes with embryo-looking forms. Oh my god, that couldn’t be human.
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
Misery and Company - Jennifer Baljko
Her blue hair sizzled in the moonlight. Silver streaks of midnight slithered around her feet. Her eyes squinted to catch a glimpse of the man riding horseback. They were supposed to keep company that very night. But Misery didn't have any intention of letting the knife slip. Smeared in the thick oozing blood, Jomarea's pointy mustache shimmered with deception. The old willow tree slumped over the icy pond began crying a river of golden tears. She called to Misery with the pain of 1000 years shaking her roots. Misery wanted to crawl to her, but TLuz, the two-headed fish from her dream, warned her not to go there. Misery had other work to do, work for Matthias, and there was no going back. Matthias knew Misery's evil and counted on her twisted heart to plunge onward.
Misery Loves Company - Judy Albietz
Lily had waited until today to tell Josh about the dog showing up during lunch hour. She had been sitting alone at the back of the school. She replayed the scene in her head. The huge dog appeared out of nowhere and sat down across from her. There he was, maybe seven feet away from her, staring at her. He had a lot of long hair, mostly brown. He looked vaguely familiar, but she couldn’t place him and didn’t see any tags on his large red collar. He looked really sad, actually quite miserable, for a dog. Probably lost. Her thoughts were interrupted by a voice.
“Hello Lily.”
“Who’s there?” Lily asked. She jumped up and looked around but didn’t see anybody.
“Not much time to explain. So sorry but this is urgent. Lily, you will understand when you hold the stone you wear around your neck. You found that stone when you were with Josh the last day you were together, before he moved away.”
“Who is this?” Lily demanded, as she unconsciously reached for the little blue stone with her right hand. This couldn’t be Josh. He was a couple of thousand miles away. But he was the only one who knew where the stone had come from. He’d put it on the string for her—making the necklace she never took off.
The dog’s eyes were watering as he cocked his big head to the side. The stone in Lily’s hand began to feel warm. Feeling dizzy, she sat down. Then the memories flooded her head. It was like watching a movie. And she was in it. She then knew who the dog was. His name was Sam and he’d saved her life—many times. She’d traveled with this dog to a place where she could talk to monkeys with blue skin. She saw herself with Sophia, the Medicine Monkey—her friend. She also knew something was wrong, why Sam was so unhappy. Tears came to her eyes too. Her friends were in trouble.
“Hello Lily.”
“Who’s there?” Lily asked. She jumped up and looked around but didn’t see anybody.
“Not much time to explain. So sorry but this is urgent. Lily, you will understand when you hold the stone you wear around your neck. You found that stone when you were with Josh the last day you were together, before he moved away.”
“Who is this?” Lily demanded, as she unconsciously reached for the little blue stone with her right hand. This couldn’t be Josh. He was a couple of thousand miles away. But he was the only one who knew where the stone had come from. He’d put it on the string for her—making the necklace she never took off.
The dog’s eyes were watering as he cocked his big head to the side. The stone in Lily’s hand began to feel warm. Feeling dizzy, she sat down. Then the memories flooded her head. It was like watching a movie. And she was in it. She then knew who the dog was. His name was Sam and he’d saved her life—many times. She’d traveled with this dog to a place where she could talk to monkeys with blue skin. She saw herself with Sophia, the Medicine Monkey—her friend. She also knew something was wrong, why Sam was so unhappy. Tears came to her eyes too. Her friends were in trouble.
Something Fishy - Meg Newman
I still had clumps of egg attached to my teeth and made the realization that when I eat eggs with soy cheese they congeal into an adherent mess in my back teeth. Lovely. I had just a few weeks left before internship and residency started and coming to conclusions, summarizations, and understandings seemed important because in short order, I would rarely have time to ponder, make realizations, sleep or dream.
We were back driving through the streets of Oakland for the first time in 4 years and heading to ore and salvage to find furniture and bits for the new apartment. In the last week, knowing we would be going to Ore and Salvage, I imagined that we would run into Mel. That is if he was still alive- and still living in the house on Solano Ave and still doing carpentry or construction and still being Mel. A dear sweet man, a Mr. Fix-it, fun to be with but largely alone, reading books and pursuing astronomy, ham radios and other hobbies that thrived when done alone. I had last seen him in the late 70’s, when I was still with Ann and Mel and I were remodeling her first house and bidding on small carpentry jobs. Like hanging the heaviest door made out of the hardest wood, which had sat for 3 years getting harder awaiting someone insane enough to hang it. We spent so many hours getting this door hung and finally succeeded but not without a lot of damage to this beautiful, solid core door. I am not making this up but the homeowner was largely vision impaired -legally blind – and we were relieved to know she never ever suffered knowing what a mess we made of the door. About 2 years after we hung it, I ran into her at a party and she said she was surprised we had ever agreed to hang it—no one else would because it was so heavy.
We were back driving through the streets of Oakland for the first time in 4 years and heading to ore and salvage to find furniture and bits for the new apartment. In the last week, knowing we would be going to Ore and Salvage, I imagined that we would run into Mel. That is if he was still alive- and still living in the house on Solano Ave and still doing carpentry or construction and still being Mel. A dear sweet man, a Mr. Fix-it, fun to be with but largely alone, reading books and pursuing astronomy, ham radios and other hobbies that thrived when done alone. I had last seen him in the late 70’s, when I was still with Ann and Mel and I were remodeling her first house and bidding on small carpentry jobs. Like hanging the heaviest door made out of the hardest wood, which had sat for 3 years getting harder awaiting someone insane enough to hang it. We spent so many hours getting this door hung and finally succeeded but not without a lot of damage to this beautiful, solid core door. I am not making this up but the homeowner was largely vision impaired -legally blind – and we were relieved to know she never ever suffered knowing what a mess we made of the door. About 2 years after we hung it, I ran into her at a party and she said she was surprised we had ever agreed to hang it—no one else would because it was so heavy.
Something Fishy - Kate Bueler
Something fishy. Something fishy was going on. I knew that. For sure. As I rode my bike my feet pressed into the pedals flexing my legs for a moment of tension then release then repeat. As I rode up to school. I knew something was off. There were two cop cars parked outside. There usually we only have one. One cop here. So as I locked my bike. I tried to push the thought back, far back as to forget, and instead focused on opening the doors again after a long break. The kids I have missed. The work that needed to be done. The cars faded away in the background as the movement of my heart from the ride took over. And I went about my day. Or my morning. With the welcoming back and the good to see you and teenagers that maybe someone might be scared of but you aren’t reaching out to hug you and say I thought you weren’t coming back probably code for I miss you not spoken in words but felt nonetheless.
And as I walked in between classes. I saw the belonging parties to the cars. Didn’t recognize either not our cop. And as I walk down our long corridor cold pavement blasts into my face so cold I have to wear my coat inside. I realize the two cops I am following have picked up their pace and make eyes together and readjust their radios. I’m following two cops on the way to do something. The pursuit in the middle of school. In the middle of this school. Then I turn and they continue on their way to the yard. Back I see them now running. Middle of school two cops running around the halls. Not fishy. At all. Students ask me what’s going on because how could you not see that. Miss that one. Normal maybe someone might believe in a public school but its not. And that’s that until.
Until I found out why. Why they were here. And what they were looking for. Because I know the realities of this school. I know that. I know that there has been mace fights (two) and sometimes the students when searched have box cutters. That was hard enough for me to stomach. I went out some sort of personal tirade on the in and outside. But the presence of a gun. A gun from someone who came here just to shot one of our students. The thought of it is more than I can take. On any day. Ever. So I do what I can to not think about it. Because if I do I will fall upon my knees in the fetal. And never get up. Being strong. Is part of this job. Denial might be too.
The details come in. Slowly sporadically and shockingly. Upon the radio of this telephone game of high school. And as I walk across the hall. Hall to the main office. I see the student. The student. The student who was the intended target. I see him as he sits upon the chair. Leaning down his legs open. Sitting quietly. Happiness I feel for him just sitting. There. And for once I don’t know what to say. Say. I look at him. So he knows I see him. Really sees him on that chair. That chair. Breathing in and out. And I look at him and with no words ask him if he is okay. He nods slowly. Cautiously. As if we can ever be okay.
And as I walked in between classes. I saw the belonging parties to the cars. Didn’t recognize either not our cop. And as I walk down our long corridor cold pavement blasts into my face so cold I have to wear my coat inside. I realize the two cops I am following have picked up their pace and make eyes together and readjust their radios. I’m following two cops on the way to do something. The pursuit in the middle of school. In the middle of this school. Then I turn and they continue on their way to the yard. Back I see them now running. Middle of school two cops running around the halls. Not fishy. At all. Students ask me what’s going on because how could you not see that. Miss that one. Normal maybe someone might believe in a public school but its not. And that’s that until.
Until I found out why. Why they were here. And what they were looking for. Because I know the realities of this school. I know that. I know that there has been mace fights (two) and sometimes the students when searched have box cutters. That was hard enough for me to stomach. I went out some sort of personal tirade on the in and outside. But the presence of a gun. A gun from someone who came here just to shot one of our students. The thought of it is more than I can take. On any day. Ever. So I do what I can to not think about it. Because if I do I will fall upon my knees in the fetal. And never get up. Being strong. Is part of this job. Denial might be too.
The details come in. Slowly sporadically and shockingly. Upon the radio of this telephone game of high school. And as I walk across the hall. Hall to the main office. I see the student. The student. The student who was the intended target. I see him as he sits upon the chair. Leaning down his legs open. Sitting quietly. Happiness I feel for him just sitting. There. And for once I don’t know what to say. Say. I look at him. So he knows I see him. Really sees him on that chair. That chair. Breathing in and out. And I look at him and with no words ask him if he is okay. He nods slowly. Cautiously. As if we can ever be okay.
Catering to a Whim - Francisco Mora
“Do you think I was catering to a whim?” Ace asked his boss Maggie, making his irritation now obvious.
“What I’m saying is…No. What I’m doing is giving you feedback on your approach in class yesterday. That’s all.”
“But wait. Maggie, you’ve never done that. And you know my methods aren’t conventional. Controversy, even, has been part of it all along.”
“I know. And you produce results that no one else does in the whole field of pain management and rehabilitation. That’s why I’ve stuck out my neck for you, literally, and why I let you teach on your own. We could both be fired if someone thought that you’re doing deep psychological work in your rehab program without proper certification yet”
Ace interrupted: “what’s this really about?” They were having their first argument. Maggie had heard from Jake’s orthopedic surgeon that he was turned off by Ace’s class yesterday, which he was checking out surreptitiously. Too weird, kinda freakish talk about shape-shifting, was the complaint. “That was at the tail end of three hours. I was doing the wrap-up and giving the homework.”
“Your methods are sound. The best. That’s why your classes have been oversubscribed. The waiting list is long. It’s why we want to expand big.” He interrupted: “the kid was sneaking around”
“Jake. His name is Jake.”
“Jake was sneaking around to scoop me out. I didn’t even know he was there.”
“You’re being observed closely.”
“By him?”
“Yes, and” she hesitated, “and,” Maggie looked around away from Ace.
“Maggie, this is bizarre. Why are you making such a fuss about what this kid thinks of the program. And me?”
“Jake, his name is Jake. He’s Frank Sylvester’s son.”
Frank Sylvester was the Physician-in-Chief of the national hospital network they were part of. He was on the board of one of the biotech giants in the area and his family the biggest shareholder. Maggie and Ace needed support to take their programs to the next level. They were currently stifled by management and only dealing with severe budget constraints.
“What I’m saying is…No. What I’m doing is giving you feedback on your approach in class yesterday. That’s all.”
“But wait. Maggie, you’ve never done that. And you know my methods aren’t conventional. Controversy, even, has been part of it all along.”
“I know. And you produce results that no one else does in the whole field of pain management and rehabilitation. That’s why I’ve stuck out my neck for you, literally, and why I let you teach on your own. We could both be fired if someone thought that you’re doing deep psychological work in your rehab program without proper certification yet”
Ace interrupted: “what’s this really about?” They were having their first argument. Maggie had heard from Jake’s orthopedic surgeon that he was turned off by Ace’s class yesterday, which he was checking out surreptitiously. Too weird, kinda freakish talk about shape-shifting, was the complaint. “That was at the tail end of three hours. I was doing the wrap-up and giving the homework.”
“Your methods are sound. The best. That’s why your classes have been oversubscribed. The waiting list is long. It’s why we want to expand big.” He interrupted: “the kid was sneaking around”
“Jake. His name is Jake.”
“Jake was sneaking around to scoop me out. I didn’t even know he was there.”
“You’re being observed closely.”
“By him?”
“Yes, and” she hesitated, “and,” Maggie looked around away from Ace.
“Maggie, this is bizarre. Why are you making such a fuss about what this kid thinks of the program. And me?”
“Jake, his name is Jake. He’s Frank Sylvester’s son.”
Frank Sylvester was the Physician-in-Chief of the national hospital network they were part of. He was on the board of one of the biotech giants in the area and his family the biggest shareholder. Maggie and Ace needed support to take their programs to the next level. They were currently stifled by management and only dealing with severe budget constraints.
Checkmate - Donna Shomer
Checkmate
The damn washing machine
is sucking and spinning
outside my door
and it makes for crap silence.
- of which there is none -
This is probably
punishment for allowing
stories to atrophy -
for revoking wonder
and a sense of dreams.
For defending against music
because it opens what is closed.
Tricksy seductress silence –
always lurking
in the crevice between doing and hearing.
The damn washing machine
is sucking and spinning
outside my door
and it makes for crap silence.
- of which there is none -
This is probably
punishment for allowing
stories to atrophy -
for revoking wonder
and a sense of dreams.
For defending against music
because it opens what is closed.
Tricksy seductress silence –
always lurking
in the crevice between doing and hearing.
It Was Familiar, Yet It Seemed Strange - Melody Cryns
A memory that just popped into my head – July 26, 1968.
I’d seen Dr. Wark before and he’d been to our flat in San Francisco even – he came into our bright lime green bedroom in the middle of the night once when I had a bad case of red measles – everything was blurry because my eyes were all messed up and I only could see out of one eye anyway. I never forgot how I had to sit in a dark bedroom and not do anything that involved using my eyes, no reading, no watching TV. Dr. Wark was our family doctor and he remained my Dad’s doctor until he retired.
It was a foggy, cool summer afternoon when I saw him pull up in his fancy, shiny car – one you’d never normally see in the neighborhood I lived in. I was careening down the hill of Second Avenue on my skateboard, feeling the cool salty air rush against my face – and trying not to think about whether Dr. Wark would tell my mom who hated it when I rode the skateboard down the hill like that.
I remember how he looked, tall and skinny with gray hair and round wire-framed glasses. He looked just like the doctors I’d see on TV on those shows such as Dennis the Menace or Leave It to Beaver.
He walked briskly as if he was on a mission, looking a little mysterious in the fog as I expertly swerved around him and jumped off the skateboard just barely missing him as he headed up the wide porch of our flat on Second Avenue.
“Woooo, look out! You know, I just treated a young girl with a broken arm – she was riding one of those skateboards!”
“Ohhh, I won’t get hurt!” I laughed. “I know what I’m doing.”
Dr. Wark nodded, smiled and waved and continued up the stairs. I’d seen him before a few times, but then I wondered – what was he doing here today? Something was weird.
I sat outside on the stoop holding on to my skateboard, not wanting to go in and hear my mom yell at me about riding my brother’s skateboard that I’d taken over after he got it for Christmas. She was afraid to buy me a skateboard or a bike or anything because I was blind in one eye, but my 11th birthday was coming up in a couple of days, maybe, just maybe I’d finally get a bike!
I should go inside and see why the doctor’s in there, I thought. Oh yeah, my little sister Jennifer was sick – Mom was worried, had said something about a high temperature. Jenny was fragile and small and got sick a lot. In fact, she was the reason my Dad transferred to San Francisco from Chicago – she was sick all the time and the doctors said she was better off in milder climates. But here I was sitting in the fog in the middle of summer. It seemed perfectly normal to me.
I’ll go in there in a few moments to see what’s up, I thought. Meanwhile, I could take this hill one more time. I ran to the top of the hill with the skateboard and put it down on to the pavement, one foot and then the other, okay, here goes – as I whizzed down the hill, it felt wonderful exhilarating – but then I swerved to slow the skateboard down and expertly jump off.
My mouth dropped open as I watched Dr. Wark slowly walk down the steps of my flat holding on to – no way. That was my little sister totally wrapped in a blanket. He didn’t even look at me, but headed straight for the car with my sister. All I could see was a little bit of her dark hair sticking out of the end of the blanket as Dr. Wark opened the car door with one hand and ever so slowly and carefully placed Jennifer whom everyone in the neighborhood called Jenny Pooh, into his shiny silver car.
Suddenly my mother burst out of the flat as if out of nowhere and dashed down the steps. She looked up the street at me for only a moment.
“Mary, I have to go to the hospital now. Someone will be over to look after you in a little bit. I’ll be back.”
She got into Dr. Wark’s car and they drove off.
I stood there for a long time holding on to my skateboard.
I’d seen Dr. Wark before and he’d been to our flat in San Francisco even – he came into our bright lime green bedroom in the middle of the night once when I had a bad case of red measles – everything was blurry because my eyes were all messed up and I only could see out of one eye anyway. I never forgot how I had to sit in a dark bedroom and not do anything that involved using my eyes, no reading, no watching TV. Dr. Wark was our family doctor and he remained my Dad’s doctor until he retired.
It was a foggy, cool summer afternoon when I saw him pull up in his fancy, shiny car – one you’d never normally see in the neighborhood I lived in. I was careening down the hill of Second Avenue on my skateboard, feeling the cool salty air rush against my face – and trying not to think about whether Dr. Wark would tell my mom who hated it when I rode the skateboard down the hill like that.
I remember how he looked, tall and skinny with gray hair and round wire-framed glasses. He looked just like the doctors I’d see on TV on those shows such as Dennis the Menace or Leave It to Beaver.
He walked briskly as if he was on a mission, looking a little mysterious in the fog as I expertly swerved around him and jumped off the skateboard just barely missing him as he headed up the wide porch of our flat on Second Avenue.
“Woooo, look out! You know, I just treated a young girl with a broken arm – she was riding one of those skateboards!”
“Ohhh, I won’t get hurt!” I laughed. “I know what I’m doing.”
Dr. Wark nodded, smiled and waved and continued up the stairs. I’d seen him before a few times, but then I wondered – what was he doing here today? Something was weird.
I sat outside on the stoop holding on to my skateboard, not wanting to go in and hear my mom yell at me about riding my brother’s skateboard that I’d taken over after he got it for Christmas. She was afraid to buy me a skateboard or a bike or anything because I was blind in one eye, but my 11th birthday was coming up in a couple of days, maybe, just maybe I’d finally get a bike!
I should go inside and see why the doctor’s in there, I thought. Oh yeah, my little sister Jennifer was sick – Mom was worried, had said something about a high temperature. Jenny was fragile and small and got sick a lot. In fact, she was the reason my Dad transferred to San Francisco from Chicago – she was sick all the time and the doctors said she was better off in milder climates. But here I was sitting in the fog in the middle of summer. It seemed perfectly normal to me.
I’ll go in there in a few moments to see what’s up, I thought. Meanwhile, I could take this hill one more time. I ran to the top of the hill with the skateboard and put it down on to the pavement, one foot and then the other, okay, here goes – as I whizzed down the hill, it felt wonderful exhilarating – but then I swerved to slow the skateboard down and expertly jump off.
My mouth dropped open as I watched Dr. Wark slowly walk down the steps of my flat holding on to – no way. That was my little sister totally wrapped in a blanket. He didn’t even look at me, but headed straight for the car with my sister. All I could see was a little bit of her dark hair sticking out of the end of the blanket as Dr. Wark opened the car door with one hand and ever so slowly and carefully placed Jennifer whom everyone in the neighborhood called Jenny Pooh, into his shiny silver car.
Suddenly my mother burst out of the flat as if out of nowhere and dashed down the steps. She looked up the street at me for only a moment.
“Mary, I have to go to the hospital now. Someone will be over to look after you in a little bit. I’ll be back.”
She got into Dr. Wark’s car and they drove off.
I stood there for a long time holding on to my skateboard.
It Was Strange, Yet It Felt Familiar - Bonnie Smetts
Margaret was excited. It was a rare day that she felt excitement, she could probably go back and mark them on a calendar in the two years they’d been in India. But today she woke and was happy.
Their driver had the car running and ready when the three of them emerged from the house. How many days were they actually together as a family anymore. How many days did they spend with other families. Sasha had made them a picnic lunch, everyone would be competing for honors about whose contributions were more English. An English picnic.
Margaret shut her eyes to the sights as they passed out of the city. Today she would do what her husband must do every morning. She would not see the children with deformed feet and lips. She would not see the men begging. She would not see the girls with babies filling their tiny bellies. No, she would stare at Charlotte’s almost gold hair.
“Mommy, mommy. Look at the kites.” Charlotte saw them before Margaret or Ash, they were lost in adult thoughts, but not their little girl. “Look, can we get a kite too?”
The driver pulled up in to a spot between two other cars she recognized. The Watsons and Andrews were already setting up under a lovely tree. “Mommy, let’s go.” And with that Charlotte pushed open the car door.
“Charlotte, wait. Wait for us. We’ll get a kite. Just wait.” Ash came alive and was with them. Let the burden of their strange daughter fall in him, just for a moment, or an hour, thought Margaret. “We must say hello to everyone, then we’ll get a kite.”
Margaret saw that the kite flyers were the children of her friends. For a lovely moment, she felt comfortable. At the park on a lovely day with friends, or with people that she could at least pretend were her friends. Charlotte charged ahead, ignoring her father’s words.
“Ash, why don’t you go ahead with Charlotte, I’ll get us settled with the others.” Ash smiled and went after Charlotte. Go dear, you go see what your daughter sees.
“Margaret! Come, come see what our cook has made for the picnic.” Margaret turned to her friends, surprised she was excited to see what Annabelle had brought. She had not care if her basket was filled with the best chicken or tarts or who knows what Sasha had made. Margaret was simply happy to be here, out of the house, out of the nightmare of her mind, that of a stranger in a strange place. Margaret made the rounds of the other women, taking time to bask in the comfort of their soft cotton dresses and weak-scented perfumes.
Their driver had the car running and ready when the three of them emerged from the house. How many days were they actually together as a family anymore. How many days did they spend with other families. Sasha had made them a picnic lunch, everyone would be competing for honors about whose contributions were more English. An English picnic.
Margaret shut her eyes to the sights as they passed out of the city. Today she would do what her husband must do every morning. She would not see the children with deformed feet and lips. She would not see the men begging. She would not see the girls with babies filling their tiny bellies. No, she would stare at Charlotte’s almost gold hair.
“Mommy, mommy. Look at the kites.” Charlotte saw them before Margaret or Ash, they were lost in adult thoughts, but not their little girl. “Look, can we get a kite too?”
The driver pulled up in to a spot between two other cars she recognized. The Watsons and Andrews were already setting up under a lovely tree. “Mommy, let’s go.” And with that Charlotte pushed open the car door.
“Charlotte, wait. Wait for us. We’ll get a kite. Just wait.” Ash came alive and was with them. Let the burden of their strange daughter fall in him, just for a moment, or an hour, thought Margaret. “We must say hello to everyone, then we’ll get a kite.”
Margaret saw that the kite flyers were the children of her friends. For a lovely moment, she felt comfortable. At the park on a lovely day with friends, or with people that she could at least pretend were her friends. Charlotte charged ahead, ignoring her father’s words.
“Ash, why don’t you go ahead with Charlotte, I’ll get us settled with the others.” Ash smiled and went after Charlotte. Go dear, you go see what your daughter sees.
“Margaret! Come, come see what our cook has made for the picnic.” Margaret turned to her friends, surprised she was excited to see what Annabelle had brought. She had not care if her basket was filled with the best chicken or tarts or who knows what Sasha had made. Margaret was simply happy to be here, out of the house, out of the nightmare of her mind, that of a stranger in a strange place. Margaret made the rounds of the other women, taking time to bask in the comfort of their soft cotton dresses and weak-scented perfumes.
It Was Familiar, Yet It Seemed Strange - E. D. James
Olivia watched the others head out of the office to drown their sorrows in the local bar. She knew that after a few tears and heartfelt rememberances they would laughing and recalling the good times they had shared with Audrey. It was not the way that Olivia dealt with such things. She put her head down and got back to plotting the data from the Arkhara Crane project that had been left on Audrey’s computer. This had been her way since her mother left Olivia and her father when she was nine. She’d spent that first devastating summer at the family compound in Wisconsin. The man who tended the grounds there was Chinese. There weren’t many people around most days that would hang out with a nine year old and she couldn’t stand being cooped up in the big old house. So she and Wang Lung, they called him Henry, spent many days with her trailing along behind him as he did his chores.
One day he asked Wanda, Olivia’s nanny, if she could go with him to pick up supplies in Baraboo, the closest town to the compound. On the way they took a side trip to the International Crane Foundation. Wang Lung’s ancestral homeland lay along the shore of Poyang Lake, the largest body of freshwater in China. Poyang is the wintering grounds for millions of birds, including the Siberian Crane. Wang Lung’s family had treasured the Cranes the inhabited their farmland in the winter months.
As they drove through the gates of the Foundation sanctuary, Olivia heard the rattling k-a-r-o-o-o of Cranes for the first time. It was a sound both familiar and strange. It made the hairs on the back of her arms stand up in the humid summer air. As they walked through the pens and looked at the Cranes from around the world who were threatened and Olivia listened to Wang Lung talk about his family’s farm and how it had been taken from them during the time of the Red Guards she became very sad.
“Why is life so hard?” she asked him.
“Why do you think like should be happy?” he answered.
“Isn’t that the way it should be?”
“In China we have a saying, Chi Ku. Eating bitterness is the American way of saying it. Chi Ku means that we will only find true meaning in life through hard work and discipline.”
“And if you work hard will you be happy?”
“There is no heaven in China. There is only more hard work.”
Olivia looked up at Wang in that moment and her nine year old mind opened and saw a man who had lived such a hard life, losing his entire family, still working hard and he seemed happier than all the people she saw at the clubs and parties that her mother and father attended. She decided then and there that Chi Ku would be her path.
One day he asked Wanda, Olivia’s nanny, if she could go with him to pick up supplies in Baraboo, the closest town to the compound. On the way they took a side trip to the International Crane Foundation. Wang Lung’s ancestral homeland lay along the shore of Poyang Lake, the largest body of freshwater in China. Poyang is the wintering grounds for millions of birds, including the Siberian Crane. Wang Lung’s family had treasured the Cranes the inhabited their farmland in the winter months.
As they drove through the gates of the Foundation sanctuary, Olivia heard the rattling k-a-r-o-o-o of Cranes for the first time. It was a sound both familiar and strange. It made the hairs on the back of her arms stand up in the humid summer air. As they walked through the pens and looked at the Cranes from around the world who were threatened and Olivia listened to Wang Lung talk about his family’s farm and how it had been taken from them during the time of the Red Guards she became very sad.
“Why is life so hard?” she asked him.
“Why do you think like should be happy?” he answered.
“Isn’t that the way it should be?”
“In China we have a saying, Chi Ku. Eating bitterness is the American way of saying it. Chi Ku means that we will only find true meaning in life through hard work and discipline.”
“And if you work hard will you be happy?”
“There is no heaven in China. There is only more hard work.”
Olivia looked up at Wang in that moment and her nine year old mind opened and saw a man who had lived such a hard life, losing his entire family, still working hard and he seemed happier than all the people she saw at the clubs and parties that her mother and father attended. She decided then and there that Chi Ku would be her path.
Company - Kent Wright
Slim got his name honest. He was skinny, all wire and twine. There was nothing extra when you looked at him, and nothing if you saw him just by chance that made you look twice. His work pants were always clean, and the same old black belt made them bunch up where they held his shirt in. He worked at a steady pace and never gave in to excitement much and when something didn’t go right Slim would just step back a step, readjust his cap (that was a constant feature too) and shake his head like it sort of tickled him before he went back to work.
His wife favored a slightly more high-pitched run at life; nothing gaudy but quicker. She played the organ at the church where she pulled her mouth way to the side when it was time to make the sanctuary vibrate on the big hymns. Garnita also taught piano in the dining room of she and Slim’s house. Most of the students came once a week and patiently Garnita helped small fingers driven by little interest find the right keys to push. She was kind and honest with the kids, even ones that had no love of music didn’t mind coming to Miss Garnita’s for an hour.
Sometimes if it was too hot too work or the fields were too muddy Slim kept his wife company while she taught. He sat bent over a jigsaw puzzle spread out on the dining table while Garnita worked through that week’s piece with the student. He never said anything but ‘humm’ once in a while as he pondered the pieces. But when she was finished and if the kid was one he liked he’d say, “I believe I could use a little help with where this piece goes. Suppose you could help me?” The student would rush over to Slim and take the piece and concentrate with a frown while Garnita collected the music and put it back in the piano bench.
Garnita and Slim had a closet full of jigsaw puzzles they had worked, some, their favorites several times. That is how they spent their evenings, one on each side of the dining room table moving quietly over the hundreds of colored pieces of cardboard spread out before them. Slim and Garnita were never able to have children of their own.
His wife favored a slightly more high-pitched run at life; nothing gaudy but quicker. She played the organ at the church where she pulled her mouth way to the side when it was time to make the sanctuary vibrate on the big hymns. Garnita also taught piano in the dining room of she and Slim’s house. Most of the students came once a week and patiently Garnita helped small fingers driven by little interest find the right keys to push. She was kind and honest with the kids, even ones that had no love of music didn’t mind coming to Miss Garnita’s for an hour.
Sometimes if it was too hot too work or the fields were too muddy Slim kept his wife company while she taught. He sat bent over a jigsaw puzzle spread out on the dining table while Garnita worked through that week’s piece with the student. He never said anything but ‘humm’ once in a while as he pondered the pieces. But when she was finished and if the kid was one he liked he’d say, “I believe I could use a little help with where this piece goes. Suppose you could help me?” The student would rush over to Slim and take the piece and concentrate with a frown while Garnita collected the music and put it back in the piano bench.
Garnita and Slim had a closet full of jigsaw puzzles they had worked, some, their favorites several times. That is how they spent their evenings, one on each side of the dining room table moving quietly over the hundreds of colored pieces of cardboard spread out before them. Slim and Garnita were never able to have children of their own.
Rich - Maria Robinson
It's not about getting rich, it about being rich.
Rich in love or rich in type of booty that women delight in or rich in family.
After a certain age, I'm not certain what I want to be rich in.
Maybe I've had the embarrassment of riches that goes along with a spouse that has loved his career and me, children who have loved me and left me,
a house that I’ve loved and now left, old suitors who are now more ancient that me, who still love me that I left fifty years ago. The richness is in
holding it all, having whatever memory suits me to enrich the moment and yes, there's still the tangible love of breathing in life here on the beach in Israel.
Even if I am alone.
Rich in love or rich in type of booty that women delight in or rich in family.
After a certain age, I'm not certain what I want to be rich in.
Maybe I've had the embarrassment of riches that goes along with a spouse that has loved his career and me, children who have loved me and left me,
a house that I’ve loved and now left, old suitors who are now more ancient that me, who still love me that I left fifty years ago. The richness is in
holding it all, having whatever memory suits me to enrich the moment and yes, there's still the tangible love of breathing in life here on the beach in Israel.
Even if I am alone.
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
The Memory That Sticks - Donna Shomer
I am sitting in the breakfast nook
I always have dinner there when mom goes out
Deep red leather bench
Dark wooden table
Scrambled eggs.
One of the many uncles
at my mothers elbow
she in her fine hat
with the half veil and long
black gloves
she says goodbye and I ask
how I could possibly
be in this world
what about birth and what about death
how do we get here how do
we leave and she
says to uncle I don’t remember his name
‘not tonight’ and she
pulls each finger of both gloves carefully
and evenly and she
withdraws her hands and
takes out the hatpin and sets
her hat next to the gloves
on the table
near my eggs
and she sits down and she
begins.
I always have dinner there when mom goes out
Deep red leather bench
Dark wooden table
Scrambled eggs.
One of the many uncles
at my mothers elbow
she in her fine hat
with the half veil and long
black gloves
she says goodbye and I ask
how I could possibly
be in this world
what about birth and what about death
how do we get here how do
we leave and she
says to uncle I don’t remember his name
‘not tonight’ and she
pulls each finger of both gloves carefully
and evenly and she
withdraws her hands and
takes out the hatpin and sets
her hat next to the gloves
on the table
near my eggs
and she sits down and she
begins.
The Memory That Sticks - Kate Bueler
The memory that sticks is not the one I intended. As she- me- flips through the photos of what was, what still is, and what may be. The memories stick to you like the old photographs taken in what they will one day call the old fashioned way with the archaic film. I try to pull those photos apart but they stick on me. Stick on me. Just like trying to remember when. When this photo was taken. A childhood is created in words of others telling you what were like, fuzzy memories of what you think you remember but you aren’t sure for what were the stories others told you and what our your own memories. Blending. But some of these memories stick in a way you aren’t sure where they belong or if they are yours in the first place.
The first time I remembered. I remembered I was twelve. Twelve years old. I stomped down the stairs of our duplex house with a memory I couldn’t shake, one I couldn’t get rid of but not knowing where it came from. The picture stuck in my mind was a place. A place. That had tons of locks running up and down the door. A big tall door and tons of locks. And I remember my mothers face. I was there in that memory with my mother. So I run down nonchalantly making my entrance, short and skinny and full of ambition to be the first women president, dad, so where did I go with mom with all the locks on the door. I would have asked her. But she was not there. And hadn’t been for sometime. But even as a child, I was beginning to realize fact checking with her was an epic fail.
The 6th grade self bubbled around my dad waiting for an answer. I saw my father’s eyes and in an instant I knew this memory was mine. Not borrowed form the twilight zone or someone else’s head-it was mine. Stuck to me. His eyes spoke a serious tone I had not seen for years. Years ago when the Bueler v. Bueler then Sullivan battle occurred. When they decided they were through and the final two items to fight over was me and my brother (fortunate for him he was a baby so no one asked him many questions). I waited. He looked at me and said the words that could have changed my life then not now, your mother took you on vacation and never came back.
My eyes opened into disbelief as other memories began to pour into the cotton candy and caramel soaked mind of a child. I didn’t doubt my father for an instant. And as he spoke the memories that had been stored away, stored away to protect my 5 year old self came back like the slideshow of years past. Repression was my sanctuary. Holding my blanket to my chest with my musical shoes that upon pressing the button played a tune.
The place where we were was a women’s shelter (one of two). My mother had run away on a vacay gone permanent and the hosts booted us once they figured out her plan. The dinner table and yelling flashes before my eyes. Scene switch. New location. And then the locks. And rules. Not being able to eat past a certain time. But my mom sneaking cheerios into bed. They fell in the bed and sticking to the sheets. Stuck in my head. Sticking to me. To walking on the street. And wondering why men would come to this place and yell outside. Fear. Still there. Felt now. As my father spoke. About his chase to find us and the running to the next place. Scène changes again. And the room. We stayed in bunk beds with another mother and daughter. It darkens. And I see the light of my grandfather’s face. They had found us. I remembered that now. Now I did and dressed up per my mom’s request- I jumped in that gray pick up truck in the cab next to him warm I was and safe I was. Safe I would always be with him. It didn’t matter what happened next. Because they had found me. I didn’t find my way onto a milk carton. I found my way home.
The first time I remembered. I remembered I was twelve. Twelve years old. I stomped down the stairs of our duplex house with a memory I couldn’t shake, one I couldn’t get rid of but not knowing where it came from. The picture stuck in my mind was a place. A place. That had tons of locks running up and down the door. A big tall door and tons of locks. And I remember my mothers face. I was there in that memory with my mother. So I run down nonchalantly making my entrance, short and skinny and full of ambition to be the first women president, dad, so where did I go with mom with all the locks on the door. I would have asked her. But she was not there. And hadn’t been for sometime. But even as a child, I was beginning to realize fact checking with her was an epic fail.
The 6th grade self bubbled around my dad waiting for an answer. I saw my father’s eyes and in an instant I knew this memory was mine. Not borrowed form the twilight zone or someone else’s head-it was mine. Stuck to me. His eyes spoke a serious tone I had not seen for years. Years ago when the Bueler v. Bueler then Sullivan battle occurred. When they decided they were through and the final two items to fight over was me and my brother (fortunate for him he was a baby so no one asked him many questions). I waited. He looked at me and said the words that could have changed my life then not now, your mother took you on vacation and never came back.
My eyes opened into disbelief as other memories began to pour into the cotton candy and caramel soaked mind of a child. I didn’t doubt my father for an instant. And as he spoke the memories that had been stored away, stored away to protect my 5 year old self came back like the slideshow of years past. Repression was my sanctuary. Holding my blanket to my chest with my musical shoes that upon pressing the button played a tune.
The place where we were was a women’s shelter (one of two). My mother had run away on a vacay gone permanent and the hosts booted us once they figured out her plan. The dinner table and yelling flashes before my eyes. Scene switch. New location. And then the locks. And rules. Not being able to eat past a certain time. But my mom sneaking cheerios into bed. They fell in the bed and sticking to the sheets. Stuck in my head. Sticking to me. To walking on the street. And wondering why men would come to this place and yell outside. Fear. Still there. Felt now. As my father spoke. About his chase to find us and the running to the next place. Scène changes again. And the room. We stayed in bunk beds with another mother and daughter. It darkens. And I see the light of my grandfather’s face. They had found us. I remembered that now. Now I did and dressed up per my mom’s request- I jumped in that gray pick up truck in the cab next to him warm I was and safe I was. Safe I would always be with him. It didn’t matter what happened next. Because they had found me. I didn’t find my way onto a milk carton. I found my way home.
This Was the Explanation - Maria Robinson
After forty years of marriage and three highly accomplished, now close to middle-aged children, Miriam sat down with her husband and explained her situation. " I was young once. I still love you but I need to be young again. So I'm moving to Israel". Stan stood up from the new glass and chrome table that had recently replaced the beloved brown walnut one. The one they'd received from his Aunt in Cleveland. He paced across a living room that he no longer recognized. Miriam had tossed away the furniture and even their heavy wedding silver in pursuit of what she had told him a "fresh start".
Looking out of the bay window towards West End Avenue, he said: "Mimi, I'm at my lab all day, as I have been for fifty years. It looks like the remodeling was not enough for you. So if you need to go, you must. Otherwise, you'll make me crazy." "I’ve got a real estate agent", she said. " And the money from Harriet."
Looking out of the bay window towards West End Avenue, he said: "Mimi, I'm at my lab all day, as I have been for fifty years. It looks like the remodeling was not enough for you. So if you need to go, you must. Otherwise, you'll make me crazy." "I’ve got a real estate agent", she said. " And the money from Harriet."
This Was the Explanation - Kent Wright
Vestas Snodgras looked like other farmers. He wore overalls with the front pushed out by an ample gut like most of the others. He was taller but not by an obscene number of inches. He had big jowls and small eyes. On Saturday nights he came to town like the other farmers and their families, and during the week sometimes if he needed something at the hardware store. If there was machinery he couldn’t fix, he brought it to the welding shop where plows and tractor and combine parts had to be stepped around to get to the man with the dark metal hood with its one blue-black eye. He looked like the others but nobody thought Vestas Snodgras was like them. Especially when you saw him walk. Agitation shivered in him most times he was up town. Big as he was he moved with quick small steps that weren’t quite delicate. No one ever said that, but he did seem to balance oddly on his feet, and when the agitation overfilled it’s host he would suddenly stop his odd-gaited pace and spin around once or twice before going on. Everyone who had been to town on Saturday night had seen Vestas Snodgras stop and spin. He didn’t talk to people much, but he talked to himself all the time, and that sent chills up the rural spines around there. No one ever screwed up courage enough to ask him to repeat what he was mumbling. There was always the suspicion that he could be dangerous. He was strong. Other farmers liked to hire him to help harvest or when rocks and stumps needed clearing. He was like a draught horse. People who lived in town knew he was strong from experience not just because of what they heard from the farmers. When that agitation of his got the best of him some Saturdays, the stop signs there at the centered of town suffered. Kids went silent and shrunk back against their Mother’s thighs when they saw Vestas grab one of those stop signs and twist it completely around on is its iron pole.
Vestas Snodgras didn’t have a diagnosis. In those simpler days one wasn’t necessary for folks. “He just ain’t right,” they’d say and shake their heads at each other like they knew and were brave. That was the explanation – he just ain’t right.
Vestas Snodgras didn’t have a diagnosis. In those simpler days one wasn’t necessary for folks. “He just ain’t right,” they’d say and shake their heads at each other like they knew and were brave. That was the explanation – he just ain’t right.
This Was the Explanation - E. D. James
Olivia straddled Arch’s chest and held his shoulders to the bed, “You tell me that the CIA is watching our every move and you act as if that statement doesn’t need any explanation? It may be a part of your life but it certainly isn’t a part of mine. Why didn’t you warn me?”
“How could you not know? Or at least suspect? This is a major oilfield development on the border between Russia and China being developed by a Russian-American joint venture. Are you that naïve?” Arch said.
“You could have said something,” Olivia said and puckered her mouth and pursed her lips and bent closer as if preparing to spit in his face.
Arch struggled beneath her and she dug her knees into his upper arms and leveraged her weight onto her hands. “Alright, I’m sorry. It’s not the kind of thing we talk about. Everyone just assumes it’s going on and that everything is bugged so that everything you say might be overheard. I didn’t want to freak you out.”
“Freak me out? Now you are freaking me out. The thought of someone recording me fucking you in your cabin is seriously freaking me out. Not to mention them overhearing our conversations about what is going on out there.”
“My cabin is clean. This is a safe place. I wouldn’t let you hang out there like that, I hope you know that.”
Olivia felt the bubble of anger and pain that had welled up her burst and she flattened her body onto Arch and pulled him over onto his side.
“How could you not know? Or at least suspect? This is a major oilfield development on the border between Russia and China being developed by a Russian-American joint venture. Are you that naïve?” Arch said.
“You could have said something,” Olivia said and puckered her mouth and pursed her lips and bent closer as if preparing to spit in his face.
Arch struggled beneath her and she dug her knees into his upper arms and leveraged her weight onto her hands. “Alright, I’m sorry. It’s not the kind of thing we talk about. Everyone just assumes it’s going on and that everything is bugged so that everything you say might be overheard. I didn’t want to freak you out.”
“Freak me out? Now you are freaking me out. The thought of someone recording me fucking you in your cabin is seriously freaking me out. Not to mention them overhearing our conversations about what is going on out there.”
“My cabin is clean. This is a safe place. I wouldn’t let you hang out there like that, I hope you know that.”
Olivia felt the bubble of anger and pain that had welled up her burst and she flattened her body onto Arch and pulled him over onto his side.
This Was the Explanation - Bonnie Smetts
There was no explanation for this child’s behavior, thought Dr. Sarin. How could a child look so lovely and at the same time contain something so terrifying inside. He shook his head, an incontrollable shutter, at the image of this child starring at him as he inspected her teeth. No other child looks. Not one. They close their eyes. He wondered if this child would grow up to stare at her lovers when they were making love. His shoulders raised and shuttered again, embarrassed at the thought.
A knock on his office door disturbed him, brought him back to the day. “Doctor, your patient is ready for you. Mrs. Delaney and her son.”
Dr. Sarin rose from his chair, straightened his white coat, and headed into the light of the hallway. How had he ended up with this dread of his patients. How had his life wound around its path that his only patients were these terrifying English. He knew.
Greed. Greed had silenced his fear of the white children who possess spirits inside that none of his own had. These inhabit a world that is glossy and happy and noisy and comfortable. But inside, it’s as if their souls sit an inch below their skin. He could poke them and touch their flimsy souls.
“Doctor, that exam room.” His nurse pointed and scowled. He knew she had grown concerned about …what was happening to him.
“Yes, of course. Just thinking today. Well, good morning Mrs. Delaney. Good to see you Master Tommy.” He went immediately to the sink to wash his hands, scrambling to pull his mind, his heart, his head, something, anything around to face the two sitting in his exam room.
“Mommy said to tell you how good I’ve been at brushing. Haven’t I?”
“Yes, doctor, he certainly has.” She gave a little laugh. “We made a chart on the wall of his bathroom where he marks off each times he brushes. And for everyday that he’s brushed morning and evening, he gets more for his allowance.” The woman stopped. “Do you give your children allowances here?”
“Oh, yes, of course we do. Just like you do.” He had no idea what she was talking about but he could not give into her tone.
A knock on his office door disturbed him, brought him back to the day. “Doctor, your patient is ready for you. Mrs. Delaney and her son.”
Dr. Sarin rose from his chair, straightened his white coat, and headed into the light of the hallway. How had he ended up with this dread of his patients. How had his life wound around its path that his only patients were these terrifying English. He knew.
Greed. Greed had silenced his fear of the white children who possess spirits inside that none of his own had. These inhabit a world that is glossy and happy and noisy and comfortable. But inside, it’s as if their souls sit an inch below their skin. He could poke them and touch their flimsy souls.
“Doctor, that exam room.” His nurse pointed and scowled. He knew she had grown concerned about …what was happening to him.
“Yes, of course. Just thinking today. Well, good morning Mrs. Delaney. Good to see you Master Tommy.” He went immediately to the sink to wash his hands, scrambling to pull his mind, his heart, his head, something, anything around to face the two sitting in his exam room.
“Mommy said to tell you how good I’ve been at brushing. Haven’t I?”
“Yes, doctor, he certainly has.” She gave a little laugh. “We made a chart on the wall of his bathroom where he marks off each times he brushes. And for everyday that he’s brushed morning and evening, he gets more for his allowance.” The woman stopped. “Do you give your children allowances here?”
“Oh, yes, of course we do. Just like you do.” He had no idea what she was talking about but he could not give into her tone.
This Was the Explanation - Melody Cryns
So, with the new year, I made this decision. I’m going to get up early and write my creative caffeine, then I’m going to dash off to Curves right down the street and exercise – all before work! Yes, it will all work out just fine. But, first, I had a serious matter to contend with. I’d just moved into the Linden Arms Apartments, and I had to talk to Helga, the kind, quirky property manager who had rented me the apartment. I had to let her know I couldn’t pay the rent in full until the 8th – all my checks are postdated. I fretted about how I’d tell her – worried that she’d look at me in a bad light. I’m sure my kids had problems coming up with rent money on time – she’d probably just think I was a flake.
But, hey, I’m doing the best I can. I walked down the hallway of the Linden Arms Apartments with our little white dog, Sydney. I saw Helga sitting in the office talking on the phone, an older robust German lady who laughed a lot and talked incessantly. She’d cornered my daughter Megan many times already and talked her ear off.
“I used to be wild like you!” Helga explained, her German accent still obvious. “I used to dance on top of tables in Germany, but now I don’t do anything!”
I saw Helga’s sister. I couldn’t remember her name until Megan told me. “Her name’s Patricia.”
She wore bright red woolly socks and a nightgown. “I know I don’t look my best,” she said, also with a German accent, “But these socks were handmade in Germany and they are very warm. Can I give your dog a cookie?”
I stood in the hallway and waited for Patricia to get a dog cookie, holding my checkbook, poised for negotiation, nervous about what I’d say – I felt as if “excuses” ruled my life.
After Sydney had gobbled down the dog cookie, I took her outside to sniff and hoped she didn’t have to do other business because I’d forgotten the doggie bag. It was a cool, sunny afternoon. My friend Emily was coming over to help me hang pictures in the new apartment – she had actual tools for this endeavor which she said was like an art. I believed her.
I finally walked into Helga’s office and sat down. People always feel they can sit down in Helga’s office – people hang out there, and sometimes they hug Helga or bring her hot soup. She was on the phone, “I need to start walking again,” she told someone.
“How are you doing? How was your new year? Your daughter said you were going out to hear music? How exciting!”
Wow, news traveled fast. “Yes, I had a comp ticket to see the Megatones. They were great! Live classic rock and I danced the night away!”
“Oooohh, you are so lucky. I spent new year’s eve alone – I didn’t know where to go. There was a time I was the party girl. But now I’m 60…”
“I’ve had parties at my apartments before,” I said. “One year we made the kitchen into a dance floor and used a disco ball Megan had and we invited all the neighbors!” And we were all dancing in the kitchen at midnight – and then we all went out on the balcony and yelled happy new year.”
Wait a second, I thought. I’m telling the property manager where I live this. What’s wrong with this picture?
“Ohhh, how wonderful! I wish you’d done that this year. I would’ve come. Maybe next year!”
I breathed a sigh of relief, still fiddling with the checkbook.
We talked a little more and I finally came out with it. “See, I just moved and then it was Christmas, and then, the IRS…I need to pay the rent on the eighth…I feel bad ‘cause I just moved in here…”
“Okay, that’s okay…there is a $50 late fee…” Helga said.
“I understand. I’ll write you a postdated check.”
“But for you, I’ll make it $25, okay?”
“Okay, thanks!” I breathed a big sigh of relief.
Just then I saw my friend Emily walk through the door with her metal box filled with tools. She was going to ring the doorbell, but I waved at her and she walked into Helga’s office. Helga already met Emily and her boyfriend Freddie the night we drank some shots to celebrate moving into the new apartment – and Emily and I were singing Beatles songs in the apartment and on our way up the stairs to the laundry room. She liked Emily and Freddie.
“Ohhh hello!” Helga said to Emily. “I thought you might want to get an apartment here. We have a one bedroom coming up!”
“Well, me and Freddie are looking for a two bedroom, but maybe…” Emily laughed.
“But it would be fun to have you here!” Helga said. “Maybe you’d have parties.”
“Ohh, we’d have barbecues out by the pool during the summer,” Emily laughed.
“Wonderful!” Helga said. “Oooohh, don’t worry about that late fee at all – I’ll be nice this time.”
“Are you sure? Thanks!” I said.
When we finally walked back to the apartment, I felt as if a big weight had been lifted…
But, hey, I’m doing the best I can. I walked down the hallway of the Linden Arms Apartments with our little white dog, Sydney. I saw Helga sitting in the office talking on the phone, an older robust German lady who laughed a lot and talked incessantly. She’d cornered my daughter Megan many times already and talked her ear off.
“I used to be wild like you!” Helga explained, her German accent still obvious. “I used to dance on top of tables in Germany, but now I don’t do anything!”
I saw Helga’s sister. I couldn’t remember her name until Megan told me. “Her name’s Patricia.”
She wore bright red woolly socks and a nightgown. “I know I don’t look my best,” she said, also with a German accent, “But these socks were handmade in Germany and they are very warm. Can I give your dog a cookie?”
I stood in the hallway and waited for Patricia to get a dog cookie, holding my checkbook, poised for negotiation, nervous about what I’d say – I felt as if “excuses” ruled my life.
After Sydney had gobbled down the dog cookie, I took her outside to sniff and hoped she didn’t have to do other business because I’d forgotten the doggie bag. It was a cool, sunny afternoon. My friend Emily was coming over to help me hang pictures in the new apartment – she had actual tools for this endeavor which she said was like an art. I believed her.
I finally walked into Helga’s office and sat down. People always feel they can sit down in Helga’s office – people hang out there, and sometimes they hug Helga or bring her hot soup. She was on the phone, “I need to start walking again,” she told someone.
“How are you doing? How was your new year? Your daughter said you were going out to hear music? How exciting!”
Wow, news traveled fast. “Yes, I had a comp ticket to see the Megatones. They were great! Live classic rock and I danced the night away!”
“Oooohh, you are so lucky. I spent new year’s eve alone – I didn’t know where to go. There was a time I was the party girl. But now I’m 60…”
“I’ve had parties at my apartments before,” I said. “One year we made the kitchen into a dance floor and used a disco ball Megan had and we invited all the neighbors!” And we were all dancing in the kitchen at midnight – and then we all went out on the balcony and yelled happy new year.”
Wait a second, I thought. I’m telling the property manager where I live this. What’s wrong with this picture?
“Ohhh, how wonderful! I wish you’d done that this year. I would’ve come. Maybe next year!”
I breathed a sigh of relief, still fiddling with the checkbook.
We talked a little more and I finally came out with it. “See, I just moved and then it was Christmas, and then, the IRS…I need to pay the rent on the eighth…I feel bad ‘cause I just moved in here…”
“Okay, that’s okay…there is a $50 late fee…” Helga said.
“I understand. I’ll write you a postdated check.”
“But for you, I’ll make it $25, okay?”
“Okay, thanks!” I breathed a big sigh of relief.
Just then I saw my friend Emily walk through the door with her metal box filled with tools. She was going to ring the doorbell, but I waved at her and she walked into Helga’s office. Helga already met Emily and her boyfriend Freddie the night we drank some shots to celebrate moving into the new apartment – and Emily and I were singing Beatles songs in the apartment and on our way up the stairs to the laundry room. She liked Emily and Freddie.
“Ohhh hello!” Helga said to Emily. “I thought you might want to get an apartment here. We have a one bedroom coming up!”
“Well, me and Freddie are looking for a two bedroom, but maybe…” Emily laughed.
“But it would be fun to have you here!” Helga said. “Maybe you’d have parties.”
“Ohh, we’d have barbecues out by the pool during the summer,” Emily laughed.
“Wonderful!” Helga said. “Oooohh, don’t worry about that late fee at all – I’ll be nice this time.”
“Are you sure? Thanks!” I said.
When we finally walked back to the apartment, I felt as if a big weight had been lifted…
It was so beautiful, I... - Judy Albietz
I spotted it as I was spinning around in the leaves washed up on the riverbank. I’m still not sure why I stopped to pick it up. It was just like any other stone. Oval-shaped and dull gray—almost the color of the muddy sand it sat on. It was as small as one of the nuts on the spindly tree behind our cave. I couldn’t even see it when I closed my fist.
I looked upriver to where my mother sat, moving her hands around in the clear river water. I’m the youngest. She takes me with her all the time. Maybe to keep me out of trouble or maybe since I’m her last baby.
I couldn’t see her face but I imagined she had her eyes closed as she whispered and sang. A breeze ruffled her hair and she stood up, stretching her long arms in the air. I knew I had only a few more moments alone with the stone.
When I first held it, it rolled back and forth until it found a comfortable position. Then a warm vibration traveled from my palm up my arm. I sat down and turned away from my mother. I put my eyes up to my hand and opened my fingers just a crack to check the stone.
“What do you have there?” Mother asked as she walked toward me. Then she sat down next to me and waited for me to talk.
“It isn’t anything. Here.” I placed the stone in her hand.
“Can I wash it for you?” she asked.
“Yes.”
She took me by the hand to the river’s edge. I watched her dip the stone in the water. When she took it out, it had changed. Now it was shiny white with silver blue streaks. It grew more beautiful every second I looked at it.
“Can I keep it?” I asked.
“Bakari, let’s go home,” she said.
I looked upriver to where my mother sat, moving her hands around in the clear river water. I’m the youngest. She takes me with her all the time. Maybe to keep me out of trouble or maybe since I’m her last baby.
I couldn’t see her face but I imagined she had her eyes closed as she whispered and sang. A breeze ruffled her hair and she stood up, stretching her long arms in the air. I knew I had only a few more moments alone with the stone.
When I first held it, it rolled back and forth until it found a comfortable position. Then a warm vibration traveled from my palm up my arm. I sat down and turned away from my mother. I put my eyes up to my hand and opened my fingers just a crack to check the stone.
“What do you have there?” Mother asked as she walked toward me. Then she sat down next to me and waited for me to talk.
“It isn’t anything. Here.” I placed the stone in her hand.
“Can I wash it for you?” she asked.
“Yes.”
She took me by the hand to the river’s edge. I watched her dip the stone in the water. When she took it out, it had changed. Now it was shiny white with silver blue streaks. It grew more beautiful every second I looked at it.
“Can I keep it?” I asked.
“Bakari, let’s go home,” she said.
It was so beautiful, he... - John Fetto
Hawley looked out from the roof and for a moment he forgot about the men in the courtyard across the street. As if lifted by the breeze that shifted from the foothills behind him, his gaze swept beyond the brick building was carried high over the cranes arching above Oakland’s harbor and the top of the freighter’s superstructure, toward a pair of sailboats tacking on the bay. For a moment his eyes saw nothing but the sunlight on the water on the tilting boats and he remembered another day, another time, when all he had to do but to hold the wheel on a boat like that, paying attention to nothing but the way the wind rolled over the sail. Then Hawley remembered the men across the street and his gaze dropped down, watching them. They were still stacking sandbags in the far corner of two cement walls, and as Hawley stared, one of them began assembling something made of black metal behind the bags. It could have been nothing more than a long piece of pipe attached to a rectangular box, until the top of the box cracked open and the man laid down a green band of ammunition and snapped it shut. He pulled back on the slide and grinned at his companion and when he did a gold tooth glinted in the light. Hawley raised the rifle and found the gold tooth enlarged in his scope. It glinted as brightly as the sunlight around the sailboat, and kept shining, until Hawley squeezed the trigger.
Splintering - Jennifer Baljko
The sock ate the bed the other morning just as the blue sun was walking on the horizon. Lost in the midnight stream of heated sweat, the sock slipped between the sheets and like Alice in Wonderland fell down a hole to nowhere. The Cheshire rabbit wasn’t there to take the sock to safety, and Queen of Hearts had vanished into the Royal House of Cards.
But the sock had the appetite of an elephant, so it munched on what was in front him – the futon.
“Please don’t damage my beauty. You are splintering my wood,” the bed squealed, throwing the duvet over her head.
“But you’re so tasty,” the sock whimpered. “And, I’m so hungry.”
The blue sun, with his pink rays leaking into the far-away black hole, interjected: “Why don’t we dance. Maybe you can shake your hunger away, Little Sock.”
So the bed stood up on two of her legs and started break-dancing. “Michael Jackson taught me how to moonwalk. Little Sock, do you even know who Michael Jackson was?”
“No clue. But I can shake my booty like Beyonce.” The sock wiggled his heel and spun around on his toes.
The three of them dance for a million seconds. Then, suddenly, everything stop. For no reason, other than there was nothing left to do. So they all went home.
But the sock had the appetite of an elephant, so it munched on what was in front him – the futon.
“Please don’t damage my beauty. You are splintering my wood,” the bed squealed, throwing the duvet over her head.
“But you’re so tasty,” the sock whimpered. “And, I’m so hungry.”
The blue sun, with his pink rays leaking into the far-away black hole, interjected: “Why don’t we dance. Maybe you can shake your hunger away, Little Sock.”
So the bed stood up on two of her legs and started break-dancing. “Michael Jackson taught me how to moonwalk. Little Sock, do you even know who Michael Jackson was?”
“No clue. But I can shake my booty like Beyonce.” The sock wiggled his heel and spun around on his toes.
The three of them dance for a million seconds. Then, suddenly, everything stop. For no reason, other than there was nothing left to do. So they all went home.
Splintering - Francisco Mora
Everyone gathered in a circle. Ace started the lecture part of the morning program. They’d just finished the physical segment. Ace’s program for chronic pain and rehabilitation was oversubscribed, as always. Patients were referred from hospitals as far south as San Jose, hours away, because the unique physical and metaphysical training Ace provided was extraordinarily successful.
“Please remember the work we just did as we stand here. We’re only going to stand for ten minutes to feel the interaction of the pelvis and the feet that we just worked on.”
Mostly everyone looked at Ace. Some looked at the floor. Eyes were beginning to close.
Ace launched into his “lecture.” He talked about light. He told them to imagine sunlight splintering under water in a pool, how it makes jagged white lines.
“The splintering of the light as it’s refracted by the water, that’s how I want you to think of what’s going on inside your tissues, muscle and bone tissue.” He Pauses.
“A watery medium is what’s inside. Find a tight spot in your body. Now, think of the splintering light and the sensation of water. Both.” Pause again, looking around. Everyone had their eyes closed.
“Go to the tight spot and search for the sensation of light in water. See what comes about. If you get a blank, let it be that. The go to tightness, feel it, and think of the light and water again.”
Ace walked to the light dimmer to bring in more light. He saw that Jake was peering through the blinds. Jake had been urged and enrolled in the program twice but never showed up. The jock couldn’t see himself as disabled by chronic pain. Ace pretended not to see him.
“Please remember the work we just did as we stand here. We’re only going to stand for ten minutes to feel the interaction of the pelvis and the feet that we just worked on.”
Mostly everyone looked at Ace. Some looked at the floor. Eyes were beginning to close.
Ace launched into his “lecture.” He talked about light. He told them to imagine sunlight splintering under water in a pool, how it makes jagged white lines.
“The splintering of the light as it’s refracted by the water, that’s how I want you to think of what’s going on inside your tissues, muscle and bone tissue.” He Pauses.
“A watery medium is what’s inside. Find a tight spot in your body. Now, think of the splintering light and the sensation of water. Both.” Pause again, looking around. Everyone had their eyes closed.
“Go to the tight spot and search for the sensation of light in water. See what comes about. If you get a blank, let it be that. The go to tightness, feel it, and think of the light and water again.”
Ace walked to the light dimmer to bring in more light. He saw that Jake was peering through the blinds. Jake had been urged and enrolled in the program twice but never showed up. The jock couldn’t see himself as disabled by chronic pain. Ace pretended not to see him.
Disintegration - Meg Newman
My tightened chest soaked in the sunlit day as I sped home. To some degree, but not entirely, Anne had the mindset of an emotional anarchist – – – there was no structure in her life or her mind that she could fully commit to. So, I really wasn't sure what I would find upon my arrival and braced for the range of possible images.
I flew up the steps and just as I inserted my keys in the door I heard Anne say something. I opened the door to find her standing in the kitchen, too color coordinated. Her eyes said don't run and hug her – I held myself back and tried to sound relaxed and just said I was really glad to see her, the understatement of all times. There was an old silver pistol, a large one, laying on the kitchen counter and I made sure that I was always between Anne and the gun as we began the next phase of the negotiation.
I flew up the steps and just as I inserted my keys in the door I heard Anne say something. I opened the door to find her standing in the kitchen, too color coordinated. Her eyes said don't run and hug her – I held myself back and tried to sound relaxed and just said I was really glad to see her, the understatement of all times. There was an old silver pistol, a large one, laying on the kitchen counter and I made sure that I was always between Anne and the gun as we began the next phase of the negotiation.
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