You also want an ePaper? Increase the reach of your titles
YUMPU automatically turns print PDFs into web optimized ePapers that Google loves.
- 2 -
THE FINE LINE<br />
ISSUE 3<br />
thefineline00.wordpress.com<br />
- 3 -
Cover Art<br />
“Fixed” by Francis Raven<br />
- 4 -
Editors<br />
Cyndi Gacosta<br />
Bradley Tomy<br />
Danna Berger<br />
To Submit to <strong>The</strong> <strong>Fine</strong> <strong>Line</strong> please visit the website:<br />
thefineline00.wordpress.com<br />
All rights remain with the author.<br />
September 2011<br />
- 5 -
- 6 -
“As Gregor Samsa awoke one morning from uneasy dreams he found<br />
himself transformed in his bed into a gigantic insect.”<br />
Franz Kafka<br />
<strong>The</strong> Metamorphosis<br />
- 7 -
Table of Contents<br />
Art<br />
Fixed by Francis Raven<br />
Cover Art<br />
Timeshift by Dorothee Lang 11<br />
Sunny Snow by William Hicks 20<br />
<strong>The</strong> Turning Point by Caroline Krieger Comings 23<br />
Weathering the Storm by Carolyn Coe 28<br />
At the Turning Point by Amy Tolbert 33<br />
Filigree Gold 3 by William Watkins 50<br />
Untitled 1 by Ruben Monakhov 64<br />
Dancing Grid by Francis Raven 71<br />
Breaking Skin by Eleanor Leonne Bennett 73<br />
Transformation by Francis Raven 87<br />
Untitled 2 by Ruben Monakhov 89<br />
Landscape 12-22-10 by William Hicks 96<br />
Untitled 3 by Ruben Monakhov 99<br />
Fiction<br />
<strong>The</strong> River Jordan by D. Krauss 13<br />
Casualty of a Parking Lot Injustice by Lynn Kennison 24<br />
Parental Discretion Advised by Karen Beatty 34<br />
Rosewater by Brian Alan Ellis 41<br />
<strong>The</strong> Sermon of Vegetarianism by Ilya Prints 51<br />
<strong>The</strong> Ants by Keith G. Laufenberg 54<br />
Doggone It!! by Wayne Andrewartha 65<br />
<strong>The</strong> Rite Steps to Manhood by Ciara Harris 74<br />
<strong>The</strong> Nanny by Rita Buckley 75<br />
Back to Zero by A. Frank Bower 91<br />
- 8 -
Poetry<br />
<strong>Cutting</strong> <strong>Scenes</strong> by Michael Young 10<br />
Treebone by Raj Sharma 12<br />
End of Girlhood by Annemarie Ni Churreain 21<br />
Segue from Age to Age by Barbara Westwood Diehl 22<br />
In Her Thirteenth Year by Karen Douglass 29<br />
Even Now by Susan V. Meyers 30<br />
How Womanhood Began by Annemarie Ni Churreain 32<br />
Innovative Love by Gary Beck 48<br />
Metamorphosis by Susan V. Meyers 49<br />
Cocooned in Sheets by Duane Jackson 53<br />
Lunatic Speaks by Caroline Hagood 72<br />
<strong>The</strong> English Teacher Retires by Richard Glowacki 88<br />
On the Last Train by Gary Glauber 90<br />
House by Annemarie Ni Churreain 97<br />
Conversion to Digital,<br />
A Consolation for the Aging by Barbara Westwood Diehl 98<br />
Notes on the Contributors 100<br />
- 9 -
<strong>Cutting</strong> <strong>Scenes</strong><br />
Michael Young<br />
It started in the elevator, the smell almost a stink<br />
of artificial strawberry bubble gum, followed by<br />
memories of chewing a block of Bubblicious sugar,<br />
walking my first time alone to see a movie in 1977,<br />
the self importance and authority I felt, skipping along<br />
like a film that suddenly jumped ahead to a few days ago<br />
when the smell of orange sweetened my hands<br />
after peeling the rind, and all of these episodes<br />
spliced together into one step through a revolving door<br />
entering the gray air under the scaffolding outside:<br />
wood blocks nailed into cement, posts, crossbeams,<br />
platforms — the whole patchwork structure of preservation,<br />
the massive effort to endure the change of scene<br />
and seasons, to keep the history intact of a building<br />
labeled in the tour guides as such for its antique architecture<br />
and this, even as each character interrupts himself<br />
where the page goes blank, and he feels the gear<br />
slip out of alignment and knows he couldn’t stop<br />
the machine now if he wanted to, like that moment<br />
in a New York cab years ago, speeding through<br />
Village streets, reciting a poem I knew like a litany<br />
for ten years, an invocation of familiar comforts<br />
when, without reason, the words were gone,<br />
as if the files had been stolen and the drawers<br />
of an empty cabinet banged open and closed<br />
while the violent lurch of the cab rocked me.<br />
- 10 -
Dorothee Lang<br />
Time Shift<br />
- 11 -
Treebone<br />
Raj Sharma<br />
<strong>The</strong> frail leaf<br />
Withers<br />
But the battered<br />
Treebone<br />
Fights frosts,<br />
Unyielding<br />
And skies<br />
Stern,<br />
To wear<br />
Green again.<br />
- 12 -
<strong>The</strong> River Jordan<br />
D. Krauss<br />
It was $50,000, about a year's salary. Carl didn't know<br />
about it until three days after his wife dropped dead in the<br />
kitchen. "You have a rider on your insurance policy," the agent<br />
said.<br />
"What?" Carl was sitting on the couch, lost.<br />
"A rider. Most people have them. You'll receive a check."<br />
He did and left it uncashed for another three days. "An<br />
aneurysm," the doctor in the emergency room, pale and worldbeaten<br />
with an expression of distance, had said.<br />
"What?" Carl had been sitting on a gurney, lost.<br />
"It was instantaneous." That was true. She had turned to<br />
him laughing, suddenly stopped laughing, looked a bit stricken,<br />
then fell to the floor.<br />
"An aneurysm? But, only angry people get those. That's what<br />
I should die of."<br />
<strong>The</strong> doctor shrugged and looked annoyed. "Anyone can get<br />
them. Things wear out," and he walked away.<br />
Carl knew, right then, it was his fault.<br />
"It's not your fault," his son said, draping a big,<br />
carpentry-formed arm about Carl's shoulders. His daughter, half<br />
the look of his wife, especially in the hidden grief of her<br />
eyes, nodded and added an arm and they both mouthed this over<br />
and over while the grandkids made every effort to remain solemn<br />
but the imperatives of youth overwhelmed. It was a closed casket<br />
because Carl and his wife thought a viewing barbaric. <strong>The</strong> grands<br />
should remember her properly, homemade cookies and backyard<br />
snowball fights, not as a waxed and rouged face, nightmare,<br />
lying empty on a satin pillow.<br />
- 13 -
He remained silent, did not correct his children, but they<br />
were wrong. <strong>The</strong> thinning artery was his work. He had forced on<br />
her pressures she could not bear. He had placed the loaded<br />
pistol against her head and took thirty-seven years to pull the<br />
trigger.<br />
He didn't mean to. Carl simply didn't realize how things<br />
accumulate. She was of a generation and culture that took as its<br />
theme "Stand by Your Man," and would never do the grand and<br />
dramatic gesture necessary to wake him up. Maybe if she had<br />
walked when he threw a beer bottle across the sunroom because<br />
the warehouse had delivered the wrong ceramic for the upgrade,<br />
or when he punched a wall because the county inspector wanted a<br />
little too much money in the envelope this time, maybe then. But<br />
she didn't. She cleaned up the broken glass and drywall, spent<br />
time soothing him, kept the kids at bay.<br />
All of that wore. Each time, it shaved a bit of tissue out<br />
of a critical artery.<br />
He found the check tossed among the mail, more bills than<br />
cards, this time. He'd wanted to pay the bills earlier because<br />
life demands attention, no matter what's going on, but the cards<br />
distracted. <strong>The</strong>y were all deep felt sympathies addressed to him.<br />
Error. Should have been addressed to her.<br />
Carl was thinking of error when he uncovered the check. He<br />
had not forgotten it; you don't forget about such a sum. He'd<br />
been afraid of it but couldn't say why, not having a command of<br />
words or description like she did. It had something to do with<br />
his soul, for lack of a better word, with what a man ultimately<br />
was.<br />
He studied it. A year off doing nothing, that's what it<br />
represented. He could sit quietly in the kitchen for that year<br />
and stare at her absence, hoping some direction, some assurance<br />
would form there. It would not; that chance had passed. Improve<br />
- 14 -
the business, then, or buy a car for his son and daughter, take<br />
a trip, all possibilities. But that would end and he would sink<br />
back to his distant, disapproving self, still with the ability<br />
to shave arteries.<br />
No.<br />
He would not profit from long-term murder. He would not<br />
have blood money. Carl squeezed his eyes shut and groped for his<br />
soul, lost somewhere in the hard shell. It evaded his grasp.<br />
He almost sent the check to the Red Cross, where she had<br />
volunteered for most of those thirty-seven years, but stayed the<br />
pen. It would be dismissal, a single act throwing her and her<br />
shredded artery away. Insufficient. <strong>The</strong> artery needed repair.<br />
He sent it to the equity loan and paid the remaining<br />
$3472.16 a week later with the two invoices that came in from<br />
the Court House job. That was a good start. <strong>The</strong> equity loan had<br />
worried her. She would say to him, "Carl, is there any way we<br />
can send them a little extra?" Debt frightened her. She'd spent<br />
her childhood thrown out of one perfectly good house after<br />
another because of her Dad's gambling. Carl's Master<br />
Certificates for Interior Remodeling, Plumbing, and Electricity<br />
ensured she would never, ever be thrown out of another house in<br />
her life, especially because he was a sober, unimaginative man<br />
for whom gambling, or theater or dancing, were frivolities. She<br />
loved that, though. <strong>The</strong> safety.<br />
But safety is a relative term, and a high price to pay for<br />
things lost, and she never really felt safe, actually, because<br />
he didn't have her concerns. His Dad was a tile setter, too, and<br />
Carl grew up convinced debt was an instrument of business, a<br />
base for doing more. "<strong>The</strong>re's a new KD wet saw out," he<br />
announced and $3000 went against the house. "That new Dodge<br />
truck has more torque and can tow a bigger trailer," and there<br />
was $38,000, just after the equity had been paid down to about<br />
- 15 -
10 or so. She did not add to it, only he did. She spoke of<br />
things she wanted, new furniture, new carpets, a new kitchen,<br />
after the debt was made manageable, say around the 5,000 mark.<br />
It never got to that mark. She never got what she wanted.<br />
She never got the house she wanted, either. <strong>The</strong>y lived in<br />
his inherited three-bedroom 1 ½ bath on a half lot, three<br />
streets back from the railroad and four streets away from the<br />
storefront. Convenient for him, and remodeling of the rooms and<br />
the baths and the adding of a garage he thought sufficient<br />
upgrades. <strong>The</strong> kids went to adequate schools and had adequate<br />
friends to prepare them for another generation of the business<br />
and the town. But she spoke of Victorian farmhouses in mountain<br />
settings, two or three stories with five to ten acres, fences,<br />
woods and rivers. She knew the burdens of maintaining such a<br />
property, accepted his common sense arguments about isolation<br />
and distance from customers and stores and familiar schools and<br />
teachers. Still, she looked at pictures. He did not understand,<br />
until shortly before paying the equity, that there was<br />
permanence in land and Victorian farmhouses, an assurance she<br />
craved.<br />
Carl stood in the twilight at the end of the driveway and<br />
looked at the house, no longer an instrument of debt, but a<br />
standing accusation. He had arranged their lives inclusive for<br />
him, exclusive of her. He had flanked her possibilities, put his<br />
son on a narrow road, loped off his daughter's hopes. He groped,<br />
again, for his soul, thinking the equity payoff would surface<br />
it, but there was too much mud. More dredging required.<br />
"What are you doing?" his son asked, horrified, when Carl<br />
put up the For Sale sign.<br />
"I can't afford to live here anymore," he said.<br />
"What? What are you talking about?" Alarm, his alarm, Carl<br />
knew, taught to his son over the past 28 years whenever<br />
- 16 -
something different emerged. "We're more than flush!" He should<br />
know. He did the books.<br />
"Still." It was all Carl could say. He could not explain<br />
what he meant by 'afford.'<br />
"But, Dad!" <strong>The</strong>re, Carl's own exasperated arm waving. He'd<br />
last used it when she had talked about buying an RV and touring<br />
the country. Each flail was a reach inside and a scraping at<br />
that artery. "You own this house outright!"<br />
Carl said nothing, just hammered the sign in a bit more,<br />
leveled it. "This is about Mom, isn't it?" his son had said and<br />
then said a lot more, the gist all those Hallmark cards about<br />
sympathy and moving on and Better Places. Carl said nothing.<br />
He got $425,000 for the house, cleared 417,328.35. Simply<br />
astonishing. Simply a matter of markets. <strong>The</strong> city, 50 miles away<br />
and prohibitively expensive, drove its poorer workers into<br />
Carl's neighborhood. <strong>The</strong>y considered Carl's house a bargain. He<br />
considered them insane.<br />
"Here," he stood on his son's porch and gave him the<br />
cashier's check for $200,000. He also gave him power of<br />
attorney, the business title and the various registrations.<br />
"Sell the shop. Take what's yours. Share the rest with your<br />
sister," he said.<br />
"What are you doing?" his son was shocked. His daughter-inlaw<br />
was behind in the kitchen, kneeling down, holding a<br />
grandson, looking afraid. Don't be, he thought to her.<br />
"You wanted to go to school and be an architect."<br />
"Dad…"<br />
"Go," and he turned and got in the truck, which now pulled<br />
a used 18 foot Airstream, courtesy of what was left in the<br />
savings and checking accounts.<br />
He knocked on his daughter's apartment door. "Dad!" she was<br />
close to crying when she opened it, "Bobby just called me…"<br />
- 17 -
"Here." $217,328.35.<br />
"Dad!" she did cry now, his baby, his little girl, as<br />
fragile and thin of artery, if not more so, than his wife. "What<br />
are you doing?"<br />
"Send your kids to that academy. Give them a chance." He<br />
went to the truck.<br />
"Where are you going, Dad?" she managed, through the tears,<br />
to call after him.<br />
He paused. "I don't know exactly." She was framed at the<br />
top of the landing and from her, and from her brother, he felt<br />
cessation. <strong>The</strong>ir thinning was over. If it started again, it was<br />
on them. He groped, testing, but still encountered layers of<br />
mud. "I'll call you," and he drove away.<br />
He didn't go that far, only four hundred or so miles. He<br />
looked over as he crossed the Ohio River from Williamstown,<br />
changed his mind about continuing up 77, and turned off into<br />
Marietta. He got some directions and settled the Airstream in<br />
the dark next to the Muskingum River, about 15 miles north on<br />
60. He slept well.<br />
<strong>The</strong> next morning he drove back to Marietta and walked<br />
around. Nice, a row of Victorian mansions on the street<br />
overlooking the Ohio, an Indian mound at the top of the hill<br />
with a Revolutionary War cemetery around it. <strong>The</strong> headstones<br />
named soldiers who had come here for land and homes. <strong>The</strong>ir<br />
wives' stones often showed a death a few years after the<br />
husbands'. That was unusual for the time. It spoke of good men,<br />
who did not thin arteries.<br />
<strong>The</strong> Ohio decided it. He walked to the banks, the bluffs of<br />
West Virginia towering on the opposite side. <strong>The</strong> water was brown<br />
and a Coast Guard tug floated slowly by, a thin sheen of oil<br />
trailing behind. But the water was fast and carried all of its<br />
- 18 -
impurities away. Carl put both hands in it and let the water<br />
carry his impurities away.<br />
He worked out $300 a month with the camp site, even though<br />
the owner thought him crazy for wanting to spend an Ohio winter<br />
in an aluminum tin can. He took a job as an assistant setter,<br />
even though the owner thought he was crazy for not<br />
subcontracting. It was all he needed and he remained silent<br />
during the jobs, remained steady. <strong>The</strong> jokes and insults finally<br />
stopped. He called his daughter and his son.<br />
And every day, after work, even in the winter, he went to<br />
the Ohio and washed his hands.<br />
- 19 -
William Hicks<br />
Sunny Snow<br />
- 20 -
End of Girlhood<br />
Annemarie Ni Churreain<br />
<strong>The</strong> first time<br />
a tree called me by name,<br />
I was thirteen and only spoke a weave of ordinary tongues.<br />
It started with a leaf and next,<br />
a mist came down from the hills, beating a lone skin drum,<br />
looking for me.<br />
Scarlet pimpernels dropped hints<br />
that could not be ignored:<br />
no red is innocent.<br />
Badger trails called me aside for a word.<br />
Come underground, they said,<br />
see what we are made of.<br />
- 21 -
Segue from Age to Age<br />
Barbara Westwood Diehl<br />
<strong>The</strong> people here are happy now.<br />
<strong>The</strong>y have forgotten their fires.<br />
<strong>The</strong>y have forgotten what smoldered.<br />
Any embers have been tamped down.<br />
<strong>The</strong> smell of charcoal doesn’t conjure smoke.<br />
What the fires consumed has no more weight than ash.<br />
<strong>The</strong> smell of campfire on a jacket brings back songs.<br />
Humming a bar doesn’t fill them with longing.<br />
<strong>The</strong> old intoxications don’t even make them giddy.<br />
A whiff of marijuana brings a sweet déjà vu.<br />
A gin and tonic on the breath makes them fizzy.<br />
<strong>The</strong>y have forgotten the sharp pins of morning after.<br />
Tobacco on the fingers is sophistication.<br />
It is the happily acrid cocktail hour.<br />
<strong>The</strong> children are nestled all snug in their beds.<br />
<strong>The</strong> guests who stayed too long have left.<br />
<strong>The</strong> burns on the maple table have been buffed.<br />
<strong>The</strong> yellow stain on the blouse has been bleached.<br />
<strong>The</strong> smell of chlorine reminds them of ironing boards.<br />
<strong>The</strong>y forget the lonely pull-chain light in the laundry room.<br />
<strong>The</strong>y forget the vacant business suit.<br />
<strong>The</strong>y recall the bathing suit with polka dots.<br />
<strong>The</strong>y have forgotten not knowing how to float.<br />
<strong>The</strong>y have forgotten the undertow.<br />
Oceans smell of thighs, or only oceans.<br />
<strong>The</strong> tide leaves the scent of a Coppertone girl.<br />
<strong>The</strong> children leave the scent of Popsicle in their wake.<br />
Anything bitter has been sweetened.<br />
A whiff of furniture polish comforts.<br />
It doesn’t recall the cobweb corners of rooms.<br />
What was slipcovered over remains that way.<br />
<strong>The</strong> oven is closed over the scorches inside.<br />
<strong>The</strong> dish soap bubbles make everything lemony.<br />
Once, children sold lemonade on the lawns.<br />
Once, children blew bubbles through plastic wands.<br />
<strong>The</strong> Wonder Bread was wonderful.<br />
<strong>The</strong> smell of yeast is the bread of memory.<br />
<strong>The</strong> people here remember, and they’re happy.<br />
- 22 -
Caroline Krieger Comings<br />
<strong>The</strong> Turning Point<br />
- 23 -
Casualty of a Parking Lot Injustice<br />
Lynn Kennison<br />
I circled the shopping mall five times before finding an<br />
open spot close enough to the mall entrance, I wouldn’t need an<br />
umbrella for the impending storm. I waited patiently as a mother<br />
of two small boys stuffed her shopping bags into the trunk of<br />
her car and then struggled to get her rambunctious little ones<br />
strapped in. Being a mother and having raised two boys close in<br />
age myself, I could empathize. <strong>The</strong> pressure of knowing someone<br />
is watching while you pretend that you have complete and utter<br />
control of the situation can be somewhat nerve-racking. My boys<br />
loved an audience, and it seems her two, undoubtedly, posses the<br />
same wild gene. While she was coaxing her two young ones into<br />
submission, I noticed a teenaged boy walking through the parked<br />
cars as he chatted away on his cell phone with his hoody was<br />
pulled tightly over his head— I guess anticipating the coming<br />
rain as well.<br />
Once they were in, the mother looked back and gave an<br />
apologetic waive. I smiled and gave her an understanding nod.<br />
She started her car and proceeded to back out as expected. What<br />
I hadn’t expected, was the obstacle suddenly standing in the<br />
parking spot. <strong>The</strong> teenaged boy, wearing the hoody and mobile<br />
device stuck to his ear, blocked my immediate entrance. At first<br />
I was confused, but then my thoughts suddenly became crowded<br />
with obscenities when I realized this boy was presumably holding<br />
my parking spot for someone. Sure enough, a moment later, an<br />
obnoxious humming noise caught my attention as the source zoomed<br />
up the lane behind me. Appearing in my rearview mirror was a<br />
bright neon green and purple car. It looked more like an absurd<br />
- 24 -
trapper keeper or Easter egg than a mode of transportation as it<br />
sat idling like a sickly little bee behind me.<br />
Surely this boy knew that I had been waiting for this spot.<br />
I rolled down my window to kindly let the young man know—just<br />
incase he was genuinely oblivious to his surroundings. His dark<br />
hoody and chrome tinted sunglasses concealed his facial<br />
expression, but he told me in not so many words—just two in<br />
fact—to get lost. <strong>The</strong> only way I was getting that spot was to<br />
put my car on top of him. Feeling it wasn’t worth it, I moved on<br />
to find another.<br />
I gave up trying to find a spot near the mall entrance, and<br />
then gave up trying to find one near the closest department<br />
store entrance before heading next-door to the movie theatre<br />
lot. Finally, I found one between a curb and a huge pickup with<br />
scary looking tires. <strong>The</strong> owner of the truck must have not<br />
realized that his vehicle was a bit too large to fit exactly<br />
between the lines, and I was forced to exit my car through the<br />
passenger-side door. Once I managed to squeeze out, I maneuvered<br />
carefully between my car and the boxwood bushes adorning the<br />
curb, but one of the branches reached out and snagged me. As I<br />
tried to free my sweater, one of my buttons became a casualty—<br />
popping off and rolling up under my car. I took a deep breath to<br />
calm my nerves and got down on my knees to peek under and look<br />
for it. After all, it wasn’t just any button; it was an antique<br />
button I found in my grandmother’s sewing room about ten years<br />
ago. She had two of them and gave me both. I put them on a<br />
sweater and have always received nice complements when wearing<br />
them. I reached under as I spied my button lying close to the<br />
back tire. I felt around blindly in the spot next to my tire and<br />
pulled it out. As I rose to my feet dusting myself off, I opened<br />
my hand to blow the dirt off of my button; but when I opened my<br />
hand, lying in my palm wasn’t my button, it was a tossed out<br />
- 25 -
piece of hard candy with all kinds of nasty things stuck to it.<br />
I immediately tried to throw it down, but I had such a firm<br />
grasp on it when I first retrieved it, that it was now<br />
determined not to part from me. Slinging my hand around like a<br />
lunatic wasn’t working, so I desperately began rubbing my hand<br />
over the bushes, for which worked on freeing my hand, but I also<br />
gained a nice splinter doing so. Holding in my frustration, I<br />
began walking towards the mall. Sorry Grams, the fucking button<br />
is staying put.<br />
Besides losing a button, gaining a splinter, and feeling<br />
the beginnings of blister on my left heel from the long hike,<br />
everything was going good until the rain, led by thunder and<br />
followed by lightning, began to fall. I was too far gone from my<br />
car to turn back, so I made a mad dash for the mall. As I ran<br />
passed the trapper keeper car, I gave it the middle finger. No<br />
one was inside of it, but I did feel somewhat better doing so.<br />
I made it inside just short of taking a shower in my<br />
clothes, so my first stop was the ladies room. I hunched up<br />
under the hand dryer to get as dry as I possibly could. Several<br />
women ended up leaving without drying their hands as I clung to<br />
the dryer with my teeth chattering uncontrollably. My hair and<br />
makeup were unsavable, but I managed to tame the running mascara<br />
and tone down the overdone Goth appearance before exiting and<br />
searching for the nearest coffee stand.<br />
As I walked through the mall sipping my coffee, I spotted<br />
the little shit that had stolen my parking spot earlier. It<br />
wasn’t too hard; he was still wearing his obnoxious sunglasses<br />
indoors while he read the back of a video game cover. I entered<br />
the video game store and eased over. I wondered could I get away<br />
with spilling my coffee on him. I could just bump into him and<br />
pretend it was an innocent accident. As I looked around to see<br />
if there were any cameras to witness probably the worst offence<br />
- 26 -
I have ever committed, I heard him telling his friend to check<br />
out the cute blonde in the pink sweater across the way in the<br />
food court. Having a closer look, I realized that he wasn’t a<br />
teenager at all—he just dressed like one. I gained the courage<br />
to approach him, but as he turned around, I soon lost it. I was<br />
surprised to learn that he recognized me from the parking lot,<br />
and as he made a joke to his friend, I fought the urge to<br />
literally hurl my coffee at him. Instead, I smiled and I thanked<br />
him for taking that parking spot from me. As he looked at me<br />
curiously, I explained that while I was on my way in, I<br />
witnessed someone smack into his car crushing that lovely tea<br />
tray attached to the top of his trunk; they didn’t even leave a<br />
note! “<strong>The</strong> nerve of some people,” I told him. He was so upset,<br />
he ran out of the store with unpaid merchandise still in his<br />
clutch. <strong>The</strong> sight of him being tackled by security in the food<br />
court, next to the girl in the pink sweater, was worth the hike.<br />
- 27 -
Carolyn Coe<br />
Weathering the Storm<br />
- 28 -
In Her Thirteenth Year<br />
Karen Douglass<br />
She never mastered pin curls, but she bled<br />
and borrowed lipstick at school, got caught,<br />
outgrew her training bra, imagined<br />
that she was scullery maid to a mad queen,<br />
At thirteen, she shouted four younger<br />
brothers and sisters up to bed while<br />
her stepmother went next door<br />
to smoke and play cards. Our girl<br />
studied starch and steam ironed<br />
her father’s white shirts—woman’s work.<br />
Friday night she swept, scrubbed<br />
with pail and rag, waxed white linoleum.<br />
<strong>The</strong> next Friday and the next Friday<br />
she found no frog with great potential, only<br />
spilled red sauce and the smell of floor wax.<br />
Upstairs those giggling kids refused to sleep.<br />
She dreamed away her free hours in a field<br />
of gladioli, brazen as forbidden girlfriends<br />
with laughter and makeup on their faces,<br />
trailed her fingers through the silky mouths<br />
of open milkweed pods. Kissed her pillow.<br />
But the wax was real. <strong>The</strong>re was always<br />
that linoleum. Had she dared, she would<br />
have danced naked on the ceiling.<br />
- 29 -
Even Now<br />
Susan V. Meyers<br />
more than a decade later,<br />
she still loves to tease sea anemones shut<br />
with her shoe. She likes their<br />
surprise, that startled gasp<br />
of closure, as brightly-colored fronds<br />
dissapear like sound.<br />
"You never know what<br />
you're going to do," she says, looking down<br />
at the tightly shut stub of sea life,<br />
its purple arms swallowed up<br />
in security. "That's the scary part."<br />
She means the divorce.<br />
She means leaving my father to live<br />
with a woman.<br />
And I'm still trying to remember<br />
just how many years ago I stood here<br />
with both parents, my small feet teetering<br />
and slipping between the rocks. I'd wanted<br />
to take everything home with me--crabs and<br />
limp beach grass, sea urchins, gulls--<br />
but my parents had pointed to the sign,<br />
which is still here: Do not remove living sea life<br />
from the tidepools.<br />
"You can have sand dollars," they'd said.<br />
"Or beach grass, or broken barnacles."<br />
Dead things only, weathered and used,<br />
but still precious somehow<br />
in their casual decay.<br />
"When we were here before," I say,<br />
"I found a dead starfish out here in these rocks,"<br />
remembering its stiff salute, its curiously<br />
vibrant death-glow: miraculous and orange.<br />
- 30 -
"Oh?" she answers, distracted<br />
by the anemone still cautious<br />
and closed at her feet. I nod,<br />
feeling even now its shape, its<br />
weight over-big in my hand, and that strange<br />
leathery surface after it had dried<br />
where I'd left it on the back steps<br />
of our beach house.<br />
My mother motions toward her shoes,<br />
and I watch with her as the purple-armed anemone<br />
begins to reopen, still timid<br />
in her shadow. "You just never know."<br />
I nod again, feeling more definite<br />
about this statement than anything else--<br />
and think back to my childhood anxiety years ago,<br />
how I visited those back steps<br />
every hour to examine the starfish,<br />
to make sure that it hadn't moved, that it was still<br />
dead. Because I had to know, I had to be certain<br />
not to take anything living<br />
from the sea.<br />
- 31 -
How Womanhood Begins<br />
Annemarie Ni Churreain<br />
Occult, rose-headed,<br />
my first blood came in the last month<br />
of summer.<br />
Inexplicably mine, a love-ink<br />
letter delivered<br />
finally,<br />
I too had something<br />
to conceal.<br />
- 32 -
Amy Tolbert<br />
At the Turning Point<br />
- 33 -
Parental Discretion Advised<br />
Karen Beatty<br />
Have you any idea what it’s like to catch your elderly<br />
father tongue-kissing a woman fourteen years his junior in an<br />
obscure corner of the local McDonald’s? Let’s just say it<br />
induces a mental state somewhere between primal horror and black<br />
comedy.<br />
<strong>The</strong> scene was set for this psychic out-take about two<br />
months ago when I got a letter from my widowed Dad. Ever since<br />
Mom died almost two years ago he had been living alone in the<br />
small New Jersey home I grew up in, about five hours from my<br />
current home in Boston. Several months ago Dad wrote that he had<br />
met Cynthia, a most wonderful woman—a widow—who was rejuvenating<br />
his life. At first, I was thrilled: maybe this relationship<br />
would alleviate the guilt I suffer from rarely visiting him and<br />
from not extending an invitation for Dad to live with me. Not<br />
that he had asked; after all, I’m a 54-year-old divorcee,<br />
children grown and dispersed, and not that far from retirement<br />
myself. Neither my father nor I had entertained the notion of<br />
combining households.<br />
Still, I knew that one day in the near future I would have<br />
to make some kind of “arrangement” for him. I sighed in<br />
capitulation to the inevitable. Both Dad and I are destined to<br />
contend with the disabilities of aging on the limited resources<br />
of making do with Medicare. I’m one of those baby boomers who<br />
free-wheeled employment for decades to avoid selling out to the<br />
establishment and planned to live off love, peace and rock ‘n’<br />
roll in the extended youth of old age. But my father had<br />
- 34 -
certainly done the so-called responsible thing. He was an<br />
educational administrator—had worked hard for his pension and<br />
counted on Social Security to tide him over during the “golden<br />
years”. What he had not counted on in all his careful planning<br />
was inflation and the high cost of minimally covered healthrelated<br />
expenses. Back in his day you bought a house on property<br />
that would accrue in value, so that you could turn it over in<br />
latter life for more inexpensive digs and a financial cushion.<br />
Sure, Dad could sell the family house now, but then where would<br />
he live? Certainly not with me, and there really are few<br />
affordable alternatives for aging adults of modest means.<br />
I understood all this, yet was unable to tolerate poor old<br />
Dad’s going for the love in his twilight years. This Cynthia, I<br />
calculated, is only thirteen years older than me: what could she<br />
possibly want from my 81-year-old father? Probably, I surmised,<br />
the house and what’s left of the funds my parents had set aside<br />
to sustain themselves in their old age.<br />
I telephoned my father right after I got a second letter<br />
announcing that he had invited Cynthia to move in with him. At<br />
the time, I was vaguely uneasy, but tried to be supportive. In a<br />
subsequent letter, however, when he mentioned the possibly of<br />
getting married, I quickly made plans to visit and throw<br />
interference. Dad described Cynthia as “charming, energetic, and<br />
well-spoken”. Of course (I shrewdly concluded), just the<br />
qualities required of a grifter to hustle an old man. You read<br />
about it in the papers all the time: there’s always a son or<br />
lover skulking in the shadows, coaching the shill and waiting to<br />
swoop down on the elderly person’s possessions and bank account.<br />
My father, no doubt, was one of numerous geriatric victims<br />
ensnared in this evil scheme. Thinking about it now, there was<br />
also the Bingo connection, further evidence of Cynthia’s moral<br />
lapses. Dad had reported that he met Cynthia at the weekly Bingo<br />
- 35 -
ounds sponsored by St. Joseph’s Church. We’re not even<br />
Catholic, and my dear mother had viewed Bingo as a form of<br />
gambling. (That the Catholics condoned Bingo made it all the<br />
more suspect.) Dad had obviously mingled with predators and was<br />
ensnared.<br />
I did, of course, have another more mature “voice”<br />
regarding all this: Dad is lonely and so is Cynthia. <strong>The</strong>y want<br />
another shot at happiness. My father has good genes; he’s still<br />
trim, only slightly stooped, a full head of white hair. With the<br />
exceptions of a depression he slipped into just after the loss<br />
of my mother and a tendency toward high blood pressure, he is<br />
healthy, has a sense of humor, likes to dance—all promising<br />
signs of vital years to come. Why not rejoice that he has found<br />
a partner?<br />
It was hard to find this more reasoned voice, however, when<br />
I was in my father’s house. All it takes for grown children to<br />
be reduced to adolescents is for them to step through the<br />
portals of the family home. A friend had told me of her<br />
mortification, while visiting her elderly father, at checking<br />
his list of medications and discovering a prescription for<br />
Viagra. She confessed, “I felt like a kid in sex ed class<br />
having, for the first time, to think about what my parents must<br />
have done to conceive me.” At the time I had joked about finding<br />
out if condoms were also covered by her father’s insurance.<br />
Later, I read in that AARP Bulletin that AIDS is on the rise<br />
among seniors. Really, it’s true.<br />
When I arrived in New Jersey Dad’s car was in the driveway,<br />
but I simply let myself into the house as if it were my own. <strong>The</strong><br />
stillness was disconcerting but the neat airiness of the living<br />
room stopped me like a stun gun. My parents had typically kept<br />
the place dark and rather on the shabby side, always with the TV<br />
blaring. Now there were bright new curtains and plants that were<br />
- 36 -
actually thriving. In a little kid’s voice, I tentatively called<br />
out, “Daddy?” When there was no answer, like a detective<br />
securing a crime scene, I quickly swept the premises. Obviously,<br />
nobody was home. I peeked into but was reluctant to closely<br />
inspect my Dad and Mother’s bedroom.<br />
OK, I told myself, remember to breathe. Since it was a<br />
beautiful spring day, Dad would likely have walked either into<br />
town or to the park on the way toward town. I decided to drive<br />
into town first so I could pick up a few things like diet coke,<br />
which he never kept on hand. I parked at the McDonald’s and<br />
decided to check inside, since the restaurant is one of those<br />
destinations for local seniors who cannot afford Starbuck’s.<br />
That was how I came across Dad and Cynthia in their compromised<br />
embrace. I had not intended to spy; it had not even occurred to<br />
me that my father would be making out (gross) at McDonald’s with<br />
that woman.<br />
Oblivious to my lurking as they snuggled up, the two of<br />
them malingered over paper cups of tepid tea used to secure<br />
their extended stay at the restaurant. Dismissing my own<br />
regressive state, I began to muse about the similarities of<br />
mindset in old age and adolescence: the propensity to ignore<br />
consequences, the disregard for societal norms, and the abject<br />
negation of long-standing family traditions. I caught myself<br />
inadvertently bobbing my head to Janis Joplin’s anthem:<br />
Freedom’s just another word for nuthin’ left to lose. Shaking<br />
the lyrical diversion off, I shifted back into disciplinary mode<br />
and quickly retreated from the restaurant. Fortunately, my<br />
father, who only had eyes for Cynthia, had not noticed my<br />
presence.<br />
Returning to the house and sitting on the living room sofa<br />
to await the return of the dynamic duo, I considered my father’s<br />
uncharacteristically neat stack of magazines and selected a news<br />
- 37 -
weekly to employ as a prop. I no longer felt so free to poke and<br />
roam about the house. My rational voice kicked in again: C’mon,<br />
the place looks nice, your father seems happy. Cynthia is<br />
healthy—she can take care of him, save you some worry and trips<br />
home. I was pretty convincing until my eyes drifted toward the<br />
mantelpiece. My parent’s wedding photo was gone! It had, in<br />
fact, been singled out and removed from its spot among several<br />
other framed family photos. I felt as if my Mother’s grave had<br />
been desecrated.<br />
I heard voices and approaching footsteps. Clutching the<br />
magazine to my lap and pressing my feet to the floor to steady<br />
myself, I hoped to appear nonchalant. As the front door opened I<br />
observed my father sling his arm around Cynthia to escort her<br />
inside, a simple gesture he had never afforded my mother.<br />
“Surprise!” I chirped in feigned good will. Standing and<br />
setting the magazine aside, I explained, “I arrived early.”<br />
Self-conscious and guilty, I quickly added, “Well, that was<br />
silly. I guess you saw my car. Anyway, I hope you don’t mind I<br />
let myself in?”<br />
“Of course not,” Dad reassured, smiling broadly. “You’re<br />
always welcome home. I’m just sorry we weren’t here to greet<br />
you.”<br />
I shrugged and forced a return smile.<br />
Dad gently supported Cynthia’s arm as he guided her toward<br />
me. She was wearing pale blue linen slacks, navy pumps and a<br />
modest white blouse. Her hair was splotchy blonde-covering-gray,<br />
teased underneath for body—a style favored by the aging beauty<br />
parlor set. (Thankfully she was not disheveled-looking from<br />
their very public romantic antics.)<br />
Dad’s face lit up as he looked toward Cynthia and<br />
proclaimed, “This is Cynthia, the best thing life has doled out<br />
to me in a very long time.”<br />
- 38 -
Cynthia seemed a little anxious as she stepped forward and<br />
reached out her hand. Smiling, she said, “Anna, I’m so pleased<br />
to meet you.” <strong>The</strong> way she met my eyes and said my name so softly<br />
made it impossible for me to withhold a smile or to quickly<br />
withdraw the hand I had placed in her extended one.<br />
<strong>The</strong> rest of the day Cynthia was gracious and attentive,<br />
both to Dad and me. He was atypically extroverted in her<br />
company, bragging about his career achievements and about my<br />
children and me. Cynthia listened intently and chuckled at Dad’s<br />
corny attempts at humor. She even reminded him that his favorite<br />
news program was about to start. My “elimination” game plan<br />
rapidly became defunct. If Cynthia was running a scam she was a<br />
grand master, and I could only surrender. I was also relieved<br />
that she seemed more like his generation than mine. If she had<br />
put on Beatles or Stones music instead of a classical selection,<br />
I think I would have burst into tears.<br />
That weekend I only stayed one night in my father’s house<br />
and then returned to Boston, if not assuaged, at least with more<br />
clarity. My issues were less about Cynthia, I decided, than<br />
about the discomfort I was experiencing around my father—his<br />
newly acquired enthusiasm for idle conversation and the kind of<br />
emotional engagement he displayed around Cynthia that was never<br />
there for my mother. Worse was the self-centered way he carried<br />
on about himself and angled for attention. My mother would<br />
definitely have called him on that, but such pretensions did not<br />
seem to perturb Cynthia in the least.<br />
At dinner with some women friends a couple of weeks later,<br />
I tried to express my reservations about my father’s new<br />
relationship. “It’s hard to explain,” I began. “I just don’t<br />
like who he’s become. He’s not the man I knew when he was with<br />
Mom. And it’s not just different—he’s not better. It’s like—like<br />
she’s catering to his narcissism. I can’t explain it.”<br />
- 39 -
I could tell from the way my friends cut their eyes quickly<br />
toward each other and away that I was not making sense. I let<br />
the topic go.<br />
At home that night I sat down at my computer and created a<br />
little sign to contemplate at my desk each day. It was not<br />
comforting but it did proclaim an essential truth regarding my<br />
perspective on my elderly father’s foray into romance. In three<br />
simple words the message I gave myself was: GET OVER IT.<br />
- 40 -
Rosewater<br />
Brian Alan Ellis<br />
“Well,” said Doctor Shire, the man maneuvering Rosewater<br />
into a white, fluorescently lit room, “here we are.”<br />
“Doctor,” said Rosewater, leaning forward in his<br />
wheelchair, “about the dream I had, last night…”<br />
“Do tell, Mister Rosewater, do tell…”<br />
“Well, I dreamt that Mother came to visit. It was in a room<br />
like this one. She came to me as a nurse.”<br />
“Oh?” said Dr. Shire, sleepily.<br />
“She injected me with something.” Rosewater thought about<br />
it. “Heroin,” he said. “Just like in real life.”<br />
“Mr. Rosewater, are you saying that your mother actually shot<br />
you up with heroin?”<br />
“Oh, yes,” said Rosewater. “For many years. She said it was<br />
her way of facilitating our relationship.”<br />
“Fascinating.”<br />
“You won’t believe it, Dr. Shire, but the heroin allowed me<br />
to walk again! It was difficult at first, mind you, but<br />
eventually I got the hang of it, and so I went over to Mother,<br />
who of course asked how her little boy was doing and I said,<br />
‘Oh, just fine, just fine,’ and we kissed, and after our kiss<br />
she told me to sit down on the floor, which I did, and she said<br />
‘good boy’ and then laughed that sweet, raspy laugh I remember<br />
her having, and I laughed also, and then she nudged me with her<br />
foot a little, and so I got real excited and began hugging and<br />
kissing those strong, wonderful legs of hers and then… then<br />
something bad happened.”<br />
“Something bad?”<br />
“Yes… the skin on her legs started to blacken and flake,<br />
- 41 -
much like paper does when it’s held under a match—or when it’s<br />
left on the stove—and so I looked up and saw that Mother had<br />
just burst into flames, and she held out her hands, which were<br />
melting, and cried, ‘What’s happening to me?’ and so I latched<br />
onto her, thinking I could put the fire out, but I couldn’t, and<br />
she turned to dust, right in my very arms.”<br />
“Remind me,” said Dr. Shire, “to order you a psychiatric<br />
evaluation.”<br />
“You really think so?”<br />
“Yes, Mr. Rosewater. Never have I been so sure about<br />
something. Ever.”<br />
“Have you ever lost a loved one, Doctor?”<br />
“I had a cat drown when I was seven.”<br />
“Ah, yes,” said Rosewater. “Burning and drowning. <strong>The</strong>y say<br />
those are the two worst ways to go. What do you think?”<br />
“Never gave it much thought, really.”<br />
“Yes, right, right…”<br />
“Now,” said Dr. Shire, “we want you on your best behavior.<br />
Because, frankly, Mr. Rosewater, we’ve all grown sick and tired<br />
of your antics—knocking over trays of food, putting holes into<br />
walls, coaxing patients and staff into doing strange things…<br />
Again, everyone is just sick and tired of it.”<br />
“Sick and tired, huh? Those words again…” Rosewater sat up<br />
as straight as he could. “Hospitals are made solely for sick and<br />
tired things, aren’t they, Doctor? Things taken into rooms—cold,<br />
lonely rooms—where they wait to be fed and forgotten and, if<br />
luck permits, to die too.”<br />
“Now, Mr. Rosewater…”<br />
“See it, Doctor?” Rosewater motioned to the open window<br />
across the room. “<strong>The</strong> afternoon breeze… as it dances through<br />
those transparent blue curtains? A miracle the breeze can fit<br />
through those mesh bars, don’t you think?” For a moment, both he<br />
- 42 -
and Dr. Shire stared curiously at the window. “Honestly,” said<br />
Rosewater, “I can’t think of anything worse than those blue<br />
curtains.” He smiled. “Doctor.”<br />
“We know you’ve been through a horrendous ordeal,” said Dr.<br />
Shire, shortening the stem of a yellow flower before placing it<br />
in a glass vase beside Rosewater’s bed, “but you shouldn’t take<br />
it out on people. We’re here to help you.”<br />
Rosewater nodded sadly. “I know, Doctor, I know…”<br />
“Well,” said Dr. Shire, checking the time, “I must be<br />
going. Nurse Diestrum has been assigned to aid you. She’ll be<br />
here shortly.” He turned to leave. “Be nice to her,” Dr. Shire<br />
added. “You’re in good hands.”<br />
Rosewater watched as the blue curtains continued in the<br />
breeze. <strong>The</strong>n he turned, setting his gaze on the glass vase<br />
beside his bed. <strong>The</strong> yellow flower floating inside the vase<br />
excited him, and so he rolled up to it. Gently, he ran his<br />
fingers along the stem. When a thorn cut into his thumb, he<br />
plucked the flower from the vase and snapped it in half. <strong>The</strong>n he<br />
brought his hand over the petals and squeezed, crushing them in<br />
a tight fist. He put what remained into his mouth and chewed,<br />
eventually chasing it with water from the vase. <strong>The</strong>n he pulled<br />
away the blankets covering his lower half, ignored the new<br />
stumps his accident had given him, and masturbated as the blue<br />
curtains danced some more.<br />
“<strong>The</strong> sound of your shoes squeaking down the hall amused<br />
me.”<br />
“Why, you must be Mr. Rosewater,” said Nurse Diestrum,<br />
presenting her hand for him to shake.<br />
Rosewater took Nurse Diestrum’s hand in his and stared<br />
longingly at it. “Mother,” he said, now running his bandaged<br />
thumb along her work-worn fingernails, “had hands just like<br />
these. Long, white, and pudgy.”<br />
- 43 -
“I beg your pardon!”<br />
“Oh, don’t be offended,” said Rosewater. “<strong>The</strong>y’re very<br />
beautiful.” He looked Nurse Diestrum up and down, smiled, and<br />
said, “Nice breasts, too.”<br />
“Excuse me?”<br />
“Mother,” said Rosewater. “She had excellent breasts. Round<br />
and healthy. Well built lady, my mother.”<br />
“I understand you’ve been in some sort of accident?”<br />
“Oh, yes, yes. Terrible one. Mother didn’t make it.”<br />
“I’m sorry to hear that.”<br />
“Oh, it’s fine. Really. She was cancerous. Better to go out<br />
in a blaze, I say.”<br />
“Well,” said Nurse Diestrum, “you’re in good hands with<br />
me.”<br />
“No doubt. Even Dr. Shire thought so. He was right, too.<br />
Lovely hands.”<br />
Nurse Diestrum smiled and began fluffing Rosewater’s<br />
pillow. “Mother burned up in a fire, you know…” Rosewater<br />
clucked his tongue. “Burning and drowning. <strong>The</strong>y say those are<br />
the two worst ways to go. What do you think?”<br />
“Never thought about it.”<br />
“Say, are you married?” Rosewater asked.<br />
“I’m sorry?”<br />
“It’s just that, with you being my nurse and all, I figure<br />
we should get to know each other a little.”<br />
“Well… no… not exactly…”<br />
“Boyfriend, then?”<br />
“Girlfriend. Eleanor. She teaches kindergarten. Any more<br />
questions, Mr. Rosewater?”<br />
“A teacher, huh? That’s swell. Would be nice to be<br />
something. I never had much opportunity for that. Mother always<br />
needed me around, especially after cancer.”<br />
- 44 -
“Well,” said Nurse Diestrum, placing a thermometer under<br />
Rosewater’s tongue, “taking care of the sick is certainly<br />
something.”<br />
“That’s true,” Rosewater mumbled.<br />
Nurse Diestrum removed the thermometer from Rosewater’s<br />
mouth and read it. “A little high,” she said. “But you’ll live.”<br />
“Would you care to see?” said Rosewater. “<strong>The</strong> accident left<br />
me two little guys. May as well get used to them.”<br />
“Why, yes,” Nurse Diestrum said nervously, “of course.<br />
Let’s have a look.” She pulled back the blankets covering<br />
Rosewater.<br />
“Well?”<br />
Nurse Diestrum turned and began dry heaving into the back<br />
of her hand. “It’s… it’s a very… unfortunate thing…”<br />
“Say hi to the pretty nurse,” Rosewater said to his two<br />
bobbing stumps. “What’s that?” He looked up at Nurse Diestrum<br />
and said, “<strong>The</strong>y want you to touch them.”<br />
“No, that’s quite all right,” she said.<br />
“Oh, they won’t bite,” Rosewater insisted.<br />
“Well… I… I suppose…” Nurse Diestrum reluctantly placed her<br />
palm over one of the bruised appendages.<br />
“<strong>The</strong>re,” said Rosewater. “Not so bad, is it?”<br />
“No, I”—Nurse Diestrum nearly fainted—“suppose not.”<br />
“Something to drink?”<br />
Rosewater nodded. “Cranberry juice. No vodka.” He winked.<br />
“Not allowed.” Nurse Diestrum handed Rosewater a plastic cup<br />
filled with orange juice.<br />
“You know, Miss Diestrum, I couldn’t help noticing your<br />
legs. You’re real lucky to have a pair like that.” Rosewater<br />
sipped his juice. “How much?”<br />
“I’m—sorry?”<br />
“Your legs,” said Rosewater. “How much you want for them?”<br />
- 45 -
Nurse Diestrum smiled and said, “Not for sale.”<br />
Rosewater looked at her very seriously. <strong>The</strong>n he laughed.<br />
“Of course they’re not,” he said. “If I had pretty legs like<br />
you, I wouldn’t give them away for anything.”<br />
“Well, I’m flattered you think so,” said Nurse Diestrum.<br />
“I’ve always been a leg man, you know—ever since I was a<br />
child. I remember,” said Rosewater, “sitting on the floor,<br />
looking up at Mother. She had legs just like yours, in fact.<br />
Real thick, strong ones.”<br />
“Yes, well, I think it’s time you—”<br />
“Listen,” Rosewater whispered, “would you be so kind… as to<br />
lend me a favor? Maybe have me sit somewhere on the floor…<br />
looking those pretty legs up. I’d be forever grateful, Ms.<br />
Diestrum. Maybe even kick me a little, with the tip of your<br />
shoe—not too hard, now—just enough for me to feel it some. Would<br />
you do that?”<br />
“Absolutely not!” Nurse Diestrum placed a metal tray of<br />
food on Rosewater’s lap. “Now—” She held up a spoonful of peas.<br />
“It’s time to eat.”<br />
“Please, it’s been so long, I—”<br />
Nurse Diestrum shoveled the peas into Rosewater’s mouth.<br />
“Go on,” she said, “chew.”<br />
“Yack! Terrible!” A gob of half-chewed peas dribbled down<br />
Rosewater’s chin. “Please, Ms. Diestrum, don’t make me eat this—<br />
this sick-and-tired food.”<br />
“Hush!”<br />
“No—no, damn it!” Rosewater used one of his stumps to knock<br />
the tray of food to the floor. “I told you I don’t want it!”<br />
“<strong>Fine</strong>. Have it your way, then.” Nurse Diestrum knelt down<br />
to pick up the mess. “After this, I’m putting you to bed. You<br />
hear?”<br />
Rosewater reached over and put his hand on Nurse Diestrum’s<br />
- 46 -
thigh.<br />
“My God!” Nurse Diestrum turned and struck Rosewater<br />
several times with the tray. “No! You hear me? No, no, no!”<br />
A thin trace of blood formed on Rosewater’s forehead. “You<br />
tricked me,” he muttered, the bitterness of two pills sliding<br />
uncomfortably down his throat. “You always trick me…”<br />
“Just you wait,” said Nurse Diestrum, gathering up her<br />
things. “Dr. Shire will hear about this.”<br />
Dazed, Rosewater looked towards the window. It was now shut<br />
and locked. <strong>The</strong> blue curtains no longer danced. He heard Nurse<br />
Diestrum shouting for Dr. Shire as the squeaks of her shoes<br />
moved out of the room and then quickened up and down the hall.<br />
He laughed; it was still amusing. <strong>The</strong>n he thought about his<br />
mother—her long, pudgy white fingers; the healthy round breasts<br />
spilling out; the thick, strong legs. He began masturbating to<br />
these visions. He continued doing so until the pills took him<br />
under, mid-stroke.<br />
- 47 -
Innovative Love<br />
Gary Beck<br />
<strong>The</strong> eternal triangle<br />
between two rivals<br />
for a desirable woman<br />
has been reinvented<br />
for the Information Age.<br />
While surfing the internet,<br />
an addictive diversion<br />
for underutilized minds,<br />
two men were welcomed<br />
by an enticing woman<br />
who built a relationship<br />
using remote control<br />
that provoked one suitor<br />
to murder the other.<br />
An investigation revealed<br />
the enterprising woman<br />
used her daughter's web page<br />
to pose as an eighteen year old<br />
and lured the distant victims<br />
to a violent end,<br />
deceiving them<br />
electronically.<br />
- 48 -
Metamorphosis<br />
Susan V. Meyers<br />
Because butterflies are beautiful<br />
I have no fascination for moths,<br />
their thick-blunt<br />
wings buttered brown<br />
as cinnamon, or rusted<br />
blades. I don’t care<br />
for the miracle of their birth:<br />
the parental corpse, the forgotten<br />
apple, like a planet now. <strong>The</strong>y feed<br />
on my accident. <strong>The</strong> underside of the bed,<br />
like a margin, becomes<br />
universal.<br />
Did I ask for this? Did I invent<br />
this? Some night lapse<br />
of the brain, some dream?<br />
And then their appearance<br />
like a subtext, below.<br />
I will clean everything.<br />
I will not tolerate their rushed cocoons,<br />
their unannounced<br />
arrival. <strong>The</strong>se white worms weaving<br />
themselves into my cotton sheets, my dreams.<br />
Poised—in the interval of their<br />
transformation—rigid<br />
as a ballerina, or bone.<br />
Better, if they had been butterflies:<br />
beautiful, seasonal, whole. More symbol<br />
than insect. What if butterflies<br />
had flown up out of my mattress one night?<br />
What if one had brushed my sleeping cheek, forearm, thigh?<br />
Could I have guessed: butterfly or moth?<br />
What difference<br />
would that have made, waking?<br />
- 49 -
William Watkins Filigree gold 3<br />
- 50 -
<strong>The</strong> Sermon of Vegetarianism<br />
Ilya Prints<br />
<strong>The</strong> mayor of the woods was the Big Man – the Bear. <strong>The</strong>y<br />
said he was appointed to duty by himself, long ago, but none of<br />
animals argued. <strong>The</strong> Bear was, really, the very-very one – the<br />
biggest, the strongest, and so the fairest and the wisest. In<br />
short, the Big Head.<br />
Life in the woods was calm and fine. Animals were busy with<br />
their regular businesses: making bunches of flowers, gathering<br />
berries and mushrooms, shopping, or visiting with each other.<br />
And everything would have been very well if not for the Wolf.<br />
While he was on friendly terms with sheep from the close<br />
village, the Bear did not pay any attention to the Wolf’s<br />
activity. But, when some rabbits, hares, and even moose began to<br />
complain, the Bear decided to talk with the Wolf.<br />
“It is very shameful to hurt the weak, good animals! <strong>The</strong><br />
animals who want to make bunches of flowers, gather berries and<br />
mushrooms, shop or visit each other as well the other creatures<br />
in the wood!” the Bear said. <strong>The</strong> Wolf was pretty ashamed. He<br />
hung his head. If not for the thick hair on his muzzle, everyone<br />
would see how the Wolf turned red. He was very, very ashamed.<br />
“Look around. You can go to the raspberry bushes or taste<br />
the honey. It’s pretty delicious!” continued the Bear. And with<br />
those heartfelt words, the Wolf’s eyes were filled with tears.<br />
Everyone could see that the Wolf was suffering.<br />
“All animals have to live in love,” the Bear proceeded with<br />
his sermon, inspired more and more by his own words. “<strong>The</strong>y are<br />
like pets. You, Wolf, could be welcomed to every home in our<br />
woods!” And the Wolf shed a tear. And each could see that reeducation<br />
and persuasion succeeded. But…but just at that moment,<br />
- 51 -
the Wolf saw the sheep returning to the village from a pasture.<br />
“Oh, my dear lord,” the Wolf said. “I am so tired… Let’s take a<br />
little break, only for half- an hour. It will take no more… I am<br />
so exhausted… And… and…I may miss my supper!”<br />
- 52 -
Cocooned in sheets<br />
Duane Jackson<br />
A pouch of dreams<br />
is gummed to leaf –<br />
a bed in misted<br />
jade-green sheen.<br />
Cocooned in sheets,<br />
sleep’s silken feel<br />
reforms my bones<br />
for winged retreat.<br />
- 53 -
<strong>The</strong> Ants<br />
Keith G. Laufenberg<br />
-1-<br />
THE INVASION<br />
When they came to the Valley of the Ants, an ant said: ‘Go into<br />
your dwellings, ants, lest Solomon and his warriors should crush<br />
you.’<br />
—<strong>The</strong> Koran.<br />
Betty Ross looked at her husband and could not fathom his<br />
unbridled anger, as he glared at the mass of small ants<br />
scurrying over the cupboards and kitchen table. <strong>The</strong>y had gotten<br />
onto the left-over dinner plates and then inside the cupboard,<br />
where the sugar container, which was a supposedly insect-proof<br />
Tupperware Bowl had been totally infiltrated by the small red<br />
balls of fury. “Good Gawd Betty—do you believe this—the little<br />
devils are everywhere. I’m gonna make this my first priority, to<br />
kill these bastards!” Stephen Ross, an aerospace engineer at<br />
nearby Lockheed Martin, in Marietta, shook his head sadly. <strong>The</strong>y<br />
had just moved into a new house in the country and he had given<br />
no thought to the insect population, until now.<br />
“Well Stephen I’m sure there’s no need to kill them.”<br />
“Wha’ … Betty—oh, right—well—ain’t that just like you. You<br />
don’t think there’s any need to kill these buggers? Are you<br />
crazy Bet’? Look—look?” Ross spread his hands out, palms up then<br />
moved them furiously back and forth around the room, signifying<br />
- 54 -
that there were ants everywhere. He walked to his large kitchen<br />
table, a solid mahogany beauty that had been a wedding present,<br />
and slammed his open palm down hard upon it, again and again,<br />
turning his hand over after every slap and then wiping the<br />
results onto has pants-leg, before continuing his one-handed<br />
assault. He only stopped when his wife walked over and grabbed<br />
his forearm. “Honey, why don’t you just take a shower and I’ll<br />
get rid of the ants for you.”<br />
Ross glared at his wife and then at the innumerable ants<br />
spread throughout the kitchen and dining room, then shrugged his<br />
shoulders, seemingly calming down, but only on the surface.<br />
“<strong>Fine</strong>, what the hell, it’s only midnight and I ain’t gotta<br />
get up till six in ah morning.” He stormed towards his bathroom,<br />
warily eying the ants, which seemed to be everywhere, now. He<br />
knew that no one could get rid of the little buggers, much less<br />
his wife of less than a year, but, as he stepped into the shower<br />
he smiled smugly; this would finally teach her something, as she<br />
was always complaining about all the pollution and how it, and<br />
progress, were so dangerous. She was against nuclear power and<br />
had history, such as the near meltdown at Three Mile Island in<br />
1979, to solidify her nature-first philosophy but her lectures<br />
on the environment drove him crazy.<br />
Stephen Ross stepped out of the shower and wrapped a towel<br />
around his waist, hurrying out of the bathroom and into the<br />
- 55 -
dining room, where his wide smile soon faded, when he looked<br />
around the room, which was devoid of even a single ant. It was<br />
as if someone had taken a vacuum cleaner and sucked them all<br />
away, but, as he searched for one, he could plainly see that<br />
there was no such household appliance in the room.<br />
-2-<br />
THE SECRET<br />
God made all the creatures and gave them our love and our fear,<br />
To give sign, we and they are his children, one family here.<br />
—Robert Browning, Saul. St. vi.<br />
Betty Ross sprinkled the water onto the flowers and smiled,<br />
as several bees flitted about pollinating first one than the<br />
other of the white and red roses. She nodded at her neighbor, as<br />
the woman approached her, eying the bees warily. “Oh hello<br />
Missus O’Brien,” she said, smiling.<br />
“Oh, call me Emily please—Betty?”<br />
“Well alright then—Emily.”<br />
“God—how can you stand these bees? Oh my God. Emily O’Brien<br />
put her hands above her head and began fluttering them<br />
noiselessly, flailing in exasperation as several bees, sensing<br />
her fear and frustration, began swarming around her.<br />
“Oh, Emily, please just stand still and forget about them<br />
and then they’ll leave you alone.”<br />
- 56 -
Emily O’Brien gasped and paled noticeably. “Stand still?<br />
God, how can I? <strong>The</strong>y’re so noisy. Why, I’d be stung for sure?”<br />
Betty Ross shrugged her shoulders and set her water-pail on<br />
the ground. “Well, won’t you come inside for some breakfast<br />
then?”<br />
“Well, maybe just for some coffee.”<br />
“Alright then,” Ross replied, as she walked her neighbor to<br />
the back porch of her large home, which sat on two acres of<br />
relatively undeveloped land—out in Cherokee County. As she<br />
motioned her neighbor to a table on the back porch, Betty Ross<br />
walked into her kitchen and grabbed a pot of coffee from her<br />
stove. She brought it to the table, along with two porcelain<br />
cups and poured one hall-full of the dark liquid, then nodded<br />
towards the empty cup sitting in front of her neighbor. “Say<br />
when?”<br />
As she poured, the other woman smiled and cut her off when<br />
the cup was almost to the top. “I take it black,” she said and,<br />
as they sat sipping their java, Emily O’Brien smiled. “Oh, you<br />
do make a good cup of coffee, Betty.”<br />
“Why thank you Emily.”<br />
“Oh, it’s so beautiful out here, isn’t it?”<br />
“Yes-yes it certainly is and I hope it stays that way.”<br />
- 57 -
Emily O’Brien smiled languidly at this statement. “Oh, I<br />
know what you mean. We do need to keep the area as private as we<br />
can.”<br />
Betty Ross sipped at her mocha and smiled imperceptibly.<br />
“If it wasn’t for these damn insects and bugs it would be<br />
paradise out here, you know?” Emily O’Brien said.<br />
“Well, they were here before we were, you know!”<br />
Emily O’Brien smiled at her neighbor and stared out the<br />
screened-in porch. She had ascertained from her husband, who<br />
worked with Stephen Ross at Lockheed Martin, that Betty Ross was<br />
part Cherokee Indian, which she had considered a romantic idea<br />
at the time, but now she wondered if the woman weren’t just a<br />
little too strange for her taste. She was about to light a<br />
cigarette when Betty Ross quickly interjected, “Oh, I wish you<br />
wouldn’t—please.”<br />
“Oh … what … you mean my cigarette?”<br />
“Yes—and thank you very much for not smoking,” Ross<br />
replied, smiling.<br />
O’Brien kept the cigarette between her second and third<br />
fingers but didn’t light it, instead crossing her legs and<br />
leaning towards her neighbor to lower her voice, as if someone<br />
would hear them. “Of course dear, I won’t smoke if it bothers<br />
you. Oh Betty, by the way, could you please let me in on your<br />
secret?”<br />
- 58 -
“My … secret … my—”<br />
Emily O’Brien rolled the cigarette in her fingers aimlessly<br />
and leaned closer to Betty Ross, as if they were discussing a<br />
conspiracy that reached into the highest levels of the<br />
government.<br />
“Oh come now Betty, don’t be coy with me, please. Just tell<br />
me what brand of poison you used to get rid of those pesky ants.<br />
<strong>The</strong>y’re all over my house too. Bob says it must be some sort of<br />
a secret Indian herb that you use?”<br />
Betty Ross smiled languidly at her neighbor and shook her<br />
head. “Well Emily you could say that that is what it is, but<br />
it’s not a herb and it’s really not much of a secret, not among<br />
the Cherokees anyway.”<br />
“Oh? Oh, you’re, you’re part Cherokee then?”<br />
“Yes, my mother is an Anidjiskwa.”<br />
“An an-nadish …” I thought you said she was a Cherokee,<br />
Betty?”<br />
“Yes, she is, she’s a full-blooded Cherokee and a member of<br />
the Anidjiskwa—it is the Bird Clan— my ancestors were members of<br />
the Raven Clan, a clan that is now called the Bird Clan. She has<br />
taught me many things, only one of which is that we must live in<br />
harmony with all creatures and if you treat the ants in your<br />
house as you would treat human beings who were guests in your<br />
home they honor your wishes.”<br />
- 59 -
Emily O’Brien’s mouth dropped open, as her eyes magnified.<br />
“Wha’ … what … wha’ …? But what poison do you use? That’s all I<br />
wanna know?”<br />
“Ah, but I don’t use poison—Emily—no, I use love.”<br />
Emily O’Brien’s brows furrowed together in serious<br />
consternation. “What? You can’t be serious, love? You mean you<br />
love the ants?”<br />
Betty Ross smiled laconically and sipped her coffee. “Yes,<br />
I guess you could say that, although respect might be a better<br />
word.”<br />
“Love …? Respect—but they’re only ants—they’re insects.”<br />
“<strong>The</strong>y are living beings, Emily.”<br />
Emily O’Brien stood up uneasily. She felt she was talking<br />
to a crazy woman; either that or a witch. She had just seen a<br />
movie about witches and Emily O’Brien whose I.Q. was only a<br />
point or two above a baloney sandwich, believed whatever she saw<br />
on the big screen, especially if there were any big-name stars<br />
in the picture. She bid her neighbor a hasty farewell and<br />
hurried out the back door; lighting her cigarette almost before<br />
the screen door slapped shut and inhaling on it greedily, as she<br />
hurried towards her home and safety.<br />
- 60 -
-3-<br />
MOTHER EARTH<br />
Speak to the earth, and it shall teach thee.<br />
—Old Testament. Job, XII, 8.<br />
Betty Ross placed the plastic baggie inside her apron<br />
pocket, just alongside the clothespins and walked out into her<br />
backyard. It was early in the afternoon and she had a load of<br />
wet clothes to string upon her clothes-line. She stared up into<br />
the sky and saw the sun shining brightly and stopped abruptly.<br />
Suddenly, she was a little girl again and it was 1950, and she<br />
closed her eyes and saw her grandmother who was also her<br />
teacher, and this caused her to verbalize her thoughts, without<br />
her even realizing it, a she whispered: “A ke yv ku gv, Squa ne<br />
lv nv hi Ha do, wa do. Ye ho waah, Oo n jl nauh hi. Yo, U ha lo<br />
te qa, A at nv ti.” ‘Sun, my Creator, thank you. God, Maker of<br />
all things, good and great beyond all expression, here is the<br />
place of uniting.’<br />
She stared at the sun for almost ten minutes before walking<br />
to her clothesline and hanging up the wet clothes. She then left<br />
the empty clothesbasket and walked to the first of the mounds—<br />
which was slightly sloped and similar to what Betty knew her<br />
ancestors had copied on a much larger scale, in centuries past.<br />
She pulled the plastic baggie from her apron and spread some of<br />
its contents across the mound, closing her eyes as she did so.<br />
- 61 -
“Ah—workers—I know you have been wronged by my husband, as well<br />
as so many others, but they do not understand you as I do and I<br />
am here to make things well, as I promised you last night I<br />
would and I have Ye ho waah’s blessing in this. I will not<br />
forget my promises to you, as I know you will respect mine also.<br />
I am sorry that the house I live in has destroyed some of your<br />
mounds but I will see to it that it never happens again here.”<br />
Betty Ross spread the sugar granules liberally around the mound,<br />
then stood up and moved on to the next mound, several feet away.<br />
****<br />
Emily O’Brien spoke into the telephone, almost in a<br />
whisper, conspiratorially, as she exhaled a stream of toxic<br />
fumes from her nostrils and sat her burning cigarette in an<br />
ashtray, on the counter-top of her dining room table. “Yes, yes<br />
I know Sherry but I’m telling you I saw her putting the poison<br />
on top of the ant hills and they have absolutely no ants in<br />
their house. What? Well, I’m not sure about that but I think<br />
she’s some sort of a witch. Oh yes—yes—well it would explain a<br />
lot of things—how else could she stand watering those flowers<br />
among a mass of bees and not even be afraid of getting stung?<br />
And how else could she have plants blooming practically<br />
overnight? And....and wait’ll you hear this, she said she loves<br />
ants, yes-yes and worms, worms Sherry. Yes, really, she said<br />
- 62 -
they, the worms, can help save Mother Earth. Mother Earth Sher’,<br />
I mean weird, weird, she, she must be a witch.”<br />
Emily O’Brien stood up and walked towards her picture<br />
window, the one that afforded a splendid view of both her and<br />
her neighbor’s backyards, and, as she did so, the telephone cord<br />
knocked the ashtray with her lit cigarette onto her new rug, and<br />
on top of the front page of some old newspaper, but Emily<br />
O’Brien was oblivious of it, as she chattered on and on—<br />
gossiping—her favorite pastime, since moving to the suburbs.<br />
- 63 -
Ruben Monakhov<br />
- 64 -
Doggone it!!<br />
Wayne Andrewartha<br />
“Yes, of course I can talk. Why not? If a horse on TV can<br />
talk, then surely a dog would have no problems. Everyone knows<br />
dogs are way smarter than the average horse.”<br />
“Okay. Let’s get back to what I was saying. I’m an intelligent,<br />
and, even if I say so myself, a cute, black Doberman called<br />
Angel, who can talk, although only to Toby, my master.”<br />
“I know what you’re thinking. I can hear it in your<br />
silence. What’s this stupid dog on about? Dogs can’t talk,<br />
period. But you’re wrong - I can. And not just regulated barks<br />
or woof woofs either - plain English. And before you say it,<br />
just because you haven’t heard me talking doesn’t prove<br />
anything.”<br />
“Alright – I concede I have a doggie accent, but Toby seems<br />
to understand me. He just can’t tell anyone else. You might ask<br />
why? Because no one would ever believe him, that’s why.<br />
Especially since I’ve decided to talk only to him. Even the<br />
friendly females who rub my ears and say “Isn’t he cute?’ don’t<br />
get a word out of me.”<br />
“Thinking back to the time when he first brought me home, I<br />
didn’t need to talk to get my message across. I remember that<br />
first night so well. Everything was strange to me – new smells<br />
and new places to investigate, and a new owner to train. I<br />
recall that Toby was sitting at the kitchen table eating sirloin<br />
steak and fresh vegetables. It smelt so good; I was drooling.<br />
He’d already fully laden my dish with food - dog roll and dry<br />
biscuits. Oh, very nice, if only I couldn’t smell his steak.<br />
Now, I ask you – is that fair? When did equal rights disappear?”<br />
- 65 -
“From that very moment, I needed to re-establish his<br />
priorities towards me. Otherwise, I’d be eating doggie-type food<br />
forever. To change his attitude, I must admit I was a bit<br />
naughty. I waited for my chance. It came shortly after Toby went<br />
to the fridge to get another beer. When he returned and sat<br />
down, I walked over to the table, carrying my tray containing my<br />
untouched food in my mouth. Without warning, I dropped my food<br />
all over his black trousers - made a hell of a mess. I just<br />
looked up at him with my big brown eyes, as if to say ‘it wasn’t<br />
my fault.’ It got his attention though, because the very next<br />
night, I dined on steak just like he did. Best thing was – I<br />
didn’t need to say a thing.”<br />
“Before I tell you how I first came to talk to Toby, maybe<br />
you can answer something for me? Why do humans only clean the<br />
top part of their furniture? Don’t they know there’s an<br />
underbelly? As I crawl under furniture like the dining table,<br />
all I find is cobwebs, dust, and other undesirables. Not good<br />
for a dog’s fur, now is it? It makes me sneeze a lot as well.”<br />
“Carrying on with my story, I promised to share how I first<br />
started talking to Toby. It all happened when I was very young.<br />
I was so full of energy, I just couldn’t sit still. Toby had<br />
been trying to read a book, but couldn’t concentrate with me<br />
racing around the room, banging into furniture and knocking<br />
things over. He’s a slow learner, but finally he got the hint.<br />
He decided to take me to the park, so I can burn off this<br />
energy, and sniff out every nook and cranny, a doggie’s dream.<br />
In this particular park, there are many interesting nooks and<br />
crannies, I must say.”<br />
“Oh no, I shouldn’t tell you that – I forgot – dogs aren’t<br />
supposed to talk. “<br />
“Anyway, back to the park. Toby had bought a ball along for<br />
me to play with. After he’d released my lead, he flicked the<br />
- 66 -
all across the grass. Immediately, I scampered after it like<br />
any good dog would. Holding it in my teeth, I raced back and<br />
dropped it at his feet.”<br />
“He threw it again, this time further away. I raced after<br />
it, perhaps a tad less enthusiastic than the previous time. I<br />
dropped it at his feet again, and my tongue was already dangling<br />
from my mouth like an engorged lizard.”<br />
“Oblivious of my heavy panting, Toby fired it away again.<br />
Who was having fun here?”<br />
“I shot after it, and caught it between my teeth before it<br />
had even stopped rolling. ‘I’ve still got my speed,’ I mused.<br />
Halfway back, I stopped dead in my tracks, and flopped to the<br />
ground. A thought had suddenly flashed through my mind. ‘What am<br />
I doing this for? He’ll only throw it away and I’ll have to<br />
chase it again. It’s far too hot to race around like a mad<br />
thing.’<br />
“So I rose and strolled slowly back. As I dropped the ball<br />
at Toby’s feet, I casually said, “I’m over chasing balls today.<br />
Next time you want it, you fetch it.”<br />
“Well, talk about blowing his socks off. Momentarily, he<br />
stood there flabbergasted with a stupid expression on his face.<br />
After a few moments, he sat down quickly, his eyes as wide as<br />
saucers. You could say he was stunned. Yep, a talking dog will<br />
do that every time.”<br />
“Well, that finished our day in the park. He couldn’t get<br />
me home quick enough. He kept looking at me all the way home as<br />
if I was going to bite him or something. Of course, I wouldn’t.<br />
I love the big bozo, even if he’s an idiot.”<br />
“In the days that followed, Toby was that excited, he told<br />
all his friends, but they all laughed in disbelief – even his<br />
stuck-up girlfriend, Rachel, thought he’d lost it.”<br />
- 67 -
“Eventually, he couldn’t handle looking like the village<br />
idiot, so he stopped telling people about his talking dog. Now<br />
it’s our secret, and that’s the way I like it.”<br />
“Just talking about being an idiot reminds me of the day<br />
when Toby started confiding in me about his new girlfriend,<br />
Mary-Anne.”<br />
“Yep, you guessed it. Rachel dumped him when he put the<br />
hard word on her a few weeks back. I was curled up asleep in my<br />
cosy bed at the time, but Toby told me later. I said she was<br />
stuck-up.”<br />
“Anyway, back to Mary-Anne. Toby and I’ve had endless<br />
discussions about her. I know her well. Toby often buys her<br />
flowers and chocolates, takes her to dinner and maybe a show,<br />
but at the moment, she’s playing hard to get. All he receives in<br />
return is a good night kiss. And he’s deliriously happy with<br />
that!!!<br />
“I can’t understand that. In my world, if a female wants<br />
me, we just do it. No preliminaries – we may not even know each<br />
other’s name. Much better, don’t you think?”<br />
“<strong>The</strong>n there’s this thing called WORK!”<br />
“Toby goes off to work every day, and leaves me alone in<br />
the back yard. When he first started leaving me behind, I<br />
thought I’d been punished for doing something wrong. So I was<br />
extra nice to him when he returned that night and continued my<br />
affectionate behaviour throughout the next morning, but it made<br />
no difference – he still left me at home. Now I’ve gotten used<br />
to it, and it doesn’t bother me anymore. In a strange way, I now<br />
enjoy my own company. At least, I can get a lot more sleeping<br />
done without him around.”<br />
“One day we were talking and Toby said he works to earn<br />
something called money, which pays for our food (two steaks per<br />
mealtime is fairly expensive), and, of course, there are my vet<br />
- 68 -
ills. <strong>The</strong>re’s a wonderful nurse at the vets who always makes a<br />
big fuss of me, so occasionally I pretend to be sick just to go<br />
and see her again. If Toby was to ever find out ... well, bugger<br />
me!!<br />
“Oops, sorry - another thing we don’t do in our species.<br />
Not enough closets, I guess ...”<br />
“Toby works in all temperatures, while I laze around,<br />
sleeping, eating and drinking, and occasionally, if I’m lucky,<br />
the other. When he gets home tired from work, he still has to<br />
take me for a long walk, whether he wants to or not. I have to<br />
keep healthy you know? He has to amuse me whenever he’s in the<br />
house.”<br />
“<strong>The</strong> pleasure is not all one-sided. I do have my uses.”<br />
“For example, like the night Toby and Mary-Anne were out,<br />
and I stopped a burglar from taking all Toby’s nice things. It<br />
all happened so quickly; I surprised myself with what I did.”<br />
“I was sleeping inside the house when I heard the sound of<br />
breaking glass in the lounge. I was instantly alert. I spotted a<br />
man slightly smaller in build than Toby climb in through this<br />
broken window. I sensed something was wrong. Toby didn’t know<br />
this man.”<br />
“He kept the lights off, which gave me a decided<br />
advantage.”<br />
“Curious, I followed his flitting shadow as he went from<br />
room to room. He scooped up jewellery, a small TV and DVD, and<br />
Toby’s model car collection. He laid them out on the kitchen<br />
table, before raiding the fridge for food. I crept up behind him<br />
and whispered, “<strong>The</strong>re’s an angel at your table, and he doesn’t<br />
like you eating his food.”<br />
<strong>The</strong> man jumped up in fright at the sound of my voice. When<br />
I gave him my best impression of an angry Doberman - you know<br />
the one what I mean – the snarling jaws, the rolled back,<br />
- 69 -
demented eyes, and the ears pointed upwards, he just about<br />
choked on what he’d been eating.”<br />
He leapt up onto the table to escape my snapping jaws, but,<br />
when I jumped up beside him, he made a break for it. Ignoring<br />
his booty, he rushed headlong towards the window he’d broken to<br />
enter in the first place. Disorientated and in a blind panic, he<br />
dived through the wrong window. He hit the ground outside,<br />
covered in glass confetti.”<br />
“Without a moment’s hesitation, he rose and raced off into the<br />
darkness, nursing his cuts and bruises. My growl urged him on.”<br />
“If dogs were meant to have a sense of humour, I would’ve<br />
laughed ‘til I dropped. When I told Toby later, that’s exactly<br />
what he did. I guess humans are better equipped in some ways.”<br />
“At least Toby appreciated me much more after that. In<br />
fact, I’m spoiled rotten; a situation I can heartily recommend.”<br />
“<strong>The</strong>y say humans are much smarter than dogs, but guess<br />
again. I know who my money’s on.”<br />
“See You.”<br />
- 70 -
Francis Raven<br />
Dancing Grid<br />
- 71 -
Lunatic Speaks<br />
Caroline Hagood<br />
In the dream I’m under a cow tent<br />
in Africa somewhere, sucking<br />
my own sweat though a straw, feeling<br />
that I am nothing but a sum of small things, snails,<br />
fly wings, dust bunnies, candle drips, leftover<br />
air. When I wake, I feel so empty<br />
I eat everything in sight.<br />
My hurt is crystalline, taking on never<br />
before seen patterns of beauty, subtle<br />
in that way of things that belong to the mist, like cotton<br />
candy and the blue drool that follows, or the haze<br />
of teeth whiteners and skin powders that leave a dusting<br />
of synthetic snow across the dermis, newly fallen<br />
shadows, so close to not being, spinning<br />
alone in a vacuum.<br />
I still smell of cow and my eyes<br />
have started to rain. I married<br />
a weatherman so that he could tell me when my brain<br />
would start playing misty for me. <strong>The</strong> plan backfired<br />
and I'm up in the middle of the night watching TV, can’t sleep<br />
with this buzzing in my head, not quite pain<br />
and not quite light, something crueler, a mooing of the mind<br />
trying to run away from itself. If I'm not crazy,<br />
then why do my thoughts speak a language<br />
that I can’t understand?<br />
Is the oddball orange peel of this world<br />
in an atlas all there is? <strong>The</strong> globe carved up and impotent,<br />
like a discarded foreskin? Watching episode after episode<br />
of this stupid surgery show reminds me<br />
that people are really just pieces of meat, tendony,<br />
with puffy unindentifiables, many-colored protrusions<br />
that can be undone with instruments like the felling of the<br />
first tree<br />
that I do nothing to stop, just swivel hips,<br />
shake some rump in the lunatic disco<br />
as the jungle goes down.<br />
- 72 -
Eleanor Leonne Bennett<br />
Breaking Skin<br />
- 73 -
<strong>The</strong> Rite Steps to Manhood<br />
Ciara Harris<br />
Today I danced and proved all that I am. <strong>The</strong> thick wood smoke<br />
burns through my nostrils. Sweat trickles down my back, stinging<br />
the lash wounds along the way. My muscles seize but I stand my<br />
ground. I have made it to the end.<br />
I started the first steps just a boy, naked and exposed to the<br />
early morning air, every eye on me eager for the outcome.<br />
Through the lashings, inflicted by my own to test my endurance,<br />
I persevered. Deep into the waning light my stamina prevailed.<br />
Even as my bare feet caught the stray embers that spilled from<br />
the fire pit, nothing could damper my rhythm, my steps.<br />
Now I stand inside the ritual dance circle with the beat of the<br />
drum bound to my soul as my village, my people, look proudly<br />
towards me. Today I danced and proved all that I am, and I stand<br />
before them a man.<br />
- 74 -
<strong>The</strong> Nanny<br />
Rita Buckley<br />
Annie was the oldest nanny the agency had sent for us to<br />
interview, but there was something about her that the baby<br />
liked. She toddled over and held onto her leg.<br />
“Coe-coe-coe,” she said, tugging at the hem of her coat.<br />
“Coe-coe-coe.”<br />
Steffy didn’t want to let her go. Annie was the first nanny<br />
out of 40 that she’d didn’t shy away from or avoid.<br />
<strong>The</strong> baby liked her. For the life us of, we couldn’t figure<br />
out why. Annie was 63 years old, a washed-out former<br />
schoolteacher, with a dead husband and four grown kids, all<br />
living out of state. She had a deep voice, mousy brown hair, sad<br />
eyes, and sagging boobs.<br />
“Are you able to live in our guesthouse?” I asked.<br />
“Yes.”<br />
“Do you like dogs?”<br />
Our two English sheepdogs ran into the room and sniffed her<br />
flat ass. She moved it out of their way, and patted them on<br />
their heads.<br />
“Yes.”<br />
“Will you also do cooking and cleaning?”<br />
“Yes.”<br />
“Why’d you leave your last job?” I asked.<br />
“I retired with a decent pension,” she replied. “Not only<br />
that, the kids were bringing knives and guns into school. One<br />
student had a machete.”<br />
“Those are good reasons,” I said.<br />
My wife, Jane, sat back and took it all in. She was the<br />
antithesis of Annie: tall, all legs, with a mane of thick blond<br />
- 75 -
hair, and a body that could turn a stiff into a sex fiend. She’d<br />
never held a real job in her life, and was proud of it. She<br />
leaned back in her chair and filed her well-manicured nails.<br />
“How long have you been doing this?” she asked.<br />
“This is my first time out.”<br />
“How do we know you’re any good with kids?”<br />
“Well,” Annie said, “I raised four and they turned out<br />
pretty good.”<br />
“What‘s pretty good?”<br />
“One’s a physicist, one’s a lawyer, and the other two are<br />
doctors. A brain surgeon and a neurologist.”<br />
“That’s fine,” Annie said. “But are they happy?”<br />
“All happily married with kids. My oldest son just had his<br />
24th wedding anniversary.”<br />
“Do you have a husband?”<br />
“No. He died about 10 years ago.”<br />
“Do you have a boyfriend?”<br />
“No”<br />
“Do you want one?”<br />
“No.”<br />
“What do you do for fun?”<br />
“Play the cello, paint, swim”<br />
“Are you healthy?”<br />
“As far as I know.”<br />
Steffy was trying to climb onto Annie’s lap. She picked her<br />
up and bounced her on her knee. <strong>The</strong> baby cooed with delight.<br />
Jane and I looked at each other. Annie seemed like a fit to<br />
me, but I couldn’t tell what Jane was thinking. I could never<br />
tell what Jane was thinking. She always surprised me. That was<br />
one of her charms.<br />
“We’ll let the agency know tomorrow,” I said.<br />
- 76 -
Annie reached down and picked up one of Steffy’s stuffed<br />
bears. She held it in front of her and turned it this way and<br />
that.<br />
“Mr. Bear wants to play with you,” she said.<br />
<strong>The</strong> baby reached for the bear and she handed it to her,<br />
then eased her onto the floor. Annie stood up, slipped on her<br />
coat, and picked up her pocketbook.<br />
“Thank you,” she said.<br />
I stood to walk her to the door, but she waved me off.<br />
“I can find my way out,” she said.<br />
“I’m impressed,” I replied.<br />
_______<br />
<strong>The</strong> house was big, a 4,500 square foot custom-built<br />
contemporary. It had granite counters, stainless steel<br />
appliances, a SubZero refrigerator, a wine cellar, a marble bath<br />
with a soaking tub and Swedish shower, a master bedroom suite to<br />
die for, heated indoor and outdoor salt water pools, a gym, a<br />
billiards room, and a library. I bought it after I made a<br />
killing in the stock market.<br />
We also had a small guesthouse out back for the nanny.<br />
Actually, it was an in-law apartment with a fireplace and a<br />
loft, custom made closets, a flat screen TV, and a skylight. It<br />
had a whirlpool tub and steam shower. <strong>The</strong> windows overlooked the<br />
baby’s playground and one of our gardens. Jane’s parents were<br />
supposed to stay there when they visited, but they never did.<br />
_______<br />
Annie moved in two weeks to the day we hired her. She drove<br />
up to the guesthouse in a Honda Accord and started to unload her<br />
stuff. She brought very little with her. Just a couple of<br />
suitcases, a laptop computer, a cello, a box of music and a<br />
- 77 -
stand, canvases and painting supplies, photos of her children<br />
and grandchildren, and a framed portrait of her dead husband. He<br />
looked like a banker with rosacea, a tall thin man in a suit,<br />
with a ruddy face and piercing, grey eyes. I hung him over the<br />
fireplace for her. <strong>The</strong> bed was already made, the kitchen stocked<br />
with supplies, and the linen closet filled with plush towels, an<br />
extra blanket, and clean sheets and pillowcases. I gave her a<br />
map of downtown Westwin. We spread it out on her desk.<br />
“Can you read maps?” I asked<br />
“Yes,” she said.<br />
“Good,” I replied.<br />
“<strong>The</strong> bank is about here,” I marked it with an X, and did<br />
the same for the supermarket, post office, theatre, and<br />
bowling alley.<br />
“We’re very close to town,” I said.<br />
“Just go to the end of the driveway, turn right until you<br />
hit the first light, then take a left. It’s no more than 10<br />
minutes away.”<br />
_______<br />
Jane was spoiled, and I did nothing to change that. If<br />
anything, I made it worse. We were patrons of the Boston<br />
Symphony Orchestra and went to concerts at least three times a<br />
month. We were on the advisory councils of several philanthropic<br />
groups, and attended expensive benefits on a regular basis. I<br />
was a ranking member of the local Democratic party, and we often<br />
held fund-raising events at the house, catered affairs with<br />
caviar, Moet et Chandon, scallops wrapped in bacon, mushrooms<br />
stuffed with heart of mongoose, and generous portions of parlez<br />
vous Francais.<br />
I sat on the boards of a software company, a new social<br />
media group, a leading advertising agency, Bank of America,<br />
- 78 -
Pfizer, Novartis, Chi Chi’s Mexican Restaurant, IBM, and the<br />
local bagel shop. I finagled seats on several boards for Jane,<br />
to occupy her time. We didn’t need the money, but I liked to see<br />
her dress up and act purposeful. She never had much to say at<br />
the meetings, but she sparkled like a jewel and added an aura of<br />
elegance to any room she entered.<br />
That said, she was a less than an ideal mother. For some<br />
unknown reason, she was awkward around the baby, and put off by<br />
the messiness of feeding her and changing diapers. If the baby<br />
woke in the night crying, she generally slept right through the<br />
racket and left it up to me to provide solace. She needed her<br />
beauty sleep.<br />
I couldn’t understand her. I didn’t mind being a dad. In<br />
fact, I was thrilled by it, filled with wonder at this tiny<br />
person we’d created. I enjoyed comforting the baby and rocking<br />
her back to sleep. I loved her fresh, clean scent and her<br />
unadulterated joy at every new thing. I enjoyed feeding her,<br />
wiping the mess off her face after she ate, playing with her,<br />
reading to her, being in the pool with her. I savored every<br />
moment with my beautiful little daughter. She had my dark hair<br />
and her mother’s blue eyes; my smarts, her mother’s charisma.<br />
She’d get the best of everything. I’d see to that.<br />
_______<br />
“Wha, wha, wha. Wha, wha, wha. Wha wha wha. ”<br />
It went on and on, a never-ending, ear-piercing wail. <strong>The</strong><br />
baby had cholic, and I’d spent half the night driving around<br />
with her, hoping she’d fall asleep, and the rest of the night<br />
humming to her, reading <strong>The</strong> Duck and <strong>The</strong> Beast, and walking back<br />
and forth in the nursery, holding her on my shoulder. Nothing<br />
seemed to work.<br />
- 79 -
Steffy was still crying in the morning when Jane came into<br />
the kitchen. She took her in her arms for a few minutes, bounced<br />
her up and down a little, then handed her back to me.<br />
“I’m going shopping,” she said, and headed into Boston.<br />
When Annie came in to make breakfast, she took a quick look<br />
and asked if we had any vanilla extract. I handed the baby over<br />
to her and searched through the cabinets until I found a small<br />
bottle of it. Annie put the baby in her highchair, gave her some<br />
Cheerios to play with, mashed a spoonful of vanilla into her<br />
food, and tried to feed her.<br />
“Wha wha wah.”<br />
Steffy pushed it away. Annie told me to get the bear. I<br />
ran upstairs and brought it down.<br />
“Mr. Bear wants to eat,” Annie said. She pretended to feed<br />
the bear.<br />
Steffy stopped crying for a minute and watched warily.<br />
“One for him, one for you. Open wide.”<br />
She took the food.<br />
“One for Mr. Bear, one for you. One for Mr. Bear, one for<br />
you.”<br />
Annie made Mr. Bear jump up and down.<br />
“He wants more,” she said.<br />
Steffy ate faster, until all her food was gone.<br />
She’d stopped crying and was sleepy. <strong>The</strong> vanilla had worked<br />
like magic.<br />
We took the baby upstairs, put her in her crib, and watched<br />
over her until she fell asleep. I was exhausted, also ready to<br />
sleep, but Annie insisted on making me breakfast. I couldn’t<br />
resist the eggs, pancakes, and coffee. <strong>The</strong>n she handed me a<br />
mimosa in a fluted glass.<br />
“You deserve it,” she said.<br />
“Now,” she said, “come with me.”<br />
- 80 -
She took my hand and practically pulled me up to the master<br />
bedroom. She pushed me onto the bed, took off my shoes, and<br />
covered me with a blanket. Within minutes, I was asleep. I<br />
didn’t wake up until late afternoon. By then, the floors were<br />
sparkling clean, and the kitchen looked better than it had since<br />
we moved in. <strong>The</strong> dirty dishes were out of the sink. <strong>The</strong> spoiled<br />
milk was gone. <strong>The</strong> coffee, donuts, Cheerios, baby food, bread,<br />
and crackers were off the counters and in the cabinets. I didn’t<br />
see a single crumb anywhere. Everything was orderly and neat.<br />
I looked out the window and saw Annie working in one of our<br />
gardens. She was weeding the flowers. <strong>The</strong> speaker that connected<br />
her to the baby’s room was on the ground next to her. We both<br />
heard Steffy wake up. I climbed upstairs. Annie was right behind<br />
me.<br />
“Listen dad,” she said. “Go downstairs and let me do my<br />
job. I’ll be along with Steffy in a few minutes. If you’re<br />
hungry, brunch is in the refrigerator. Just dig in.”<br />
I went into the kitchen, opened the refrigerator and took<br />
out a platter with grapes, pineapple, sliced apples and mangos,<br />
a big triangle of brie, and stoned wheat crackers. <strong>The</strong> coffee<br />
was perking and a bloody Mary was sitting on the counter. It had<br />
a little sticky note on it. I took it off and read it. It had my<br />
name on it.<br />
“Ideal,” I said, and started in on the grapes.<br />
______<br />
Jane came home with two large bags and a glow from an<br />
afternoon at the spa. She took the booty into the living room<br />
and put it on the sofa.<br />
“Look,” she said, pulling out a Prada handbag and matching<br />
alligator boots. “This will look wonderful with the business<br />
suit you bought me for the Cabot board meeting.”<br />
- 81 -
She opened the second bag and held up a sleeveless black<br />
cocktail dress, one of five she already owned. “I can always use<br />
another little black dress,” she said.<br />
Finally, she looked around the room.<br />
“Where’s Steffy?” she asked.<br />
“Working in the garden with Annie.”<br />
Jane went to the window and looked outside.<br />
“How sweet,” she said, “but a little dirty, don’t you<br />
think?”<br />
_______<br />
Jane decided that she wanted to go to graduate school at<br />
Cambridge College and get a degree in public health.<br />
“But you’ve never shown an interest in public health,” I<br />
said.<br />
“I’ve just never talked about it, but I’m very concerned<br />
about malaria, HIV, polio, and some other thing…I can’t remember<br />
what it is.”<br />
I tried to talk her out of it, but it didn’t work.<br />
“What about the baby?” I asked.<br />
“What about her,” she said.<br />
“You won’t be around much to watch her grow.”<br />
“I’ll see enough,” she said.<br />
“Are you sure?” I asked.<br />
I sat down next to her and kissed her face and lips. I<br />
unbuttoned her shirt and slipped off her bra. I kissed her<br />
shoulders, neck, and breasts. I held them in my hand and<br />
squeezed her nipples.<br />
“And what about me?” I asked.<br />
Jane smiled slyly.<br />
“And what about you,” she answered, stepping out of a black<br />
leather miniskirt and blue silk panties.<br />
- 82 -
I pushed her down on the bed and lay poised over her.<br />
“What about me,” I whispered.<br />
<strong>The</strong>n the baby screeched.<br />
________<br />
“A little fall,” Annie said, holding the snivling Steffy in<br />
her arms.<br />
I looked at the tiny scrape on her knee and kissed it.<br />
“<strong>The</strong>re. All better now,” I said.<br />
Jane took the baby from Annie, but she squirmed and put up<br />
a fuss. She reached for Annie, and Jane gave her back.<br />
“I don’t like this,” she said later. “<strong>The</strong> baby wants her<br />
more than she wants me.”<br />
“You need to spend more time with her,” I said.<br />
“Changing diapers and wiping muck off her face?”<br />
“That’s right,” I said.<br />
“You need to put her to sleep and be there in the middle of<br />
the night if she wakes up. You need to feed her three times a<br />
day and wipe her little ass. You need to get on the floor and<br />
read Mr. Duckling Goes to Town 40 times.”<br />
“I give her a bath every night.” she said. “Isn’t that<br />
enough?”<br />
“No,” I said. “It’s nowhere near enough.”<br />
“That’s why we hired Annie,” she said.<br />
“<strong>The</strong>n don’t be surprised when she reaches for Annie instead<br />
of you.”<br />
It was the first fight we’d had over the baby, one of many<br />
to come. Jane was always full of surprises, but her lack of<br />
motherly instincts was one I couldn’t fathom.<br />
She checked her fingernails, made sure the manicure was<br />
perfect.<br />
“Go change a diaper,” she said, and walked out of the room.<br />
- 83 -
_______<br />
It went downhill from there. Jane went to school and took<br />
an apartment in Boston. She only came home on weekends, and was<br />
always too tired to make love.<br />
“You have no idea how busy I am,” she said, giving the baby<br />
her bath. “<strong>The</strong> work is overwhelming.”<br />
I could feel anger rise in my throat like bile. I’d given<br />
her everything she ever wanted, and now she was abandoning us,<br />
leaving us behind like an extraneous limb in her useless pursuit<br />
of a degree she’d never use.<br />
“You’ll never go to Haiti and develop programs to get rid<br />
of tuberculosis,” I said. “You’ll never mentor anyone. You’ll<br />
never do a fucking thing with that degree.”<br />
“Up yours,” Jane replied, and walked out of the room.<br />
That was her answer to every problem: walk out of the room.<br />
But now she was walking out of the house and out of my life. I<br />
cancelled her credit cards and moved into one of the guest<br />
suites.<br />
_______<br />
Jane was in Boston on a perfect summer day, when the three<br />
of us went in the pool. I was holding the baby, bouncing her up<br />
and down, in and out of the water. Annie was swimming laps, one<br />
after another, like a pro. When she’d finished 10 of them, she<br />
took her turn dunking Steffy and I did a few laps. Afterwards,<br />
we walked down the manicured path to the guesthouse, Steffy<br />
between us. For the first time I noticed Annie’s strong arms.<br />
She also had nice legs.<br />
“That was refreshing,” she said.<br />
I agreed.<br />
- 84 -
We each had one of Steffy’s hands and every now and again,<br />
would swing her into the air. She loved it; whenever we did it,<br />
she squealed with delight. We continued until we got to Annie’s<br />
place, then I hoisted Steffy onto my shoulders. She had a great<br />
time slapping my head with her little hands. She was happy. I<br />
was happy. Annie was happy. It felt good to spend time around<br />
her. She was kind and mature—a real woman, not a selfish child,<br />
like Jane.<br />
________<br />
One Sunday night, I woke up at 3 a.m., restless, hungry for<br />
something, but not food. I tried reading, but couldn’t<br />
concentrate. I paced around the room for 15 minutes, then threw<br />
on a bathrobe and went outside for some air. I sat by the pool<br />
for a while, enjoying the warm breeze on my bare skin. I walked<br />
down the path towards Annie’s place. One dim light was on<br />
inside. I roamed around the backyard for a while, then knocked<br />
softly on her window.<br />
“Come in,” she said. “<strong>The</strong> door’s open.”<br />
I slipped inside without saying a word. Annie was in bed,<br />
the sheet pulled up to her neck. Except for the soft glow from a<br />
nightlight in the bathroom, the room was in shadows. It was so<br />
quiet; I could hear my heart beating. Annie watched me stand<br />
against the wall for a few minutes, then pulled back the sheet,<br />
inviting me into her bed. I hesitated, wondering what in the<br />
world I was doing there in the middle of the night with our 63-<br />
year-old nanny, and yet, I was drawn to her.<br />
I climbed in beside her and she took my hand. Her touch was<br />
firm and reassuring. After a few minutes, I let go and sat on<br />
the edge of the bed. She got on her knees and rubbed my<br />
shoulders. She worked her way up and down my back. <strong>The</strong>n she<br />
started in on my chest. She rubbed my pecs, and I felt them<br />
- 85 -
elax. Her hands made their way to my abs and worked each set,<br />
one side at a time. When she reached my belly button, I put my<br />
hand on top of hers. It paused, then started to pull away. I<br />
held it in place.<br />
“Don’t stop,” I said.<br />
I released the hand and lay back on the bed. A finger<br />
traced a small circle at the top of my hip.<br />
“Don’t stop,” I murmured.<br />
<strong>The</strong> hand moved down slowly. It wrapped itself around me,<br />
softly at first, then with a firmer grip as it started to stroke<br />
my skin.<br />
“Don’t stop,” I whispered.<br />
Annie leaned over me. I could see the years on her body,<br />
but didn’t care.<br />
Neither did she.<br />
“Stop?” she asked.<br />
“Don’t,” I said.<br />
“No way,” she replied.<br />
- 86 -
Francis Raven<br />
Transformation<br />
- 87 -
<strong>The</strong> English Teacher Retires<br />
after lines by Emilio DeGrazia, teacher<br />
Richard Glowacki<br />
He started emptied,<br />
let them pick him clean of the abandoned stuff<br />
they hoped to spin into ruts of progress,<br />
left the gates open for the next campaign<br />
to swarm in with their mistakes.<br />
As he stole away, he sat facing backwards<br />
on that slow train out of town and didn’t ask<br />
how much farther he had left to go;<br />
he let the receding fields widen, green<br />
as the future he once looked to.<br />
He let his eyes fall in love<br />
with illegible skies, redundant hills,<br />
and blue mirror seas with nothing to say,<br />
let his ear ease in the wordy singsong<br />
of lark, warbler, and wren.<br />
He let his tongue appetently assess<br />
the subordinating of salt to sweet<br />
and savored each fragment<br />
of fragrances born of sun and shade,<br />
returning those years lost<br />
to a life measured by clocks.<br />
He let the atonement of sleep revise<br />
the poor mechanics of how<br />
that world continued to work.<br />
After years of amending to at last<br />
astound them with that seamless answer,<br />
he now delights in the perfectly flawed fabric<br />
of each day, a dumbfounded,<br />
inarticulate student of it all.<br />
- 88 -
Ruben Monakhov<br />
- 89 -
On the last train<br />
Gary Glauber<br />
Semi-colons litter the bleak landscape,<br />
remnants from a time when punctuation<br />
held as stronghold against opposing forces<br />
that exploded full sentences from their footings<br />
and proclaimed the revolution in short shrill bursts.<br />
Now rogue consonants dot the decimated countryside,<br />
filled with the dream of alliterative activism,<br />
and the hope of restoring this communicative art<br />
to its once esteemed place on society’s shelves.<br />
That occurrence seems more remote<br />
with each passing day, as the viral pandemic<br />
spreads vapid emoticons and insipid acronyms<br />
like poisoned barbs that soundlessly wield damage<br />
on an infinitude of wavelengths and devices.<br />
Insouciance, wit and wisdom are the innocent victims,<br />
as particular tropes and devices go unnamed,<br />
unremembered, lost somewhere within a trove<br />
of perfect metaphors and cultural allusions<br />
wasted on blind eyes and deaf ears,<br />
resonating only in the tired memories<br />
and provincial ideations of geriatric warriors.<br />
This was ever the battle, it seems,<br />
a generational challenge of values and mores,<br />
a fight to the death over salt and water,<br />
split infinitives, and subtle points of logic.<br />
<strong>The</strong> iron wheels clank heavily on the tracks<br />
and slow progress reveals more of the carnage:<br />
abandoned screens and lost passwords,<br />
obliterated diction and a confused syntactical jumble<br />
that reveals ignorance entwined with indifference,<br />
and laziness worn as a badge of entitled pride.<br />
What is this new universe where symbols<br />
hide in plain sight and still get misread,<br />
this desolate and intrepid terrain<br />
of darkness and misunderstandings?<br />
<strong>The</strong> shadows climb across the far horizon<br />
and obscure the views from this aging conveyance.<br />
<strong>The</strong> cloak of nightfall gathers up the stragglers<br />
who seem to congregate in search of a phrase,<br />
a saying, a word weapon against the encroaching silence.<br />
- 90 -
Back to Zero<br />
A. Frank Bower<br />
Today is Sunday. Ten minutes ago, I poured a cup of<br />
leftover coffee and put it into the microwave oven, but the damn<br />
thing wouldn’t run. I hate cold coffee. I put the mug on my<br />
ceramic stovetop; it wouldn’t turn on, either. I assumed there’s<br />
a power outage and sipped it cold. I looked out the window over<br />
the sink to check the neighborhood for lights, didn’t see any<br />
and observed it’s a gray day. When I opened the front door to<br />
get the newspaper, I noticed there were no clouds. <strong>The</strong> sky was<br />
gray. It was eight a.m. I thought, Shouldn’t sunlight be<br />
brightening the world?<br />
<strong>The</strong>re was no paper, so I shut the door. I looked into the<br />
living room with its cobalt blue walls and navy furniture.<br />
Everything was gray. <strong>The</strong>re were no colors anywhere. I thought of<br />
Ross Palmer, shuddered and grabbed my microcassette recorder,<br />
thinking, It’s battery operated; maybe…. It failed to respond. I<br />
retrieved the notebook from my briefcase and began to write<br />
this, using the sketchy notes I did yesterday as a guide.<br />
Ross Palmer says the damnedest things. He opened last<br />
week’s session with, “Dr. Baron, I can’t see you through your<br />
skin.” It’s no wonder I look forward to meeting with him more<br />
than any of my three dozen cases. His circuitous mind, albeit<br />
delusionally paranoid, is fueled by an IQ of 184. My experience<br />
with geniuses, limited to four others, taught me they usually<br />
use their wits to construct elaborate rationales to avoid facing<br />
their illnesses. Ross accepts his and has worked with me for<br />
seven years to wrestle with it.<br />
Ross, not his real name, due to his right to privacy—a joke<br />
now—is a vegetarian. He believes the increased mental illness in<br />
- 91 -
America is traceable to chemicals in food. He washes and scrubs<br />
most things he ingests. Not surprisingly, he’s a slight man:<br />
five-seven, a hundred twenty pounds. Ross trims his beard and<br />
hair bi-monthly; just enough to eliminate split ends and<br />
unevenness. He always wears a fatigue jacket, even in summer.<br />
Flannel shirts, sneakers and shredded jeans complete his unkempt<br />
image, supporting his background as a flower child in the<br />
nineteen-sixties. Whenever I mentioned his appearance, he used<br />
the Einstein defense, claiming casual comfort as justification.<br />
Ross confesses, rather brags, about taking LSD from 1968 until<br />
1973. He admits it altered his brain chemistry, but insists the<br />
changes were positive ones. He adamantly denies connections to<br />
his psychiatric condition and claims, “Acid made me aware of the<br />
true nature of existence.” When I questioned why he stopped<br />
taking it, he said, “I maxed out on it. I’m perpetually in tune<br />
now, so I don’t need it any more.”<br />
<strong>The</strong>rapy sessions with Mr. Palmer taught me caution about<br />
what I choose to disbelieve. Sorting out paranoid verbalizations<br />
from expressions of actual perceptions is difficult. For<br />
example, the above statement: I can’t see you through your skin.<br />
When he said it, I suppressed laughter. I thought, That’s<br />
literally true. Reaching further, I wondered if he was saying<br />
something about my character, that I use my profession as a<br />
“skin” to hide myself from the world.<br />
This uncertainty led me to a vague feeling of fear during<br />
last week’s session.<br />
Ross said, “No one knows what ‘zero hour’ means.”<br />
“Which is?”<br />
His eyes were glassy and wide. “It’s where we’re headed.<br />
Back to zero.”<br />
“How so?”<br />
- 92 -
Ross breathed deeply. “Have you seen the home security<br />
system ad on TV, the one with all ones and zeros flowing over<br />
the outside of a house?”<br />
“Years ago, I saw one with them on the inside of a home.<br />
Why?”<br />
Ross leaned forward in his chair. “It represents binary<br />
digitalization. We think it’s everything today. Like we used to<br />
believe in radio waves.” He pursed his lips.<br />
“I had an old issue of a Superman comic in which he perceives<br />
everything all at once and almost goes mad, until he finds a way<br />
to stop it. It taught me that our senses aren’t consciousnessexpanders,<br />
but consciousness limiters. Otherwise, we couldn’t<br />
function. Imagine if we could see all different waves of radio<br />
frequencies simultaneously. We wouldn’t see; everything would<br />
gray out.”<br />
I didn’t get his point immediately. Ross shut his eyes a<br />
moment and sighed.<br />
Sometimes he lost patience with my intellect. Warmed to his<br />
subject, he kept talking. “<strong>The</strong> same applies to sound. Take<br />
music. I used to believe in infinity and that there’d be no end<br />
to new songs. Wrong. Have you noticed how more and more melodies<br />
are copies of earlier tunes?” He paused, eased back into the<br />
seat, nodded to himself and said, “We’re nearing the end.”<br />
“Ross,” I said, “I think I get the idea. If we heard all<br />
music at the same time, we’d just hear some high-pitched hum.”<br />
“Perhaps.” He sighed again. “Maybe nothing.”<br />
Struggling to keep up with him, I frowned. “What do you<br />
mean by, ‘nearing the end’?”<br />
Ross appeared frightened. “Are you familiar with entropy?”<br />
I shook my head.<br />
He said, “Google it.” He stared ahead, licked his lips and<br />
went on.<br />
- 93 -
“Consciousness limiting is the digit one. <strong>The</strong> universe is<br />
the digit zero. That’s the binary nature of our existence. When<br />
the last new song is composed and the final wavelength<br />
transmitted, we will have filled the electro-magnetic spectrum,<br />
caught up to creation.”<br />
He didn’t blink. His eyes widened and his face paled. “Our<br />
binary existence will have no alternative but to return to true<br />
zero. Nature will require that the universe collapse. <strong>The</strong><br />
implosion will cause another Big Bang and start all over again.”<br />
Ross chuckled dryly. “We will have gotten too close to deity.”<br />
I’d never heard anyone’s paranoia expressed on such a<br />
cosmic scale. I’ve listened to my share of patients claiming to<br />
be Jesus. Misplaced religiosity isn’t the same. Ross’ speech,<br />
although difficult for me to follow, showed me deeper delusions<br />
than before. He had no history of violence toward self or<br />
others; for the first time, I wondered if he might harm himself.<br />
I tried not to let him see my concern. “Ross, what are your<br />
plans?”<br />
He scoffed, “I’m not suicidal, Dr. Baron. I’m letting you<br />
know you’d better get your affairs in order—internally.”<br />
Ross wouldn’t listen to my attempts to delineate where his<br />
logic was faulty.<br />
My inferior intellect, a contributing factor, prevented me<br />
from countering him effectively. I tried to end our session on<br />
an optimistic note. “Ross, your theory is fascinating. Let’s<br />
resume this next week. I’ll see you then.”<br />
From the doorway, he said, “I hope so.”<br />
As I said earlier, when I opened my front door to get the<br />
newspaper, the colors of autumn were gone, replaced by visuals<br />
more like an old-fashioned television picture from before color<br />
transmissions. I shut the door and realized my home was also in<br />
black and white. Looking into my living room, I saw black fading<br />
- 94 -
and white darkening, as if each sought some middle ground. I<br />
thought, Oh, my God, and decided to write this down, regardless<br />
how illogical it is.<br />
Sweating, I laughed at myself, thinking, Ross was<br />
delusional—and illogical. His ideas made no sense. Yet, there is<br />
a power outage. I tried to write this with a black pen; it was<br />
almost invisible, gray letters on pale gray paper. For whatever<br />
reason, red ink, although also gray, works better. I can still<br />
read it. Dread assailed me until I accepted the truth.<br />
I’m laughing again. One huge, galactic guffaw. It doesn’t<br />
matter that I’ve gotten this down. Soon it will be illegible, as<br />
if I composed it in invisible ink. Besides, who’ll be around to<br />
read it?<br />
- 95 -
William Hicks Landscape 12-22-10<br />
- 96 -
House<br />
Annemarie Ni Churreain<br />
On that grave, bare soil I could return completely,<br />
feel my way back towards the centre as a blind woman might,<br />
with only love as her guide.<br />
In the wide open where not a single thing grows now,<br />
the one sure thing is memory:<br />
rooms, nooks, all the cherished holding-places survive.<br />
<strong>The</strong> stacked delph, the black trunk brought from America by ship,<br />
the box of photographs beneath the table in the high bedroom.<br />
I could reach through darkness, find them every time<br />
and know immediately – the earth underfoot, where in summer<br />
we set out chairs to watch who was coming in,<br />
going out at Kit Dhonnachaidh’s hill.<br />
- 97 -
Conversion to Digital, A Consolation for the Aging<br />
Barbara Westwood Diehl<br />
Rest assured that most days<br />
will be days of high definition,<br />
your widescreen image not degraded,<br />
the resolution so much sharper<br />
than earlier broadcasts,<br />
though there may be moments<br />
of pixelation, of feeling<br />
fragmented, your parts exposed,<br />
or black bars above and below<br />
the action, and a niggling sense<br />
of things you might be missing,<br />
and perhaps some audio artifacts,<br />
some popping and hissing,<br />
scrambled signals, like trying<br />
so hard to convey those words<br />
that start out as something<br />
urgent, simple—but come out<br />
as something else,<br />
though these will seem<br />
trivial as subliminal images<br />
when you recall that once<br />
your world was analog,<br />
subject to snow and ghosts,<br />
and sometimes both,<br />
and how hard you tried<br />
to discern the actors drifting<br />
through their plots<br />
like the conjured dead<br />
you can channel now<br />
in their true, immutable colors.<br />
- 98 -
Ruben Monakhov<br />
- 99 -
Notes on Contributors<br />
Wayne Andrewartha lives in Auckland, New Zealand. He graduated<br />
from the Wellington Correspondence School for Writing many years<br />
ago, and was in corporate accounting for 35 years. In the past 5<br />
years, he has written 3 novels, and 38 short stories. None of<br />
the above have has yet been published.<br />
Gary Beck is a New Yorker who worked as a theater director and<br />
art dealer (when he couldn't earn a living in the theater). His<br />
original plays and translations of Moliere, Aristophanes and<br />
Sophocles have been produced Off Broadway, and in other venues.<br />
His poetry has appeared in hundreds of literary magazines.<br />
Eleanor-Leonne Bennett is a young photographer from North West<br />
England, UK. He has won numerous photography competitions, such<br />
as Wrexham Science Festival's Photography Competition, and<br />
National Geographic's UK kids photography competition 2010. To<br />
see more of Bennett’s work please check out his website:<br />
http://eleanorleonnebennett.zenfolio.com<br />
Karen Beatty thinks of life as a river, coming and going,<br />
surging and flowing. Born in Eastern Kentucky near the<br />
temperamental Lickin’ River, she eventually settled in Greenwich<br />
Village, between the Hudson River and the East River, on the<br />
isle of Manhattan.<br />
A. Frank Bower retired early from mental health work to write<br />
and spend time with his wife Carol. An ex-patient inspired this<br />
story. Other clients have led to numerous tales. Bower hopes his<br />
complete psych hospital memoirs will find print.<br />
Rita Buckley is an award-winning freelance medical writer. Her<br />
fiction has appeared in print and online in Versal, Calliope,<br />
Danse Macabre, Bartleby Snopes, and other journals.<br />
Caroline Coe is a visual artist and writer experiencing the<br />
transition out of a 25-year marriage and diving, headfirst, into<br />
her lifetime love of creating art.<br />
Barbara Westwood Diehl is founding editor of <strong>The</strong> Baltimore<br />
Review and an employee and M.A. in Writing student at Johns<br />
Hopkins University. Her short stories and poetry have been<br />
published in a variety of publications, including MacGuffin,<br />
Confrontation, Rosebud, <strong>The</strong>ma, JMWW, Potomac Review, American<br />
- 100 -
Poetry Journal, Measure, Little Patuxent Review, SmokeLong<br />
Quarterly, Caper Literary Journal, and Gargoyle.<br />
Karen Douglass writes poems, novels, a blog, and grocery lists.<br />
She lives in Colorado with three dogs, one cat, an old car and<br />
her family. You can visit her at KD’s Bookblog<br />
[kdsbookblog.blogspot.com] or you can go to Colorado.<br />
Brian Alan Ellis lives in Gainesville, Florida. His fiction has<br />
appeared or is forthcoming in Skive, Zygote in my Coffee,<br />
Thieves Jargon (as Brian Rentchek), Corduroy Mtn., <strong>The</strong> Big<br />
Stupid Review, Dogzplot, <strong>The</strong> Splinter Generation, Flashquake,<br />
Underground Voices, Midnight in Hell (as Alan Shivers),<br />
Glossolalia, Conte, Fiction Fix, and G Twenty Two. He wishes you<br />
a fine day.<br />
Gary Glauber is a poet, fiction writer, teacher, and music<br />
journalist. He knows that each ensuing day is a transition of<br />
sorts, an opportunity too. His poems will be forthcoming in <strong>The</strong><br />
Compass Rose, Front Porch Review, Kitchen, and StepAway<br />
Magazine.<br />
Richard Glowacki lives in the Seattle, WA area and teaches high<br />
school English. Some of his poems have been published in<br />
magazines such as Great River Review and English Journal.<br />
Caroline Hagood is a poet and professor of literature and<br />
creative writing. She has written on arts and culture for <strong>The</strong><br />
Guardian, Salon, and the Huffington Post. Her poetry has<br />
appeared in Shooting the Rat (Hanging Loose Press), Movin'<br />
(Orchard Books), Angelic Dynamo, Ginosko, and Manhattan<br />
Chronicles. She's always looking for adventure, the perfect<br />
slice of pizza.<br />
Ciara Harris is a 23 year-old student earning her second degree.<br />
Engaged in books from a young age, she completed her first work<br />
of 400 handwritten pages in 6th grade. Since then inspiration<br />
has struck in many forms, flash fiction being one.<br />
William D. Hicks is a writer who lives in Chicago, Illinois by<br />
himself (any offers?). Contrary to popular belief, he is not<br />
related to the famous comedian Bill Hicks (though he’s just as<br />
funny in his own right). His writing has appeared in other<br />
journals such as Highland Park Poetry Muse Gallery and Outburst<br />
Magazine, <strong>The</strong> Legendary.<br />
- 101 -
Duane J Jackson is a 30 year-old poet from Kolkata, India. While<br />
he is not writing, he enjoys dabbling in the ‘what’s what’ of<br />
current affairs, reading, listening to rock, folk and world<br />
music, dream weaving and mind surfing. His work has been<br />
published in other literary journals such as Danse Macabre, <strong>The</strong><br />
Scrambler, and Red Fez.<br />
Lynn Kennison currently lives in the sunshine state with her<br />
husband, our four dogs, and a poofy gray cat. She works in an<br />
office setting where her boss loves to hear himself talk and<br />
tends to give long-winded speeches. It is during these times,<br />
she likes to daydream, and later compile her thoughts into short<br />
stories and poems.<br />
D. Krauss is a retired USAF officer currently working for the<br />
State Department on contract. He has 21 other stories published<br />
in various EZines, such as "A Fly in Amber" and "<strong>The</strong> Battered<br />
Suitcase."<br />
Caroline Krieger-Comings has been studying and producing twodimensional<br />
artwork since childhood. She was raised in<br />
Hackensack, New Jersey, just outside of New York City, and have<br />
lived and worked in San Francisco, Aix-en-Provence, Antwerp and<br />
New York City. Travel, photography and teaching artistic drawing<br />
techniques to adults enhance the expression of her heartfelt<br />
passion for visual art.<br />
Dorothee Lang is a writer, web freelancer and traveller, and the<br />
editor of BluePrintReview. She lives in Germany, and always was<br />
fascinated by languages, roads and the world, themes that<br />
reflect in her own work. She keeps a sky diary, is still<br />
captured by the possibilities of the web, and currently is<br />
focusing on collaborate projects. For more about her, visit her<br />
at blueprint21.de.<br />
Keith Laufenberg has been writing for over 30 years and has had<br />
over a hundred poems and short stories published in numerous<br />
literary magazines and journals and have had 2 novels published:<br />
“Miami Rock” and “Semper-Fi-Do-or-Die”, both in 2007.<br />
After growing up selling corndogs and cotton candy at carnivals<br />
up and down the West Coast, Susan Meyers extended her gypsy<br />
habits into other lands, spending several years living in Chile,<br />
Mexico, and Costa Rica. She still enjoys travel, though she has<br />
settled down (somewhat) back home: the Pacific Northwest.<br />
- 102 -
Ruben Monakhov was born in 1970 in Leningrad (USSR). He<br />
graduated from Serov Art School (at present time Roerikh Art<br />
School) in 1991. He is a member of St. Petersburg section of<br />
Russian Federation Artists Union since 1999. His works can be<br />
found in public and private collections in Russia, Belgium,<br />
Germany, USA, UK.<br />
From Donegal in Ireland, Annemarie Ni Churreáin has a BA in<br />
Communication Studies and an M.Phil in Creative Writing. She is<br />
a writer, editor and arts promoter. Her poetry has been<br />
published widely in Ireland and abroad. Her creative interests<br />
include folklore, the Irish Language and children's writing.<br />
Ilya Prints is from St. Petersburg, Russia and lives in Boston<br />
for about 10 years. A few of his other works, poems and flash<br />
fictions, were published in other literary journals.<br />
Francis Raven’s books include Architectonic Conjectures<br />
(Silenced Press, 2010), Provisions (Interbirth, 2009), 5-Haifun:<br />
Of Being Divisible (Blue Lion Books, 2008), Shifting the<br />
Question More Complicated (Otoliths, 2007), Taste: Gastronomic<br />
Poems (Blazevox 2005) and the novel, Inverted Curvatures<br />
(Spuyten Duyvil, 2005). Francis lives in Washington DC; you can<br />
check out more of his work at his website:<br />
http://www.ravensaesthetica.com/<br />
Raj Sharma is a retired professor of English, who has worked at<br />
universities in India, Iraq and U.S.<br />
When Amy Tolbert became interested in photography, her only<br />
camera was the very low resolution one on her cell phone. She<br />
downloaded some free photo-editing software to disguise the poor<br />
quality of her photographs. She soon grew bored with "good"<br />
photography, ditching it for what she calls "extreme<br />
photomanipulation."<br />
William Watkin’s art has appeared in <strong>The</strong> Maguffin (cover),<br />
Flashquake, Song of the Siren, Able Muse, EOTU, and <strong>The</strong> Pedestal<br />
and has illustrated two of his books, Suburban Wilderness, and<br />
<strong>The</strong> Psychic Experiment Book. When not drawing, he races<br />
dirtbikes with his son, Chad.<br />
Michael T. Young prefers a glass of Dalwhinnie to a slice of red<br />
velvet cake. He lived in the East Village in his 20s with a<br />
novelist and a filmmaker. He once sat in front of Picasso’s Les<br />
Saltimbanques and read Rilke’s 5th Duino Elegy. He still follows<br />
Joseph Brodsky’s advice to “be obstinate.”<br />
- 103 -