PM - July 2020 - Final Issue

Perspectives Magazine

Where inanimate objects and animals have their say | July 2020

Perspectives ~ July 2020 ~ 1

Perspectives Magazine July 2020

Final Issue

INANIMATE OBJECTS

Book.....3

Literary Weight/Literary Weightlessness by Christian Hanz Lozada

Bridge…..30

The Tobin by Jen Mierisch

Brownfield Fence…..28

Flint’s Brownfield Fence by Melodie Bolt

Cedar Chest…..6

The Cedar Chest by Nancy Lou Henderson

Ceiling Fan…..8

Ceiling Fan by Edward Ahern

Comforter…..4

Comforter by Eric Rosenbaum

Doorknob…..10

The Hobnobbing Doorknob by Darrell Petska

Driveway…..10

Dear Pamela, by Pamela Sinicrope

Figurine…..12

Anything Nice by Steve Carr

Fried Egg…..14

Fried Egg as Philosopher by Robbi Nester

Golf Ball…..18

The Way Things Turn Out by Mary Marino

Kelly Bag…..20

The Kelly Bag by J L Higgs

Kilim…..29

Kilim by paul Bluestein

LP…..15

LP by Robbi Nester

Marble…..22

Through a Blue Cat’s Eye by Darrell Petska

Mountaintop…..9

Mountaintop by Mark Tulin

Painting…..24

Cursed by Kat Terban

Plaque

The Art of Fire by Rebecca Taylor

Playground…..9

Playground Dreams by Mark Tulin

Rock…..23

What the Rock Said to the Girl with the Crayons by Lisa Roullard

Rose…..16

Pink Rose by Steven Tutino

Seed…..17

Seed of Love by Nancy Lou Henderson

Spoon…..8

Spoon by Ed Ahern

Timbrel…..25

Making Music by Meryl Baer

Tree…..27

Dragon by Virginia Amis

Tote Bag…..19

A Burial by Ann Hultberg

Venus Flytrap…..17

Venus Flytrap by Sarah Henry

ANIMALS

Cat…..32

Cleopatra Speaks her Truth by Joan Mazza

Cat…..33

A Feline Whine by Jane Blanchard

Cats…..34

Her Cats by Rikki Santer

Cow…..37

The Cow Who Ate the Wild Mushrooms by Richard Weaver

Crow…..41

Crow by Susan Zeni

Dust Mite…..35

Prayer of a Dust Mite by Rick Swann

Hippopotamus…..38

Hippo Noir by Richard Agemo

Leopard…..43

I Have Become Leopard by Arthur Davis

Mosquito…..35

Mosquito by Rick Swann

Raccoon…..40

Night Sharers by Ed Ahern

Raven…..31

Waterfowl Play by Jen Mierisch


Books

Literary Weight/Literary Weightlessness

By Christian Hanz Lozada

I was a book, twice.

The first time I was a book in a big-box bookstore, when I was fresh and new.

The store smelt of coffee, cookies, and plastic

a mixture of smells found at a golden hour, young grandma’s house

because everything was clean and new, it all lacked the value of depth

the cost of everything was literally on the surface, the cover, the skin

but there is a joy in having your back cracked

parts of you wrinkled, torn, and taped

there is a joy in experience.

The second time I was a book in a used bookstore, when I had been aged and used.

The store smelt musky and rotten,

like the dark corners of a closet

a mixture of smells found in the recesses of every part of the body

because everything smelled of its experience, it all had a value

everything could be a treasure

everything had the possibility to be valuable

there is an intimacy to being carefully selected,

when the choice overlooks how you’re lightly used

slightly wrinkled, torn but patched and stitched

but still a first and only edition.

Both times I was a book, I learned a book only rents space

sellers evict when I stop paying rent

sometimes sold by the pound

sometimes boxed and abandoned

and mostly, sadly

unread.

Rivison - stock.adobe.com


Comforter

Tomas Garcia - stock.adobe.com

Comforter

By Eric Rosenbaum

ou may call me “bedspread”. Or “quilt”. I’m not saying

Y these names are inaccurate. The problem is they do

nothing to describe the most important service I was created

to provide. I am a comforter. Let me repeat: a comforter.

This quality of mine, comfort, is so integral to my nature that

it occupies the greater part of my very name, conjuring

images of a dear friend in times of need. Loss of a loved one.

A broken heart. Deceptions. Setbacks. Failure. I am a

faithful, intimate, cozy companion, there to curl up with, to

absorb the tears no one will ever see.

Even here in the darkness of this closet, where I sit on

the same shelf day after day, I can sense that the hot days

have come to an end and the cold days have returned. Every

year, well before the true bitter cold set in, they would take

me out of hibernation and place me back into service atop

the bed.

Why are they leaving me here on the shelf? They have

no further use for me. They have replaced me because of

what they did to me, how they changed me beyond repair,

leaving me a ruin through no fault of my own. Where is the

appreciation for all of these years of service? Where does the

comforter find comfort?

There’s no benefit to false modesty. I’d say my longstanding

contribution to well-being in this household merits

appreciation rather than the abandonment that is to be my

fate. I offered so much more than the pretty appearance of

my floral patterns and cheery pastels complementing the

décor of the bedroom, bringing a touch of class and

refinement; so much more than exceeding the warming

capacity of blankets on those frigid nights with my feathery

down stuffing. It would only be fair for me to receive

consideration for all I have done.

I don’t want to come off as a whiner, but the fact of the

matter is the love and care I gave over the years was rarely

reciprocated. I’m not some pipsqueak pillowcase. That

doesn’t mean I am without feelings. Call me over-sensitive,

if you will. Should being a comforter be a one way

proposition? Shouldn’t I receive my fair share of comforting

as well? That thought has taken hold of me in my endless

hours of ruminating here in the dark of this closet.

For heaven’s sake, I had to put up with so much for so

long. Is a little tidiness too much to ask for? In the morning,

when my nightly duties were done, was I not entitled to have

the pillows tucked neatly beneath me at my head end? Did

they actually need to throw the throw pillows so they landed

willy-nilly anywhere but at their appointed location? Was it

too extravagant a request to ask them to make the bed every

day? I admit it was quite a blow to my self-esteem to spend

all day bunched up in a sloppy heap, with stinking, sweaty

sheets and scratchy blankets contorted around me. But I

understood, even as I suffered, all that came with the

territory.

(Continued on page 5)


Some may consider it snobbery, but the natural order of

things was for me to be on top. The sheets and blankets knew

this full well. How they mocked me when we were all tangled

up with each other! “Have a little sweat. On us,” the sheets

would say. “Not soft enough for Your Majesty?” the blankets

would repeat any time I registered a complaint.

I’m well aware of my limitations. In the heat of summer,

what need was there for me? I went along without protest

when they would put me away neatly on a closet shelf until

the cool of Fall called for me to come out of hibernation. This

arrangement was preferable to getting kicked off the foot of

the bed, dumped unceremoniously to languish on the floor

amid the reek of old slippers. Had I understood how easily

they would dismiss my years of service, however, I surely

would have forgone my seasonal “vacation”, as the pillows

like to call my annual time out from the goings on of bed life.

I might have even leveraged my intimate knowledge of them

to maintain my status.

I should have known something was amiss when they

didn’t even launder me prior to storing me for the season. The

crawling micro-organisms infesting me for months on end

have tickled and scratched me, interfering with my ability to

rest comfortably; together with the cloying scent of stale

perfume, these abominable creatures have become a constant

reminder of the negligent treatment I’ve had to endure. I

anticipated my return to service as a relief from this condition;

I now understand no such relief is in store for me.

I always intuited that the laundry room would be my

downfall. But the cause of my obsolescence never occurred to

me. I was well aware that, paradoxically, I was punished for

my most estimable physical characteristic: I am bulky. I have

no qualms about applying this word to my descriptors. Yes, I

am bulky. And proud of it. Is bulkiness a crime? Should I be

otherwise? Would I have lived up to my name if I were thin

and trim? Should the difficulties posed by washing and drying

me cancel out the love I’ve earned by virtue of my

companionship? It seems the height of hypocrisy that the

physical characteristic of bulk I am prized for so often caused

them to pass over me on so many laundry days while the

insubstantial members of the bedclothes team received

unwarranted preferential treatment.

When time would finally roll around for them to select

me for laundering, you would think it would have been

obvious I was large enough to merit my own dedicated

washing machine, wouldn’t you? Even if stuffing bed linens

into the wash together with me could be justified – not that I

believe it could – what was to be gained when it came to the

performance in the dryers? I’ve taken a tumble in my share of

them in my day. There hasn’t been a dryer yet with enough

power to get the damp out of me in a single cycle. What was

the purpose of depriving me of my private space where I

could enjoy the hot, circular ride of transformation from wet

to dry? Why did they have to fill the cavity with so many

skimpy sheets and cutesy pillow cases that no room remained

for me to spread out? I don’t just speak in my own selfinterest

here, mind you. Those lesser articles would also have

gained by drying more quickly and with less wear and tear if

they had their own dryer cycle instead of competing with me

for hot air. More often than not, the flats would have been

done well before the cycle time expired, so if the fitteds had

also decided to cooperate (for once in their lives), the

remaining minutes could have been donated to taking care of

the modest heat requirements of stockings, bras or other

delicates.

Not surprisingly, every time they took me out of the dryer

and searched for wet spots, they were bound to discover at

least one splotch of dampness right in my midsection.

Happened every time. I won’t guarantee I would have always

emerged completely dry if the other items had been subtracted

from the load, but if they’d granted me a bit of leftover time

from another dryer cycle once the likes of underwear, tee

shirts and socks had been taken care of, they wouldn’t have

had to drape me across the dining room chairs to air dry for

days on end. I knew that was always a source of complaint

about me, an excuse for not placing me in a regular rotation of

laundering. With all their grunts, groans and threats about my

reticence to become dry, I always figured this might be the

cause of my eventual demise.

Looking back, I should have anticipated it would be

negligence at the opposite end of the drying continuum that

would do me in. How could they leave me in the dryer for two

full cycles? Two full cycles!? Sure, my resistance to drying

eclipsed that of any other article, even the beach towels. But

two complete cycles at the hottest setting? I consider myself

to have strong powers of resistance to intense heat, but that

was entirely too much, even for me.

Inevitably I shrunk. As a result of their leaving me

unattended, I became less than I was created to be. I was well

aware of my diminishment. I just couldn’t grasp that coming

up a little short on the head end or the feet end would negate

all the years of services rendered.

Though all the evidence pointed in the other direction, I

still held out hope for reinstatement. Until a freshly laundered

fitted sheet of my acquaintance was placed on the shelf next to

me. There was more than a little vindictive flavor to the news

from the outside world it passed along. “Your replacement is

doing very well,” it said, as if it was oblivious to the jealousy

it was igniting in me. “We bedclothes never wanted to do you

harm, so we kept mum,” it continued in a tone of complete

equanimity that only intensified the wound of its words. “But

we never thought you did a particularly good job of

comforting. If you had, don’t you suppose there would have

been fewer opportunities for comforting?”

Before I could defend myself, the fitted sheet spoke

again. “The new comforter is beige, just like us. Its pattern is

half as busy as yours. We all get along famously. And they’ve

been having some cheery times there in the bed ever since…”

I know a slight when I hear one. I wasn’t going to dignify

this hurtful description with a reply, but one question nagged

at me. I couldn’t keep myself from asking: “How does it

comfort?”

No reply.

Who knows how long I will occupy this place on the shelf

before the day comes along when they notice me: “Isn’t that

old comforter taking up an awful lot of space?” they will say.

“Why are we even hanging on to it?”

I sometimes find myself reminiscing about those bygone

days of providing comfort. I’ve come to realize the

comforting services I provided were an end in themselves.

Had I the opportunity to do it all over again, I would never for

even a moment let myself forget my reward was to give

comfort, not to receive it. But it’s too late. These memories

and the understanding I’ve gained are cold comfort to me

now.


Cedar Chest

c Nancy Lou Henderson

The Cedar Chest

By Nancy Lou Henderson

I

am a unique, cedar chest. My purpose is to keep

priceless treasures safe and secure. Although other

woods may grace my outside, inside, cedarwood lines

my walls, bottom, and lid. Cedarwood is a natural

preservative that protects by keeping out moths and

other insects.

In 1964, a young woman became my new owner.

She refinished my exterior, changing the color to an

antique blue, and I became her hope chest. The young

woman would always keep me against the footboard of

her bed. Periodically, my lid opened, and she placed

unique treasures inside my cedar walls. Happiness

was all around me, and I could always hear lots of

laughter filling the air.

In 1968, my young woman opened me to place in

new treasures, but this time with her was a young man.

They seemed so happy and talked about their wedding.

I did not know what to make of these strange new

treasures. There were newspaper clippings, tiny rice

bags tied with ribbon, small white engraved napkins,

and many pictures, but I knew that my job was to do

my very best to take care of these things.

Soon, I did not hear my young woman in the house

and missed her laughter. It seemed as if a lifetime

went by, but then one day, I heard her and the young

man's voices again. Laughter filled the air around me,

as they picked me up, then carried me to a pickup

truck. After a short drive, I was unloaded from the

pickup then transported into a little white frame house.

Again, I sat against the footboard of a bed in a

bedroom. This time the bed was shared by the young

woman and young man.


For days the house was filled with lots of laughter,

happiness, and love between the young woman and

young man. Music and singing filled the home, and I

am reasonably sure that there was dancing too. During

this time, the young woman and young man opened my

lid one more time and placed many more treasures

inside me. Warmth and happiness filled this home.

Suddenly one day, the laughter stopped, and there

was only one voice heard in the house; it was the voice

of the young woman. A sense of sadness, heartache,

and fear seemed to take over the house.

A box sat on my lid, and I could hear it being

opened and closed at night. Night after night, I

listened to the muffled tears and prayers of the young

woman but was helpless to help her. I knew my job

was to do my best to take care of the treasures that the

young woman and young man had placed inside my

lined cedar walls.

Months passed, but the sounds of tears and words of

prayers continued until late one night when the phone

rang, waking the young woman. The fear in the

bedroom skyrocketed to new heights, as she rushed to

answer the telephone, but quickly laughter and

excitement filled the home again. The young woman

danced around the house, thanking God for answering

her prayers while getting dressed, then she left.

Soon, I heard the young man's voice in the house

again, music played, and I heard singing plus the

shuffling sounds of dancing feet. Much too soon, this

ended then once again, the sound of tears, heartache,

and prayers returned to the home. Again, I heard the

box sitting on my lid open and close, over and over.

More months passed, and the house was sad, but I did

my job to keep their unique treasures safe.

One evening the phone rang again then the young

woman's laughter and excitement filled the house.

The young woman was singing and dancing through

the home, repeating three words, "Thank you, God.",

over and over. Suddenly, the young woman opened

my lid, then placed the box that had sat on top into my

cedar lined interior then closed my lid. The next

morning, I heard the young man's voice again.

Happiness, music, laughter, and love returned to the

house once more.

The young man and woman moved many times

through the years, always taking me with them to each

new home, where I would have a special place at the

foot of their bed. I remained faithful in taking care of

their treasures inside me just waiting for the day they

would reopen my lid. Years passed, but they did not

open my cedar chest lid again.

One day I felt a terrible sadness fill their home, and

many people came for days to visit. I heard many tears

from all who entered the house. Once again, the young

woman was praying and crying as if her heart had

surely broken, and I never heard the young man's voice

again. Slowly and with time, the young woman

stopped crying as her heart began to mend then she

allowed the laughter to return to the home.

For some reason, the young woman moved me into a

new place, which was not at the foot of her bed but in a

dark new home. Sometimes sunlight would enter my

new home, and I could hear her voice and voices of

others, young and old, but nobody came to open my

lid. Although missing the young woman's voice, I

remained faithful, keeping the treasures inside me safe

because I knew they were extraordinary.

Early one morning, I heard the young woman's voice

as she entered my home. She quickly unstacked the

boxes that sat on top of my lid and opened my lid. She

opened the box that she had placed so many years

before inside me for safekeeping. I heard her exclaim

with surprise in her voice, "His letters!" as she quickly

closed my lid and left my house.

A few weeks later, two young men would enter my

dark house and take me to a new home. In this new

home, I would be opened many times by the young

woman, and she would thank me, telling me what a

fantastic job I had done keeping her treasures safe as

she gently cleaned and polished my antique blue

exterior.

Now, I listen to music, laughter, and a whole lot of

typing going on. Sometimes tears a heartache are

heard, but mostly I feel a deep, pure endless love in my

new home. Even though I do not understand what has

happened to the young man and do not hear the young

man's voice, I can feel his presence and his warm love

filling the room.

Although growing older with age, I will continue to

hold old and new treasures for my young woman who

has become much older too.

I am a unique, cedar chest. Not only do I hold

special treasures, but I have absorbed unique emotions

and sounds. I am loved.


Ceiling Fan

Spoon

Spoon

By Ed Ruzicka

My contours bring comfort

to tongues. I shine

burnished, without blemish.

I give the unutterable smoothness

of stone washed, of glass softened

by brooks, in rivers, churned

along sea’s shore.

Aren’t I a minor mirror

curved back and inward,

concave to set

the smaller world

of the self there.

Let me teach you

how to rest content

in the dark

until needed.

Let form

fit your acts

Let acts

steadily bring

morsels, nourishment

to the tongue.

Loraine - stock.adobe.com

The Ceiling Fan Brags

By Ed Ruzicka

Ah, to have such wings

yet go nowhere.

I whirl and fill all

the corners of the day

cool the set tea

wheel pages randomly.

I drench the scene from

plumped pillow, made bed

to yawning closet door,

cat and who-so-ever

does pad through.

With my whisper

and my gyre

I lend a steady

gentle relief.

kotolmachoff - stock.adobe.com


Playground

Mountaintop

Playground Dreams

by Mark Tulin

I am the playground of children

where games are won,

the songs are sung,

chased and tagged,

and the fences climbed

I am the swing

that both hands hold,

that is pushed too high,

and watched the world

from upside down

I am the playground of dreams,

the moments of hide and seek,

the sliding down the silvery board,

the mazes that children conquer,

the silly jokes often told

I am the bars that kids dangle from,

the kings and queens of the hill,

the spinning of the merry-go-round,

and the boloney sandwiches

at lunchtime, that mothers bring.

Mountaintop

by Mark Tulin

I am the top of the mountain

a balcony in the sky

under a bright California sun

I look onto the Santa Clara River Valley

with small, one-story houses

street lights on Main Street

bumpy, curvy roads going up hills

tracks with an occasional train

small private biplanes going in circles

dotting the Santa Paula night

along the Pacific coastline

where the letters SP are carved

into my forehead, and freshwater

flows from my veins.

jkraft5 - stock.adobe.com

slworking - stock.adobe.com


Doorknob

Driveway

The Hobnobbing Doorknob

By Darrell Petska

C’mon people, have I grown warts?

It’s me, Doorknob, your longtime pal,

your means for entering new worlds,

escaping old ones, or just finding fun.

I’m polished, steady, ergonomically sound.

You want style? My contours are classical,

my lineage royal. Cleanliness your thing?

There’s sanitizer next to the door.

A little human contact is all I ask.

A warm touch now and then, a firm

how-de-do, a good rattling if I’m stuck

in some existential malaise.

Sure, I see what’s trending—those slick

automatic doors that whisk you through

without a hand raised in greeting.

The world’s too impersonal as it is.

My advice to you? Just get a grip!

Life’s too short to be standoffish.

The road ahead is paved with doorknobs.

Hey, lend me a hand and close the door.

Dear Pamela,

By Pamela Sinicrope

Why am I so broken,

salted and sanded, blown

and thrown into chunks

at the bottom of our street?

Why am I so long, so up

and down, so El Capitan?

Why did you plant so many

evergreens to shade my slide?

In winter, I’m an impossible rink

and you must slip on spikes

to take out the trash. And I’m sorry

that my horde of leaves almost killed

your husband. And don’t even start

about the top of me, potholed and pounded

as if I were built on a sinkhole.

When I think about how you should fix me,

I sink deeper. But then I remember

how long I’ve held on—

the carriages, cars and trucks I’ve carried,

the wild violets that peek

through my seams and snowmelt.

I see all of your children who bounced

balls and chalked pastel hearts

all over my back. I feel

the beating of your home,

furnace water bubbling beneath.

It’s hard to keep all of this going,

to persevere through the cracks.

Maybe you just don’t love me

the way I thought you did.

I need more than mere resurfacing.

Forgive me for my extremes.

Creatus - stock.adobe.com

Michele - stock.adobe.com


Plaque

The Art of Fire

By Rebecca Taylor

I

thought I was going to spend my life helping cook

delicious pizzas for people. After all, I was a pizza

plaque. That was what the manufacturer had stamped on

my back before sending me out to be sold to some human,

somewhere. I won’t tell you about my humble beginnings.

They weren’t really that interesting. What I want to tell you

about is my life changing adventure. A woman took me

home. I heard her family refer to her as Genevieve. I spent a

few weeks sitting on a shelf in a room that was filled with

paints and stencils and crafty things. It was nothing like the

store that I came from. There I had been surrounded by

cookie cutters, pizza rollers, pans, and knives. In this artsy

room, I had no idea what to expect.

One day Genevieve came in and took me off the shelf.

She set me on her craft table and began to draw on me with a

pencil. I wasn’t sure what she was doing but later I caught a

glimpse of myself in the reflection from her computer

screen. Genevieve had made a beautiful drawing of a polar

bear and two polar bear cubs. They were sitting by a pine

tree and snowflakes were falling around them. While I felt

more beautiful than I ever had in my life, I couldn’t

understand why I had been chosen to be used as a craft

instead of for cooking pizzas. I knew that the store where I

had been purchased had sold lots of craft things that

Genevieve could have used for her art. But instead she had

chosen me. I was glad because I liked the way that her

drawing looked on me. It was so much more exciting than

the life I had expected for myself – being coated in dough,

tomato sauce, cheese, mushrooms, and other vegetables.

Someone may have even wanted to put pineapple on me.

There’s a lot of controversy about that. My friends used to

talk about it a lot.

A few days later, Genevieve came back to me. This

time, she had a different looking pen with her. But, instead

of drawing on me with ink or lead, this pen had fire in it. She

used it to trace the drawing that she had made. The fire

didn’t hurt me even though it burned into my wood. I was

designed to withstand several hundred degrees of warmth

because I had been made to go in the oven or on the

barbecue. It took several hours for Genevieve to finish going

over her drawing. When she was done, she turned on a fan to

help cool me off. It felt refreshing. It had been a long day

and I took a nap enjoying the cool air.

Later when I woke up, I saw my reflection in the

computer screen again. I was amazed by what I saw. I was

beautiful. I had gone from being a boring pizza plaque, to

having a pencil drawing on me to a magnificent creation. It

was clear to me that Genevieve was an extremely talented

woman.

A few days later, Genevieve came to see me again. She

carried me into her kitchen and put me up on the wall. That

is my new home, where I believe I may live forever. I now

get to see and hear about everything that Genevieve and her

family are doing. I am also surrounding by kitchen gadgets

again, which is where Genevieve had originally found me. It

feels like my life has gone full-circle and now I’ve ended up

in a really wonderful place. I couldn’t be happier. I’m glad

that I got to come and live with Genevieve and be part of her

creative process in creating wood burned art.

Steve Johnson - stock.adobe.com


Figurine

zinovskaya - stock.adobe.com

Anything Nice

by Steve Carr

I

can't help it that I'm beautiful. I was

made that way. But being beautiful

isn't easy.

I'm sure I deserve better than to be

placed next to a ceramic white

elephant. If anything, I deserve to have

this stand, or any space, all to myself.

But looking around this room, almost

every surface is crowded with some

objet d'art, knick knack, curio or

tchochtke, some of it utterly ghastly. I

don't like to discriminate against

amphibians, but does anyone really

need to see on a daily basis a giant

green glass toad complete with a red

glass dragonfly on its nose like the one

sitting on the mantle amidst a

collection of other frogs and toads?

The woman who keeps me dusted

constantly rearranges practically

everything on a regular basis, except

for me. I could take it as a personal

affront that my companion, the

elephant, has been all over the room

while this has been the only place I've

been since I arrived here, but being on

this stand is a place of honor. It's

practically in the middle of the room. I

understand the woman's need to move

things around. Something is always

getting broken by her two sons so she's

constantly trying to find the safest

spots for her “treasures,” as she calls

us.

There is an unspoken bond

between she and I. I am undoubtedly

her most stunning treasure. If I were

regarded with any less admiration I

wouldn't be here on the most

expensive stand in the room. It's not

like I'm some mantle frog on that

bookshelf between the crystal

penguins and ceramic puppies. That's

the worst. Everyone knows that once

you're placed on the bookcase the

woman forgets all about you. It's the

wasteland of show places. But not me,

I'm here in the center of the room.

I can't keep anything nice around

“ here,” she always says as she

sweeps up a broken Chinese tea cup or

tries to glue a chip back onto the

damaged spot of a ceramic alligator.

More than once I've been

perilously close to being knocked off

my stand by one of the boys' elbows or

by a thrown sofa pillow. The woman

seems impervious to my distress at

being so close to ending up on the

floor as shattered pieces of porcelain.

All of us in this room knows that you

end up in the trash can if you're swept

up from the floor. The only thing in

the room that has it worse than us is

the goldfish in their bowl. When they

go belly up, they get flushed down the

toilet.

“Rough housing,” she calls it.

She constantly demands the boys

stop doing it, but it never does any

good. The worst time of day is when

the boys come home from school.

Their pent up energy is released in a

flurry of rough housing that extends

from one end of the house to the other.

This room suffers the most from their

behavior. Hardly a school day goes by

when either a porcelain egg, glass

gargoyle or some other member of our

community ends up on the floor.


I've tried to communicate with the

woman in the only way I can about my

fear of ending up on the floor. I stare

at her with my crystal blue eyes and

keep my ruby red lips pursed in a

show of disdain and keep one slender

hand raised, holding a silk parasol

above my head. Yet the only attention

I get from her is to be tickled by her

feather duster. Beauty has its

limitations.

I

was brought into this house by the

older boy who rescued me from a

store shelf of figurines, all exactly like

me. I'm sure my inner beauty shone

through my porcelain shell and that's

why he selected me instead of one of

the others. When I was put in the box

on a bed of pink tissue paper I was

certain I was destined to stand in a

very special place. I was given to the

woman as a gift and she extolled my

virtues, kissed the boy on the cheek,

and then placed me on this stand. My

first lesson in life beyond the shelf was

that being laid in pink tissue paper

does not guarantee everlasting

happiness.

The woman is pretty but she often

looks haggard. That comes from

chasing after the boys and serving the

man of the house cold beverages while

he sits on the sofa and stares at the

television. I'm certain he has no idea

that I even exist. Thanks to being in

the position I am on this stand I can

watch the television also. It has

extensively increased © my miroo77 vocabulary,

- stock.adobe.com

but I'm not sure what it has done for

the man. He mostly grunts.

He's responsible for the chip on

the ear of the ceramic black panther

that sits on the coffee table. He threw

an empty beer can during a televised

football game and it chipped the

panther.

The woman looked all over the

carpet for the chip, but never found it.

“Sometimes you're as bad as the

boys,” she told him.

Because he's much larger than the

boys I live in fear every time he

wrestles with them on the Persian

carpet in front of the fireplace. The

carpet is only a few feet away and this

stand vibrates every time. I've tried to

express my anxiety to the elephant, but

he keeps his trunk raised, his tusks

pointed slightly upward, and never

says anything. I think he's shy. My

looks have that effect on others.

When I was first placed on this

stand there was a small mirror right

next to me. It had a lovely ornate gold

frame. I spent hours upon hours

happily gazing at myself. Then during

a particularly lengthy and violent

session of rough housing, the mirror

was knocked from the stand and

crashed onto the floor. The woman

yelled at the boys who seemed

preoccupied with finding ways to

ignore her and then she rearranged

most of her treasures and placed the

elephant here next to me. The

absurdity of being a companion to an

elephant overwhelms me.

It was brought to my attention

during a discussion between the

woman and the man that he had won

the elephant by shooting mechanical

ducks at a carnival. The elephant's

background couldn't be any less

refined, but I guess I can't blame the

pachyderm. I'm sure that when they

brought him home he wasn't wrapped

in pink tissue paper. Only the most

attractive among us have had that

pleasure.

Being beautiful has its advantages.

A

number of times the woman has

had other women over to sit

around the card table and play bridge.

These other women share her interest

in collecting things that would gather

dust if a dust rag wasn't used

frequently. When they come over the

first thing they do is wander around

the room in search of new additions to

the community. They ooh and ah at

even the most inelegant piece of bricka-brac

as if it belonged in a museum.

How they find delight in a bone china

plate with a puppy painted in the

center, purchased at a flea market, is

beyond me.

They take into their hands both

new and old pieces and pass them

around, smudging the pieces with their

fingerprints and breathing all manner

of noxious odors onto them.

Each time I know my turn to be

pawed and fondled will come, because

after all, no matter what new addition

is made to the community, I remain

the most beautiful object in the room.

But as I'm lifted from the stand and

passed from hand to hand and

observed at every angle, I'm appalled

at the liberties the women take as they

lift the faux piece of blue lace that

covers the bottom part of me and peer

at my porcelain legs. All the while that

this is happening, the elephant stares

up at me mockingly. My only revenge

is that no one pays any attention to

him in the least. He's been around here

a long time. His novelty has worn off.

After the women have gone, the

woman gets a clean rag and rubs the

smudges and fingerprints from each of

us. She is very delicate in how she

handles me. She takes my modesty

into account and never lifts my skirt to

clean my legs without saying, “I hope

you don't mind.”

I do, but it's the price I pay for

being extremely pretty.

he term “yard sale” is wildly

T misleading.

The day began like any other

when the boys didn't have to go to

school. They laid on the floor and

stared at cartoons being shown on the

television. Not surprisingly, the

woman has the entire top of the china

cabinet cluttered with glass and plastic

Disney and Looney Tunes characters. I

believe there are at least six Mickey

Mouses among them. As the boys like

to play with them and destroy them

when the woman isn't watching, she is

constantly replacing them.

During the commercials, the boys

punched, kicked, pounded and head

butted each other. The entire floor

shook at time.

The woman entered the room

carrying two cardboard boxes and

announced to the boys, “Go to your

room and gather the junk you want to

get rid of. We're having a yard sale.”

Why were they selling their yard?

I thought.

Then the most shocking thing I

had ever witnessed began. The woman

selected treasures from the shelves,

table tops, mantle and stands, and put


them in the box. In the box went the

ceramic grasshoppers, wooden

nutcrackers, plastic gnomes and tin

birds along with many others. By the

time she was finished the community

had been decimated. I had no idea

what was going to happen to them, but

I knew it couldn't be good.

The boys came back with their

arms loaded with a variety of broken

toys and worn out sports equipment

and dumped them in the empty

cardboard box.

“Take them outside and put the

things on the tables,” she told them,

then left the room.

The older boy carried out the box

of their things.

The younger boy looked around

the room, then walked over and

grabbed me and put me in the box with

the other treasures.

Me! He put me in the box with the

others. I was gobsmacked.

I'm certain I heard the elephant

trumpet with delight.

Lying on top of all the others I

was carried outside and then placed on

a long table with everything else. Then

I saw the “for sale” sign sticking in the

grass in front of the table.

How could anything as beautiful

as me be sold in a yard sale?

The woman came out of the house

carrying an armload of clothing just as

two cars stopped at the curb and

people got out. She saw me and

dropped the clothing. Whisking me

into her arms she rushed me back

inside and placed me on the stand.

“Those boys,” she said with a

noticeable sigh. “You're my favorite

treasure.”

She went back outside.

I would have berated the elephant

for his rudeness, but he never listens to

me anyway, which is surprising given

the size of his ears.

he older boy returned to the store

T where I was rescued from and

returned with another figurine exactly

like me. Finally the elephant was

moved to a spot on the bookshelves.

The bookshelves! The woman kissed

the boy on the cheek and placed the

new figurine on my stand, only a few

inches away from me.

I'm certain she thinks she's more

beautiful than me. Nothing could be

further from the truth.

Egg

Fried Egg As Philosopher

by Robbi Nester

Call me optimistic. I keep my one eye always open,

and I have since the beginning of that egg, the world.

At first, there was only a pearly sea

covering everything. Darkness and light

laid together under a tree and made the stars.

Up close, they were hot and angry,

sizzling in the sky’s skillet.

Far away, they were cold and silent.

In the daytime, I watch the clouds,

my kin, both solid and liquid,

taking shape outside the window.

Sometimes they are small and quiet.

Sometimes the wind whisks them into a loud froth.

They touch the earth with their hungry mouths,

devouring houses and cars, cows browsing in the field.

Then the sun’s yolk covers everything, warm and nourishing,

and the day begins again.

aimusa - Pixabay.com


LP

LP

Robbi Nester

The needle drops, and music rises

from the grooves, the self I never

knew I had. Without the stylus

prying out the notes, I’m no one,

spinning in place around my one

true pole. As the notes unfold,

I think that this must be the way

a nightingale sings, the tune erupting

from its throat, announcing “I exist.”

SanderSmit - Pixabay.com


Rose

Pink Rose

By Steven Tutino

nce upon a time, I was a tiny rose. But now I am a fullfledged

tree, loving and wild, gentle and serene, bright

O

luscious pink that no eyes have ever seen. While red roses

symbolize love and romance, I symbolize gratitude, grace,

admiration and joy. I am a token of admiration compared to

the typical bright red rose. I will continue to grow. I stand

tall thanks to the blessed love of those around me, those who

believed in me and gave me a home in rich soil.

I always brighten a dull moment. With enough love,

tenderness and care, you too can develop your full potential

and be a force for good in the world. Give yourself time and

trust in your abilities.

In winter, I am sheltered. Winters are harsh, even brutal at

times, but I am resilient, I stand mighty and tall, blessed to

be in your presence.

c Steve Tutino

Photo: Steven Tutino

Steven Tutino was born in Montréal, Canada, and is a writer, poet, painter and personal trainer. He is

currently a graduate student at Concordia University in the process of completing an M.A. in Theological

Studies. His poetry has appeared in Concordia University’s Journal of Interdisciplinary Studies in

Sexuality, The Paragon Journal, Halcyon Days, Perspectives Magazine, Founder’s Favourites and

Anapest: A Journal of Poetry Excellence. His artwork has appeared in numerous journals and magazines

including The Minetta Review, TreeHouse Arts, Montréal Writes, Spadina Literary Review, The

Montréal Gazette, From Whispers to Roars, The Indianapolis Review, After Happy Hour, Apricity

Magazine and Ariel's Dream. Apart from painting, Steven enjoys reading, writing in his diary, going for

long meditative walks and hanging out at the gym.


Seed

Seed of Love

By Nancy Lou Henderson

Darkness does surround,

waiting in the ground.

Moisture touches me,

waking me to flee.

Outer shell has burst,

increasing my thirst,

Breaking thru the earth,

today is my rebirth.

Sunlight on my face,

feeling God's amazing grace.

Stand firm and straight,

budding flowers await.

Flowers soon to bloom,

removing human gloom.

Once a lifeless seed,

sharing love in times of need.

Venus Flytrap

Venus Flytrap

By Sarah Henry

i.

I like to have a fat

fly in my mouth.

Big stomachs with

thin legs hit the spot.

Flies die in my tight

embrace. Bigger is

better for those of

the carnivore race.

ii.

Man will steal my

home in a hot bog

of the Carolinas.

He’ll bring extinction

with civilization.

I’ll trap dinner now

but not much longer.

The end is near.

iii.

I am deadly but

man is stronger.

He brings bulldozers

and cranes. The jaws

of his machines

snap alarmingly.

I’ll eat tender flies

until I’m ploughed

under, a lost cause.

© Nancy Lou Henderson


Vera Kuttelvaserova - stock.adobe.com

Sarah Henry studied with two former U.S. poet laureates

at the University of Virginia. She is retired from a major

newspaper. Her recent publications include Pure Slush, The

Writers' Club, Rue Scribe, Lummox and The American

Writers' Review. Sarah writes and lives quietly in a small

Pennsylvania town without distractions.

Golf Ball

The Way Things Turn Out

By Mary Marino

y mother left me on the sixth hole. Perhaps I need to

M be more precise. I was exactly seven yards off the

green in a deep sandy pit.

I remember Mother looked down at me, her blue eyes

blazing, and said it was way too much effort for her to climb

and get me out. She turned toward her friends and told them

I wasn’t dependable, just added dead weight, and she didn’t

want me anymore. Then she walked away. It was the last I

ever saw of Mother.

All through the night I laid there, dirty and cold. I tried

to pass the time by counting the lumps on my back, even the

ones on my belly. Then the next morning something

unexpected happened. A big man in blue overalls climbed

down inside the hole. In his hand was a long metal rake. It

looked kind of scary and I thought it could hurt so I

scrunched down in the sand as deep as I could. Eventually, it

unearthed me and as it drew me toward the big man, I was

surprised to discover I wasn’t hurt one little bit.

“What do we have here?” the big man said, as he leaned

down for a closer look. Before I knew it, he scooped me up

and brushed off some of the dirt. He turned me around in his

huge paw of a hand and read the fine print on my head.

Titleist Pro V. “Wow, you’re going to make a mighty fine

prize for someone,” he said tucking me into his back pocket.

I spent the rest of the day in the warmth of the big man’s

overalls as he went about his duties mowing the grass and

watering the greens. Every time he moved granules of sand

would drop away from my sides, so by the time he pulled me

out, I was almost good as new.

That night before dinner he washed me good, dried me

with a soft towel, and held me up to the light. I must have

looked spectacular because he whistled an appreciation.

“Boy, come here,” the big man said. A sandy-haired

youngster of eleven or twelve bounded off the sofa.

“Watcha got, Dad.?”

The man held out his hand. “Boy, this is the finest ball

made yet. Take good care of it and it’ll take care of you.”

“Gee, thanks,” the boy said wrapping me up into his

smaller fist. As he was getting ready for bed that night, the

boy placed me carefully on his bureau, and then slid under

the covers. There was a soft light coming from the hallway

and I noticed the boy’s eyes on me before he drifted off to

sleep. Was he dreaming of some future feat on the golf

course? Was he counting on me to always fly straight and

land wherever he wished? Mother’s words came back to me.

I was afraid I would not be worthy of the boy’s love. Maybe

the big man should have left me in the sandy pit. Maybe

that’s all the life I deserved.

For days I sat on the boy’s bureau happy for a reprieve

from not having to prove my worth. Then one day the big

man didn’t come home from work. People wore black. The

boy cried … a lot. I didn’t understand what was happening.

Days turned into months, then into years. The boy grew. All

of this time the boy pretty much ignored me. The only time I

was moved was for an occasional dusting which wasn’t very

often because … well … really, I was in a boy’s room after

all.

One afternoon my importance took a turn. I noticed the

boy was dressed in a three-button shirt the crest of his school

stitched on the pocket. He picked me up and studied me for a

moment. “You were the last thing Dad ever gave me and

today we find out if all that he wished for me can come

true.”

His words made me nervous. Would I let him down?

Would I be left behind once again? I didn’t know it then but

I needn’t have worried. This day was the first in a long line

of tournaments the boy would win.

From then on whenever he competed, he would take me

from my resting place on the bureau and put me in the side

pocket of his golf bag, a safe place that I later learned was

only used for very special things. Other balls would come

and go. Some could soar to the heavens. Others would get

lost in the brambles or high grasses of the many courses the

boy would play. All the while I would stay warm and dry in

the comfort of my little nest and when we got home, I would

be returned to my place of honor in the boy’s room.

The day the letter came the boy sat down on his bed

with tears in his eyes. It seemed he was receiving a

scholarship to college just because he could hit balls into 18

holes far better than all the other boys. Amazing! He put the

letter down and gathered me up into hands now bigger than

his dad’s. “You’ve sure been my lucky charm,” he said.

Maybe he felt my worry thinking that I needed to be

anyone’s ‘luck.’ That’s so much pressure to put on a little

ball.

“No, that’s not what I mean,” the boy said. “See, you’re

my connection to Dad. You’ll always make me think of him

and the day he brought you home.”

The boy became a man. He has a den of his own which

sports many trophies and awards. There are only two things

that sit on his desk, though. A picture of his family … and

me. “Thank you, Mother.”

djtaylor - stock.adobe.com


Tote Bag

www.mythirtyone.com/us/en/product/4451/zip-top-organizing-utility-tote-garden-sketchn

A Burial

By Ann Hultberg

n the evening, I sit collapsed in the corner of a bedroom,

I between the closet and night stand, where I have sat in the

same position for many years. In the morning I will once

again be filled and hauled to a classroom where, once

emptied, will be squashed in a cloak closet for eight hours.

Refueled, now weighing ten pounds, I will be carted home,

then emptied again and stashed in that bedroom corner until

morning. Five days a week, the routine never varies. Back

and forth I travel fifty miles a day.

But now, twenty years later, I am worn out from

carrying much weight over the years: books, snacks, lunch

bags, pens, water bottles, dry erase markers, paper clips,

hand sanitizer, Kleenex, keys. My pockets are ripped,

stretched; my once white bottom, which held the most bulk,

is smeared with red ink stains and cracker crumbs. My straps

have shredded and my black and white vinyl fabric has

faded.

I have held research proposals, journal entries,

handouts, stories of lives: tears, fears, hopes, what or whom

they love--hate—question, millions of words all safely

encased in my waterproof exterior. I have held the weight of

responsibility, holding what needed to be answered-- my

dog died, my grandpa died, my boyfriend broke up with me,

I don't have any friends, my family is broken, I feel lost-- the

weight of what my carrier had to handle : I have heard her

probing them on, giving confidence, leading through the

unfamiliar. What is in your heart? On your mind? Say what

you mean!

As I listened, their words brought me to tears, to anger,

to awe, to laughter, to boredom at times, as I carried their

best epiphanies, energy, motivation.

I

was folded and placed in a white kitchen garbage bag

along with discarded papers. It’s sort of a burial --

surrounded with the familiar--the feel of paper touching my

sides (my family so to speak), the swirl of words murmuring

their goodbyes. All shredded so the jumble of black ink

letters form new words and sentences and nest in the

comfort of what was, and cover me lovingly with what it

knows. Eight million words give back what I once gave--the

paper now cushioning my weight, cocooning me in comfort,

like a lullaby.

The white kitchen bag will make its way to the landfill

where the paper will disintegrate within a few months, but I

a thousand years. More like a casket, I will take my place

within the hills of colorful refuse, near the tractor that pushes

the mound higher and higher, below the squawking birds of

prey, above the years of trash that came before me, holding

whispers of their thoughts, their stories, forever embedded

within my lining.


Kelly Bag

https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/1/13/Kelly_Bag.jpg

The Kelly Bag

by J L Higgs

t had been a typical Friday. Only a few potential

I customers roaming the vintage clothing store to the

sounds of smooth jazz over its audio system.

Her dress was ocean blue with large white and yellow

flowers. Like something you’d see in Hawaii, it was

featherweight, loose, and reached down to the straps on

her leather sandals.

Head tipped, her river of long curly blond hair fell to

one side as she slid one hangar after another along the

tubular dress rack. Now and then she paused, furrowing

her brow, frowning, and sighing. Reaching the end of the

rack, she straightened up, shook her head, and murmured,

“Nothing.”

She appeared to be on the verge of leaving, but then

stopped, facing in my direction. After a moment or two,

she walked over. Plucking me off the shelf, she blew on

me repeatedly before using her hand to wipe away the last

bit of dust covering me. Then she turned me this way and

that, checking my outside and inside. Frowning, she put

me back on the shelf and turned as if to go. But then she

spun around, shrugged, grabbed me off the shelf and

marched to the front of the store. “

Did you find everything you were looking for?”

asked the young cashier with the nose ring.

“I was actually looking for a dress.”

“Don’t worry. I won’t tell,” said the young woman,

stuffing me in a paper bag while smiling conspiratorially.

My original owner, Phyllis, had worked the perfume

counter at Bergdorf Goodman. Like the woman who’d

just purchased me, the first time she saw me, she’d been

in her 20s. She had to save for years before she could

afford both me, a Kelly Bag, and a coveted bottle of

Number Nine perfume.

Throughout our years together Phyllis took good care

of me and I of her. But when she passed away at 88, God

rest her soul, her daughter didn’t realize how truly special

and exceptional I was. Wanting to wrap up her mother’s

affairs as quickly as possible, she dispensed of me along

with the rest of her mother’s belongings in an estate sale.

That’s how I ended up spending the past few years

gathering dust on a shelf.

A startling rumble, crackle, and boom sounded

overhead and then I heard rain slapping the pavement. I

was bouncing around in the bag and a wet spot above me

began to spread. We’d obviously left the store and the

woman must have been running with the paper bag above

her head. This situation was clearly unacceptable.

A loud thunk of bodies colliding brought us to a

sudden stop.

“Sorry, I was… Oh, you have umbrellas,” said the

woman.

Dah Dah. Situation resolved. For the rest of the trip

to her home we were nice and dry beneath the bright pink

umbrella she bought from the street vendor.

The next morning, as I was adjusting to my new

surroundings, she stalked the apartment, cellphone in

hand. Her conversation was peppered with the words

“Tasha,” “fundraiser,” and “garden party.” After that,

she sat down in front of a mirror and applied makeup.

When she finished, she filled me with lipstick, tissues,

breath mints, a wallet, sunglasses, apartment keys, and a

host of other items. She removed a diaphanous dress from

her closet, its bands of blue, red, and yellow melting into

each other like a sunset in an abstract post-impressionist

painting. She shimmied into it, checked her appearance in

a full-length mirror, fluffed her hair, and then we headed

out.

The stately stone and multi-turreted mansion where

the fundraising party was being held was beautiful.

Sculpted hedgerows and flowering gardens bordered both

sides of its lush green acres of gently rolling hills. At

various intervals along the grounds, large white tents had

been set up marking where stations with china plates and

silver trays of canapes cut like triangles were located. All

throughout the vast landscape, waiters in white jackets

floated among the well-dressed attendees with trays of

fluted crystal glasses full of sparkling champagne.

As we approached what looked like a pool house, a

tall dark-haired man approached carrying a glass of

champagne. Stopping in front of us, he put a hand on his

hip, sweeping his sport coat aside. “Rather eye-catching

dress, Angela,” he said. “A new acquisition?”

“No,” replied my new owner, taking a glass from a

tray passing by. She took a sip of champagne, then ran a

finger along the glass’s rim, smudging the red lipstick on

it.


“Angela,” called out a woman, rushing over. They

exchanged cheek-to-cheek air kisses. “Malcolm,” said

the woman, addressing the man. “You don’t mind if I

borrow her?”

Raising his eyebrows and making a slight bow, he

replied, “Of course not.”

As she reapplied her lipstick in the pool house

women’s changing room mirror, Angela thanked the

woman for rescuing her.

“Running into an ex at one of these affairs is the

worst,” said the woman, setting her champagne glass on

the counter beside Angela’s. Looking in the mirror, she

patted her cornrows braids, then adjusted her silver

necklace. “Personally, I’m glad you broke it off with

Malcolm. He always struck me as rather pompous.”

Angela laughed. “This is quite the affair. Thanks for

inviting me to be your plus one, Tash.”

“Girl, hitting up these folks for money is my least

favorite thing when it comes to working for the museum.

Might as well have my BFF along.”

Angela shook her head and laughed.

“Nice bag,” said Tasha, noticing me as she picked up

her champagne glass and took a sip. Then she set the

glass back down on the counter.

“Thanks. I got it at the vintage clothing store

downtown.”

Still checking herself in the mirror, Angela put the

cap back on her lipstick, then went to put it back inside

me. Her hand brushed her champagne glass and it toppled

into Tasha’s. Angela tried to catch it, but the glass struck

the counter and shattered.

“That looks bad,” said Tasha, seeing shards of glass

in Angela’s hand. She shoved a handful of paper towels

toward her friend.

Angela gingerly pulled out the jagged pieces. Then

she grabbed some towels and used them to put pressure

on the cuts.

“Wait here. I’ll be right back.”

“You better make it quick,” said Angela, tossing the

blood-soaked towels into the sink. She placed her hand

beneath the faucet, turned on the cold water, and watched

the bloody water swirl down the drain.

Grabbing hold of me with her other hand, Angela

turned me upside down. Everything within me clattered

onto the counter. Nothing there was of use in such an

emergency. As I felt her nausea and lightheadedness

increasing, I knew something had to be done.

The changing room’s door suddenly opened. Seeing

the blood pouring from Angela’s hand, the woman who

entered asked if she was OK and what had happened.

“I accidentally broke a glass and cut my hand,”

replied Angela.

“That’s going to need stitches,” said the woman,

noting the blood splattered on the counter, purse, and

sink. “I’m an OBG. There’s some medical supplies in

my car.”

Dah Dah. Situation resolved.

The following morning, Angela’s cell phone rang.

After a brief conversation with Tasha, it rang again.

Angela told the caller that her hand had throbbed during

the night, so she’d taken some Percocet and planned to

spend the day relaxing. Head nodding, she agreed that

the Dr.’s arrival the prior afternoon had been timely.

Then she thanked the Dr. for checking on her and hung

up.

Spying me on the floor where she’d left me, Angela

walked over and picked me up. After rechecking that

she’d emptied me, she looked me over, shaking her head

at the streaks of blood. Sighing, she then took me

outside. She placed me on top of the trash in a garbage

can and wheeled it to the curb.

As she settled the can upright, a little girl with

pigtails rode up on a bike.

“Hi Angela,” said the little girl, stopping.

“Hey, Molly. New bike?”

“No. It was with the Peterson’s trash last week.”

Angela nodded.

“What happened to your hand?”

“Oh,” said Angela, looking at her heavily wrapped

hand. “I cut it and had to get stitches.”

“My brother had stitches, once,” replied Molly. She

walked her bike closer to the trash can. “You throwing

this away?” she asked, lifting me from atop the trash.

“Yeah. I got blood all over it when I cut my hand.”

“Can I have it?”

“Well, it’s kind of messed up… given the blood.”

“I don’t care.”

Angela shrugged.

“Thanks,” said Molly, grinning as she put me in the

basket attached to the bike’s handlebars. She rolled the

bike forward and pedaled away. Halfway down the

street, she turned her head back toward Angela and called

out, “See ya.”

On the opposite side of the street, a car was backing

out of its driveway.

“Molly! Car!” yelled Angela, pointing.

Seeing the car, Molly swerved out of its path.

Since leaving the vintage clothing store I’d had a

busy couple of days. What might I have to do next?


Marble

Through a Blue Cat’s Eye

Darrell Petska

Badly’s coming!” sparked a chorus of groans from the

“ players circling us in the marble ring. Any chance at

joy sailed wide.

It was Bradley, or “Badly” to us, because bullying proved

his only skill.

There I lay in the dirt—vulnerable outside my customary

summer home, Spencer’s jeans pocket. My brilliant blue

cat’s eye sparkled. Bradley arrived, pushed into our circle,

and insisted we play for keepsies. The game ended just

minutes later when Bradley cried “cheater!”—creating

disarray while he scooped up scattered mibs.

He targeted me, shoving Spencer aside as he stormed off,

later to deposit me in a marble jar on his dresser. Would I

ever see Spencer’s jeans pocket again?

Except for a jasper aggie and me, which he sometimes

held up to the light, Bradley paid little attention to his

marble collection. He appeared to have few interests and

looked alone and small in his large bedroom.

I sorely missed the click-clacking of marbles skipping and

streaking across the dirt, hurried on by our shooters! But

Spencer hadn’t forgotten me. Not long after our separation, I

heard him talking to Bradley’s mom, who shortly

accompanied him into Bradley’s room.

“Do you see it in his marble jar over there?”

Spencer spotted me immediately.

“I’m so sorry Brad took your marble. He’ll get a good

talking-to when he gets back, and I’ll be sure he

apologizes.”

So back to Spencer I went, comfortable once more in his

jeans pocket.

No apology followed. Spencer avoided Bradley, and

except for the bad luck of being grouped in the same swim

class, all might have been forgotten.

While Spencer showered off after class one morning,

Bradley patted down Spencer’s jeans, discovering me—and

back to Bradley’s house I went, this time confined to

Bradley’s locked treasure box containing a few ball cards, a

silver dollar, a Lego figure, and matches.

I seldom glimpsed daylight. Bradley never reached in for

me. As seasons crawled by, he no longer turned to his

treasure box. When finally he did, I couldn’t believe how

much he’d grown! His long fingers rummaged through the

contents of the box, threw away several items, then rolled

me about his fingers.

“My bad. Forgot about you!”

Had he grown a conscience? With me in his pocket, he

biked over to Spencer’s house, furtively flipped me onto the

front porch, and hurried off.

Badly played! Spencer no longer lived there. No one did.

Soon after, the city leveled the house and paved the lot—

burying me eight inches below daylight.

The end of me? I play the long game. They don’t make

concrete like they used to. Already a crack has formed

overhead—my voice, freed! A glass marble like me can

survive several hundred thousand years. Though, by then,

will people still be playing marbles? Will there even be

people?

Certainly it’ll be a brave new world. Who better suited to

see it than a blue cat’s eye?

© InspiredImages - Pixabay.com


Rock

What the Rock Said to the Girl with the Crayons

By Lisa Roullard

A rectangular frog! you said

as you greened me.

I now dream as pond.

Patch of lawn.

You knew—you knew!

I wanted

to be blanketed green.

Then you gave me a cat!

I love that.

Drew his back on my back; I’ve named him Red.

His tail hugs my sides

with twitch and tickle.

Again, the warm shade

of your hands. More crayon

and Red’s face peeks from my front.

Black eyes keeping watch for mice

with whiskers like stars, you said.

I am motored with purring.

The ground is still mine.

Tanya - stock.adobe.com


Painting

She wriggled her fingers

and the world

around me swirled

ever smaller.

I became flattened

to the wall, my lines

filled with the smell

of Winton oils.

Ultramarine blue

filled my background,

and a gold-threaded

McNelis knotwork frame

grasped my edges.

I had begun to object

when her nose

twitched. My Cadmium

red lips stoppered,

my movements

stilled. And all I

had left was the ability

to watch what

passed before me.

Now I hang

here in this museum

where people

just sit and stare

at me, never

even telling me

what year

it is or whether

Lionel Adalbert

Bagration Felix

Kieseritzky won

the match.

Sergii Moscaliuk - stock.adobe.com

luchschenF - stock.adobe.com

Cursed

By Kat Terban


Timbrel

Mark Pierce - stock.adobe.com

Making Music

By Meryl Baer

I

long to dance. I love helping my partner’s mind wander

far afield as she escapes sensible boundaries. But now I

feel forgotten. I sit on a shelf in her room in plain sight,

ignored. Direct sunlight never embraces me. Fake light and

shadow surround me, day after day, as I lie still. I need to

move. Timbrels are made to dance, never alone of course,

always with human partners. Nowadays they call me a

tambourine, but that doesn’t matter. Whatever called, I

move and make music.

I don’t remember when my human and I got together.

Years ago. I was newly created, my bells silvery and shiny,

their jangle, jangle loud and strong, my membrane tightly

fastened to my plastic rim. She would don one of her long

multi-colored gypsy skirts and bohemian blouse, grab me

off the shelf and take off. As soon as the music blared we

began to dance, prancing around the room, adding a shimmy

and a spin, leaping about and laughing.

We were a team creating joyful noise and dance, in sync

with the music, and, if only for a few minutes, nothing else

mattered. We didn’t care if we were good, because we

weren’t. We enjoyed the carefree sense of freedom

movement produced. Following precise choreographed steps

was less important than delighting in the moment, except

when she danced with her group. Then she got nervous and

annoyed at herself when she mis-stepped.

One day I heard them – the zills, those metal round

things attached to her fingers that she clanged together. She

was practicing and never realized how sad they made me.

She could use both of us, but not at the same time. But like

me, the zills now sit silent and motionless in a plastic bag in

her drawer.

Her life altered course and she left her last group, the

Daughters of Terpsichore, for other activities, some taking

her far away from me for days or weeks at a time. I lost her.

She got too busy with unimportant stuff and consigned me

to the bookshelf. She forgot about the music and the

lightness and sheer joy of movement.

She could still dance. I know she could. She has slowed

down, sleeps more, doesn’t stand up straight, makes funny

groaning sounds especially when something bothers her, like

her back. Her energy level is not what it used to be, but I

don’t mind. I wish she would pick me up and use me. I want

to play my music again.

I became hopeful we would dance together again a few

months ago. She bought tap shoes and began to learn a new

way to move. I know she liked it. She seemed happy and

calm and yes – joyful – when returning from a lesson.

But suddenly the classes stopped. Almost everything she

did stopped. Home a lot now, she rarely dances. I overhear

bits and pieces about a sickness, but she isn’t sick, and how

she must stay away from people. So sad.

How much time before she can’t dance even if she

tried? No matter how much she wants to. I wish I could

shout, “Pick me up and shake me, dance with me, have fun

with me. I am a timbrel born to move.”

What will become of me? Will she get rid of me,

relegate me to a Goodwill bag one day? I see her glance at

me, and infrequently she picks me up and runs her hands

over my bells. Recently she took me out of my prison room

and into the light – the kitchen. I heard voices sing and on a

screen people clapped, moved their heads and smiled. She

began rocking back and forth and once again held me high.

We made a festive racket and were, for a few fleeting

minutes, as one again.

I miss our togetherness, and I know she does too.



Virginia Amis - stock.adobe.com

Tree

Dragon

By Virginia Amis

Come on down. I promise I won’t hurt you again.”

“ Even as I spoke the words I could not be sure they were

true. My instincts to release a fiery breath, which grew more

prominent each passing hour, fought with my strong desire

to keep a small defenseless friend. I twisted my long, scaly

neck upward from the unearthed cedar roots that had freed

me into life, straining to see movement in the canopy above,

hoping my expression conveyed friendliness. A bit of sky

peaked through, giving me a better view. Was that him? My

heart pounded. Nothing. Where had he gone?

Hunger gnawed at my belly. I needed food, but I did

not want to leave this place to hunt. I had to fight the

urge. We could forage together later, Squirrel and me, after

he came back. After he forgave me. He could teach me to

like seeds and nuts. If he would only come back.

All had been dark for me before two days and nights

ago when a fierce storm’s winds pushed at a one hundredfoot

tree’s branches so hard that the old girl, whose snarling

roots held me beneath the earth, gave away to defeat, her tall

trunk crashing to the forest floor, snapping saplings in its

path, dark green ferns crushed under its girth. I remembered

the blinding flash of my awakening. I had been asleep for

fifty years, a forced slumber. The spell broke when the tree

fell.

A group of small gray squirrels dove from the tree

before it concussed, saving themselves, relocating to more

stable accommodations on the adjacent maple, shorter but

able to withstand the tempest. One of them had become my

friend, at least until last night.

My initial waking moments had been quiet, as though

all creation was holding its breath to see what I would

do. I’d unfurled my contorted shape and rediscovered my

body, sleek neck, long tail, stubby arms with sharp claws,

powerful legs. My back itched where broad wings expanded.

“I’m a dragon,” I remembered, suddenly proud. “A

magnificent being.”

“You’re one of a kind,” a brave squirrel with black

paws had said on my second day. It stood on its hind legs a

good distance away, next to a hole in the maple it had

adopted. Other squirrels squawked and barked warnings at

the black-pawed one, who seemed the bravest of them all.

“What did you say?” I’d demanded, testing my

voice. It came out as a crackling roar. The brave squirrel

ran away at first, startled by my voice, but crept slowly back

to its original branch, curiosity overcoming fear. I named

him Squirrel.

I’d thought him brave to speak to me, a large beast who

could devour him in single lick. “How can that be,” I’d

asked, wanting to engage after so long a silence. “There are

lots of squirrels in this forest. Why aren’t there lots of

dragons?” My voice steadied the more I used it.

“All gone a long time ago,” was all Squirrel

said. “Don’t you remember?”

I didn’t remember. “What do you know? Can you tell

me what happened?”

Squirrel chattered something unintelligible. The other

squirrels joined him, adding barks. “I’m far too young to

remember fifty years ago,” he said. “I only know from the

stories I’ve heard. Dragons were a menace, destroying the

woods with their burning breath. Then, the story goes, a

huge machine came and took them all away. I don’t know

what happened to them.”

Sorrow gripped my heart. No other dragons! How

could that be true? Who would be my mate, raise a family

with me? How could I be the last?

My throat ached for a drink. Turning my back on the

squirrel, I pushed through the forest growth and followed the

sound of water coming from a creek. Bending my snout

low, I drank the cool liquid, tasting its sweetness. When I’d

quenched my thirst I returned to the upturned cedar

tree. Squirrel remained on his perch.

“If dragons were so fierce, why aren’t you afraid of

me?” I asked my new acquaintance in a tone too harsh, but

understandable from the news I’d been given.

“I don’t know yet,” Squirrel replied. “I’m still

gauging. Everyone else says I should run for my life.”

I scratched my scales against a rock, fighting the urge

to rumble a sound of pure satisfaction for fear it would make

Squirrel run. No matter what, it felt good to have a

conversation after fifty years of silence.

“Sometimes, I scratch my back against a tree. It feels

good.” Squirrel demonstrated by rubbing his fur on the

maple. “I liked the cedar better, though. Rougher makes a

better scratch.”

He looked comical, but I could not laugh. One of a

kind. That thought began to take up residence in my brain.

Alone. None like me left. What had I expected after fifty

years?

Last night Squirrel had come down from the

tree. We’d been talking for two days. I’d urged him to trust

me, assured him I wouldn’t harm him. Finally convinced, he

came slowly. I kept still. His small body shook with fear,

but his bravery let him come closer until his little nose

touched the tip of mine. I tried not to move, letting him gain

confidence. I had laid my face on the ground, letting him

touch my ear with his black paws. So small, the feeling

barely registered. He came closer, stretching so his front

paws reached upwards on my face and his small belly fell

against my skin.

Before I realized it, a warmth spread throughout my

body, the memory of my mother stroking my face. My heart

beat faster. I could not contain my joy. It had been fifty

years since another had touched me. Before I knew it, I’d

stood up on my hind legs and roared in pure delight,

knocking Squirrel into the undergrowth, fire escaping from

my snout singing the branches of Squirrel’s new

tree. Sparks sent his fellow squirrels racing into the

night. One of them fell lifeless from the tree.

I had not seen Squirrel since. He and the others had

moved to another tree, I guessed. He’d never come to say

good bye. I’d never had the chance to say “I’m

sorry.” Regret, longing and loneliness seeped into my coldblooded

limbs as I inhaled the forest scents. No more

dragons. One of a kind. A friend made and lost. All felt

lifeless.

A week later, another storm came to the woods. I

found refuge in a depression at the base of a solid, sturdy

cedar. Crawling in, I turned my head away from the rest of

the forest, and accepted my fate, knowing I would never

have another friend.


Brownfield Fence

Flint’s Brownfield Fence

By Melodie Bolt

I perch on the corner regarding your messy bun, loose and lopsided,

fingers tucking henna strands in place. When the light flicks Kelly,

your rusty-quarter-panel Impala surges forward. To work, I imagine.

Once my inner acres brimmed with booted feet, the stamping of metal,

and bright spark welds. So much time dressed my building’s windows

and auto windshields as though my plant would stand forever—

the winter dark held at bay by headlights on drowsy snow;

the summer rays searing cigarette corpses on concrete.

But now at night, I see Orion working among the union of constellations

across the dark flocked sky. During the day, cars like yours, once built

within my bricks, drive onward like seeds of a tree scattered on the road.

Silent Corners - stock.adobe.com


Kilim

Kilim

By paul Bluestein

Go ahead.

Walk all over me.

I don’t mind.

I promise not to think of you as unkind.

But I do wish you would wipe off your shoes

so as to not muddy my yellows and blues.

I’ve come all the way from a far, foreign land

wishing only to give you a warm place to stand.

I’ve been trod on by claw,

by paw and by hoof

but still have preserved my warp and my woof.

So if you mistreat me, I bid you beware

lest the floors of your house find themselves bare.

EnginKorkmaz-stock.adobe.com


Bridge

The Tobin

by Jen Mierisch

arrett wasn’t what Susan expected. Obviously. Humans

G are hilarious if you ask me. They think they’re so in

control of themselves, but their faces show everything. It’s

one of my greatest sources of entertainment. That, and the

way they behave on boats after a few Coronas.

Ninety meters below us, the Mystic River glittered. Susan

clung to my railing and looked Garrett up and down. She’d

expected Death. Her face said it all: Since when does Death

wear jeans and work boots?

Well, I got news for ya, sweetheart. Death doesn’t come

for you unless you actually jump off. Believe me, I know.

Garrett knew her, though. I’d heard him talking to the other

guys from the MDOT crew.

They were all standing around, looking up at me, when

Garrett arrived. Even McCarthy. If Slave Driver McCarthy

was standing around, you knew something was wrong.

Garrett squinted into the sunlight.

“Shit,” he said. “SHIT.”

“Garry? Whaddya know her or something?” His buddy,

Rick.

“Yeah, man.” Garrett exhaled, wiped a hand over his face.

“That’s Susan Barducci. You know. Dale Barducci’s wife.”

“Dale Barducci? That asshole that left his family and ran

off with the…”

“Yep.”

“How do you know her?”

“From the block, when we were kids. She used to babysit

me and Henry.”

“Aw, shit. Sorry, man.”

“You need to go up there.” McCarthy.

“What?”

“If you know her, get up there right now. Get her down.”

“Get her down? What… you mean, like, talk her out of

it?”

“Yeah, that’s what I mean, smarty. Get your ass up there.”

Garrett sputtered. “Me? I … Shouldn’t the police get her

down?”

The look on McCarthy’s face shut Garrett up. The project

was eight weeks behind schedule. They both knew what

impact a bridge closure would have. Or a crime scene investigation.

Garrett’s face was priceless. I tell ya, I heard it like he said

it right to me. This shit is not in my job description.

He climbed up, though.

Sat above her.

Said her name.

She was so surprised, she almost tumbled off my steel

right then and there.

“SHIT.” His body tensed to spring. But she caught herself.

He took a breath.

“Sorry,” he said. “Hey. I’m Garrett. Remember me?”

Her eyes closed. Her fingers gripped the rails. He could

see her face, stained with salty tracks where tears had been.

“Fuck you,” she said.

“Garrett. From Front Street,” he barreled on. His face said

it all. What the hell am I doing? Making small talk with a

woman who’s about to kill herself?

“Please go away,” she said.

“Remember when you used to come over and play cards

with me and Henry?” he blurted.

Her eyes stayed shut.

“You always won. Well, you woulda won, but you usually

let me win… Hey, remember those cupcakes you used to

make for us? Dang, those were good. Nobody ever cooked

for us like that. I bet your kids love it when you make

those.”

She started crying.

“You told the best jokes,” he said. “I swear I learned half

my jokes from you. Remember how Henry asked for dirty

jokes? And you said, ‘You better straighten up and fly right,

mister’.”

Her face crumpled. But she wasn’t jumping.

“Look,” he said suddenly. “Screw Dale. He’s a scumbag,

allright? If he doesn’t know what he’s got, well… he’s an

idiot. But he’s not worth jumping off a bridge for. Don’t do

that. You’re better than that. You are worth more than that.

Okay?”

She was crying hard now. But still not jumping.

Brazenly, he reached out a hand. “Come on, okay? Let’s

go. Let’s get you back to your kids.”

She looked at Garrett, then at the water.

“Remember when you used to get me down off the monkey

bars, all those times Henry dared me to climb up there?

Well, I guess today it’s my turn, allright?”

She looked at his hand.

“Come on, Susan. Let’s go home.”

ike I said, humans are funny. They do the dumbest stuff.

L Yet they seem to understand what it means to be on a

precipice, unable to move, stretched between what went before

and what might be next. They feel the power of that inbetween

space. Sometimes, they jump. Other times, the last

one they expect is the first one to help them down.

Overall, I’ll take humans any day of the week.

Now don’t get me started on seagulls.

kankankavee - stock.adobe.com


Raven

Waterfowl Play

by Jen Mierisch

t was a beautiful evening for an ugly assignment. The

I setting sun gleamed off the pond, painted the willows

gold, and deepened the shadows in the woods.

Landing several yards away, I approached the ducks

slowly, to show I wasn’t after their juveniles. I caught a few

glares from the elders. Word was, this flock wasn’t fond of

outsiders, particularly if that outsider was a raven.

“Detective Corva Kazynski,” I introduced myself. “I’m

here to—"

The scene burst into chaos as the ducks leaped into the air,

screeching. Feathers whirled as the flock climbed sloppily

into the sky.

Nice to meet you, too, I thought, rapidly taking flight

myself. From an evergreen branch, I observed what had

broken up the party. Two red foxes skidded to a stop on the

empty grass, then skulked away. Goddamn foxes. Now I’d

have to wait hours until the flock recovered its collective

wits.

I tried not to take it as a sign of how this case was going to

go. Investigating a murder was unpleasant enough without

predators adding to the body count.

I’d already ruled out foxes as the perps this time. The

mallard, Algernon, age 4, father of thirty, had been mauled,

his corpse dropped from the air to hit the dirt next to his

sleeping family. Someone wanted that guy dead, not for

dinner.

Guess I was moving on to my next potential eyewitnesses,

a flock of mute swans. I sighed. You wouldn’t believe how

hard it is to get those guys to talk.

One of them was chatty, though. Maybe she had some

trumpeter swan in her lineage somewhere. Or maybe she

was just bored.

“Yeah, I’ve seen those ducks,” she said, neck arching as

she regarded me.

Her mate hovered nearby, giving me the side-eye. Man,

these guys were uptight.

“Algernon. Yes. He was not around often,” she said. “Left

Hermione to raise the hatchlings alone.”

“Have you seen him recently? Say, the night of August

17?”

Moonlight gleamed off her white feathers as she glided

through the water.

“How could I see him? He takes off for weeks. It was the

same with Julianne, and Maline before her. He would mate

with anything if it had a cute tail. Switching partners every

season. It’s disgusting.”

I shrugged. “Not everybody mates for life.”

“Hmph,” she replied, bill in the air.

This was going nowhere. I thanked the dame and took off

to find a roost for the night.

While preening my feathers, I mulled things over. What if

a human had done the deed? We’d found no hunters’ bullets

in Algernon. But I’d seen those metal boxes people used for

flight. Those rotating pieces could do serious damage to a

bird. I shuddered.

Then I realized I wasn’t alone. “That you, Joe?”

“In the flesh.”

It was pitch black now, clouds masking the moon. Not that

I could have seen his silky black feathers anyway.

“Good to hear your voice, Joe.”

“How’s the case coming?”

I told him about my chat with the swan. “Maybe she’s

onto something,” I said. “A jealous mate? Algernon seemed

to have quite a few of those.”

“Could be.” His voice dropped. “I know I’d be jealous of

you.”

“Flirting, Joe? Thought this was a business trip for you?”

He chuckled. “Listen, I came to give you a tip. Head west

and talk to some of those domesticated folks. We got a

report of a disturbance in that area.”

I left at dawn, passing the end of the forest and some open

land leading to a farm. From the air, I could see a cow, pigs,

chickens, a small pond.

I landed on the railing of the pigs’ pen, noting their forlorn

faces.

“Did you folks have some trouble?” I inquired.

“They got cooked last night. All of them,” said a sow,

eyes wide, nodding at the smokehouse, where a thin gray

plume curled heavenward.

“Who, honey?”

“We had four,” she said. “Until the killers came from the

sky. I can’t bear to look at that empty pond.”

That’s when the pieces fell into place. He would mate with

anything. Killers from the sky. The scowls on the faces of

the ducks’ elders.

They fessed right up when I cornered them. Seemed

almost proud of what they’d done. “We do not mate

with domestics. The bloodline must be pure! Algernon was a

monster. Good instinct gone bad!”

They’re better off behind bars. Say what you will about

instinct, this wasn’t the first time my intuition helped me

solve a case. Sometimes, you just have to wing it.

Lulz - stock.adobe.com


Cat

Cleopatra Speaks Her Truth

By Joan Mazza

The humans tending my farm call me Cleo,

don’t know my birth name is Cleopatra. From

the top of my favorite post, I survey my kingdom,

high above the mice that provide me exercise

and the occasional prize instead of canned food.

(The humans wouldn’t dare to serve dry kibble.)

These hundred acres, milking cows, and steers

are mine, twenty chickens, two geese to warn

intruders off. My sleeping spots are myriad, warm

and dry in hay or where Old Dog shares his bed

on snowy nights. You tell me I’m a lucky cat

to be free to roam, safe among others of my species.

To be clear: I am Queen. That little moose who came

to smooch—closing in without an invitation is a juvenile

delinquent who’s yet to learn my rules. Riled, I swiped

him with my claws to let him know his place. I say

this so you’ll take it as a warning. You’re trespassing.

fotokate—stock.adobe.com


Cat

A Feline Whine

By Jane Blanchard

You used to leave me home alone

While you were off at work.

I bided time here on my own

Yet never went berserk.

Now you stay with me night and day

Week after endless week.

We get in one another’s way,

Then fall out, so to speak.

Such constant human company

Is more than I deserve.

Your calls and conferences, you see,

Disturb me nerve by nerve.

You do keep fresh food in my bowl,

Clean litter in my box.

With luck, we each may reach the goal

Of living past this pox.

September - stock.adobe.com


Cats

Her Cats

By Rikki Santer

Here’s to us— her troika

of feline sisters, our

days a button jar of

naps. Adopted strays,

arbitrators of our own

plots: Black Persian

boyish & coy; Calico

a camisole in a larynx;

Tortie defiant & cynical,

broken from another home.

She’s the straight player who

sets up our catitude for

canned pea juice, tampon

string toys, reruns of Animal

Planet’s My Cat From Hell.

She wonders how we roam

our forests of thoughts. We,

geometry of goddesses

worthy of Chekov, Alvarez

& Autsin; cat lives lived

more honestly than hers.

Evdoha - stock.adobe.com

Rikki Santer’s poetry has appeared in numerous publications both nationally and abroad including Ms. Magazine, Poetry

East, The Journal of American Poetry, Hotel Amerika, Crab Orchard Review, Grimm, Slipstream and The Main Street

Rag. Her work has received many honors including five Pushcart and three Ohioana book award nominations as well as a

fellowship from the National Endowment for the Humanities. Her eighth collection, Drop Jaw, inspired by the art of

ventriloquism, was published by NightBallet Press in the spring. Please contact her through her

website: www.rikkisanter.com


Dust Mite

Prayer from a Dust Mite

By Rick Swann

Dear Human, please hear us as we give our thanks

for all you provide: we thank you for our home

which is toasty warm; we thank you for the tasty

manna from heaven which each night falls

and sustains us; and we thank you for the oils

and moisture that help us thrive. Your snow-white

flakes are the most tender and delectable

of any skin. Believe us when we say we eat

each one over and over again so that no bit

of goodness is ever wasted. We praise you

for hearing our prayers and never bringing

the cataclysmic floods that would destroy us all.

And we laud you for holding back the searing

winds and deathly heat tumblings that usually

follow. It is only because of your blessed

munificence that we, your followers, proliferate.

As we grow in numbers, believe us when we say

we spread your word. We forever tremble

in your presence and ask for your continued favor.

Oh, Human, we worship you and only you.

Amen.

Mosquito

Mosquito Koan

By Rick Swann

I admit I’m a whiner,

but I’m stuck in a life

I never asked for.

I wanted a life

of reflection and choice,

not one where

I have no control:

driven crazy

by your breathing,

forced into a feeding

frenzy, and driven

by the need to nourish

my babies so they

will flourish.

And is that too much

to ask? Food for babies?

I’m just a mother

trying to provide.

I have a moral code;

I do play fair—

unlike ticks or fleas

you know I’m here,

no sneaking bites

for me. And I give

thanks when thanks

are due. So, as I take

my leave, I thank you

for your blood

and so much more,

because you’ve

answered the riddle

that’s been stumping

me: What is the sound

of one hand clapping?

I now know it’s your

incessant slapping.

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Cow

The Cow Who Ate the Wild Mushrooms

By Richard Weaver

I was in the field with a herd of others who graze

and groan and moan, after the recent rain and subsequent

sunshine. Unlike them, I have a theory, a hypothesis,

a speculation or suspicion, a sparkling neon Las Vegas dream,

a presumption of possibilities, perhaps probables, but more likely

a hunch that this field where I linger, loiter, wander and wamble,

never saunter or potter, but have been known to roam,

said field has grown in size, in stature, has swelled to swallow

the moon I have no ambition to leap or eat. Such thinking

I keep to myself, safe in a rivulet of consciousness

newly fashioned, bereft of afterbirth and affixed to no green menu.

The cow who ate the mushrooms has a methane moment.

After a return to consciousness, she sits down to muse, to ooze,

to meander in mind, to reconsider previously chewed thoughts.

In the museum of memories, she swishes her tail to dust and freshen.

Something about a predatory hammer flashes as she grazes,

her vision best when head lowest. Such is the life of a prey animal

with little depth perception. Tractor, rushing train, or trailing puma,

all the same blurry menace. To run away is to go anywhere

except ahead, head bobbing up and down in concentration.

Meditation. Contemplation. Bovine divination is never linear.

Always egg-shaped circular. Like the famed matador’s bull

they favor longer wavelengths - yellow, orange, and red over blue or green.

The cow who ate snorts awake, wakened

to a smell five miles away. The aroma of cheap beer tossed

from moving vehicles, brats from a frat, out for a bout

of pranking. Cow-tipping they call it. Her mates asleep now,

standing up as usual, digesting a bathtub of daylong chewings,

mindless at math and the science of the obvious. Oblivious.

The flashing lights echo. Noise accelerates. Pierces the dark.

To kneel on all fours. To bow one’s noble head. To low and moan

as if dreaming of winter hay or warm milking fingers. Or to deny

the new vision and roar lion-like, to charge as a rogue elephant.

To unleash the bull beast that surely lingers in the deep genes.

Such choices. So little time. So many moments to divide into seconds.

The swirling randomness that says, Choose me. Choose me.

Change now. Evolve. And never look back.

The author lives in Baltimore where he volunteers with the Maryland Book Bank, CityLit, the Baltimore Book

Festival, and is the poet-in-residence at the James Joyce Irish Pub. Recent pubs: Free State, Mad Swirl, Spank

the carp, Triggerfish, and Magnolia Review. He is the author of The Stars undone (Duende Press, 1992). Five

poems from his Islander MS became the libretto for a symphony, Of Sea and Stars (2005), performed 4 times

to date.


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Hippopotamus

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Hippo Noir

By Richard Agemo

p to my snout in the wet space, I stare at the guys

U with two legs, smell their sweet odors, hear their

weird sounds, their noise still surrounding me as I sink

down, down, down. Deep in the murky wetness I

search for Mom, anxious to catch her scent, alert for

her call. I float up, up, up, wondering where she’s

gone.

The two legs who squawks is the one who tosses

hay over the trees, trees that are thin, branchless, and

hard as rocks, and they stand in a line past which I

can’t walk. Mom gets mad at those trees because she

can’t push them around. Once she broke a tooth on

one and really got mad, and bashed that tree with her

head over and over again.

Two legs is throwing more hay, its fragrance pulling

me out of the wet space as it flies over the trees,

those stiff hard things that trap Mom and me. But

where is she? Maybe she found a path around them or

got out some other way—is two legs involved?

I stuff my snout in the hay. As my teeth grind

away, my sight stays fixed on the other side of the

trees and all the two legs who are laughing at me.

What’s so funny? Get a little closer and I’ll put my

teeth on you . . . see? Take a good look at them—

they’re strong and sharp, ready to snap, and they’ll

drag you into the wet space where you can’t breathe.

Then let’s hear you laugh.

I last saw Mom resting on her side on a pile of

hay, which was strange, because her mouth was wide

open and her eyes were shut, and I’d never seen her

sleep that way. I didn’t want to wake her, so I slept

alone in the wet space. When I awoke, she was gone.

Now, I peer beyond the trees to the far side of the

dry space, looking for her. The big gray guys are flapping

their ears, while weird snakes droop from their

faces and scoop hay into their flabby mouths. Maybe

the big gray guys found a gap in the trees and snuck in

while I was asleep. They took Mom by surprise, knelt

on her, and made her their feast.


You, big guys, yeah, you. I’m on to you, see? And

given the chance I’ll rip your ears off with my teeth,

see?

Mom once showed me how it’s done, and her

chomp was so quick I barely saw it coming. She

dropped the hairy piece of flesh and scolded, son,

that’s your ear, and I’ll tear off the other one if you

ever climb on me again. The bite stung for a long

time, but Mom and I made up, or so I thought. Maybe

she’s still mad at me and decided to leave, but how did

she get beyond the row of trees?

I slip into the wet space and swim round and

round, and push some dark stuff out of me that makes

a dark cloud. I want to sleep, but I can’t, thinking

Mom’s still mad at me. Maybe she did push her way

through the trees. Maybe the big gray guys had nothing

to do with her leaving.

I stop, float, and stare at a bunch of two legs.

One’s yapping while holding something shiny and

smooth—wait, is that a tooth?

I leave the wet space and walk to the hard trees,

coming as close as I can . . . yes, that is a tooth . . . the

curved shape, the large size . . . I’ve seen it before . . .

the yellow color, the missing tip . . . no mistake, that

tooth is Mom’s.

Hey two legs, where’s the rest of her?

I hate how two legs is pawing the tooth, rubbing it,

and letting others rub it, too. I’d like to take all them

down, down, down. But they all turn and leave, and I

start doubting whether I’ll see Mom ever again, her

black eyes and her flab, so beautiful and shiny.

No. Mom is not coming back and somebody’s to

blame. Two legs could have grabbed her while I was

below in the wet space. Or it was the big gray guys.

Wanting to steal my space, they took Mom out first.

You fatsos over there, want to fight? Well, let’s do

it. I’ll take on every one of you.

But the cowards just stare at me as the snakes

swing hay into their mouths. I slide into the wetness

and go deep. A new sound, a screech, reminds me of

the noise made by those strange snakes, and all at once

there’s a thud. I float up to see what’s wrong.

On the ground sits a huge rock I’ve never seen

before, long and tall with flat sides, and one side is all

black, like a hole. I climb out, thinking it may not be a

rock but instead some dangerous beast. Ready to attack,

I fix my gaze on it and approach slowly. The

sweet aroma of hay fills me with hunger, so I keep

moving toward it . . . one more step takes me into the

hole and, sure enough, there’s the hay.

A couple of two legs begin squawking. I turn

around. They’re pointing at me and gawking, but I

don’t care because I like this hole. It’s dark. It’s cool.

It’s got hay.

And I must claim it as mine.

I step backwards until my rear pokes out of the

hole. Here, you two legs, have a nice view of my butt

as I flap my tail and push out some dark stuff. You

jump back, good idea, now you know who’s in charge.

Get out of my sight, because this place is mine, all

mine, see?

I leave the hole, slip into the wet space, and search

again for Mom. The big gray guys and the two legs

may have worked together to get rid of her, and I’m

next on their list. I get it now—they cut a deal to split

up this space after I’m gone.

Well, I’m ready, bring it on.

As I leave the wetness, a bunch of two legs creep

behind the trees. If I could only put my teeth on

them ... but I’ll need food and rest before the fight. I

hurry back to the hole and eat a pile of hay, and then

close my eyes and dream about Mom.

She fills the whole sky and is so huge she can’t

move. When our eyes meet, she shakes her ears and

shows me her teeth, and I can tell she’s scared because

she lets loose a long screech, the kind the snakes

make. I tell her, Mom, please stop, and then I wake

up, but the screech goes on, and I sense that I’m going

go up, up, up. I drop my head, charge, and strike

something hard, but nothing budges, so I strike again

and again, the way Mom did against the tree.

Now my head hurts. And I’m trapped in the dark.

Everything stops for a moment, even the awful

screech, and then starts, but this time I’m moving

down, down, down before landing with a thud. A light

shines through a hole in the dark, yet when I look I

don’t see any more trees. So this is how Mom did it,

the big guys weren’t involved after all. No, only a few

two legs are there, squawking as usual.

Once I’m out of this hole, the trees won’t trap me

anymore. I’ll be with Mom, my snout sniffing her rich

aroma, our cheeks stroking each other’s slime as we

grunt with joy. Don’t laugh at me, two legs. She may

not have all of her teeth, but she’s still my Mom . . .

see?

Richard Agemo writes short stories in a variety of genres, novels exploring alternative views of history, and blog

posts about Shakespeare. He lives on Capitol Hill in Washington, DC, and has frequently visited the National Zoo,

which helps him tune out politics.


Raccoon

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Night Sharers

By Ed Ahern

ake. New biters under fur. Scratch with hind paw.

W Bloody tick drops out. Eat it.

Stretch all four legs. Fur ruffs. Cold seeps in. Cold as

frozen water. No wind inside log walls. And no food.

Hungry. Dark soon. Go outside. Hunt. Come back through

rot hole first light.

Wail from dead-stink beast in crawl space, hiding until

light goes away. Hackles rise, subside. Night sharers. Beast

does not hunt this raccoon. Beast hunts man. Kills but does

not eat. Not understanding why not. Ignore.

Stretch again, on perch high above flat-wood manground.

Stiff scrabble outward on flat branch toward wall

of logs. Old. Five cold times lived through, slower now,

vision fading. Faint memory of last mating with raccoon

sow.

Crack of splintering wood. Stop. Crouch. Listen. Man

noises- thudding paw falls, rumbling mouth sounds. Scurry

back onto perch, where flat branches come together in

middle of open space. Man-grunts below from inside log

walls.

“Damn bad idea, Jimmy.”

“Only if he catches us.”

“What if he buried it?”

“Fifty keys of heroin? Not a chance, Al, he had no

time. It’s somewhere in this cabin. What the hell is that

stink? Smells like stale piss.”

Peek over edge of perch. Two man-males. Spoors of

fear-sweat. And smells of man food- burnt fat and sugar.

Drool.

“Got to hurry, Al. We’re the ones brought him here.

Tomorrow morning, we’re not around, he’s looking for us

with that knife of his.”

“We’re long gone before then.”

“Al, your mind’s drug rotted. He didn’t put the

package next to the front door. We gotta look hard.”

“Okay, but I’m starving. Let’s eat what we brought.

Been a long time since breakfast.”

Men pull food out of pouch. Eat. Odors of meat,

sweetness, yeasty wet. Nothing yet rancid.

“Finish your beer, Al. We need to find the dope soon.”

Fading sun through clear parts of log wall. Men pick

up black sticks with curved end.

“I’ll jimmy up some floor boards, Al. You take the

bedroom.”

Larger man jams point end of hard stick into floor,

pushes down. Screeching wood. Makes loud mouth noise.

“Al, you hear me?”

“Yeah.”

“There’s a crawl space under here. We don’t find the

heroin we gotta look down there.”

“Terrific.”

Dead-stink beast wails like cornered possum, but still

too light for it to emerge.



Crow

“What the hell was that, Jimmy? Sounded like

somebody dying.”

“I didn’t hear nothing, get back to work.”

Beast softly snicks teeth. Men making too noisy, do

not hear.

Men paw-clump back and forth, dumping things onto

wood ground. Sound of brittle things breaking.

“You search the bathroom?”

“Yeah. Nothing in the bedroom either. Crap, Al,

there’s too much dope to hide it easy, where the hell could

he have put it?”

“Maybe he split the parcel up. Check the wall logs.”

Men slam sticks into mound walls, splintering wood,

Ragged breathing stinks of wet yeast. Beast silent.

Waiting. Men come together in middle of man ground.

“Nothing.”

“Same. All right Jimmy, all that’s left is the crawl

space. We can drop down through the hole I made.”

“Hell. You first. It’s getting dark. We’ll need the

headlamps.”

Sweeping yellow lights. Larger man bends back legs,

goes down onto wood, smaller man does same. Larger man

moves back legs and rump down into hole, drops onto dirt,

moves into darkness. Smaller man follows.

Beast is bat-shrill keening, fog-shifting. Too high

pitched, men cannot hear. Just dark enough for beast notalive.

Howls from men.

“Al! Help! Something just cut me! Shoot it”

“Shoot what, Jimmy? Shit! Both my legs got sliced”

Thunder roars from crawl space. Again. Again. Softer

yowls. Silence. Then keening from beast. Shrill-brittle,

hurts to hear. Louder still. Beast fog swirls up through

floor hole, screeing death as it circles floor. Then back into

crawl space.

Wait, no movement. Wait in stillness. Beast is still.

Yellow light from floor hole. Odors of man blood and scat.

And smells of man food. Hungry. Climb down from perch,

across flat branch, down log wall. Creep to edge of floor

hole. Reek of man blood and flesh. Tasty carrion. But beast

lurks. Turn. Go to man-food pouch. Rip open clear nottasty

skins. Gorge.

Faint light rising through clear wall parts. Climb back

up wall, across flat branch, onto perch. Settle onto thick,

clear skin of edged bundle other man put there. Spoor of

yellow insides reeks of not to be eaten, thick skin left

unripped. Stretch. Scratch. Curl up. Sleep.

Crow

By Susan Zeni

Sometimes in winter, I claw through worlds of early dark,

peck at the next marauding hawk,

pick among leftovers, my head held high,

indomitable dustwoman wheeling toward

the next meal, the next scrap of regard.

Sometimes in winter, my pals and me,

mobs of shrouded nuns,

pop the cork at dusk,

light up boney trees like candelabra-ed flames,

shoulder to shoulder, heart to hottie-heart,

rasp out craggy evensongs,

caw caw caw against the dying of the light,

until our puling hearts fill up again with sunup cockcrow

daybreak life.

Ed Ahern resumed writing after forty odd years in foreign

intelligence and international sales. He’s had over two

hundred fifty stories and poems published so far, and six

books. Ed works the other side of writing at Bewildering

Stories, where he sits on the review board and manages a

posse of six review editors.

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Leopard

I Have Become Leopard

By Arthur Davis

F

lies. Everywhere flies, biting, taunting, and sucking.

A haunting, whispering cloud following me into

sleep, pursuing every living creature long after

they've died. They are part of the landscape as are the grassy

plains, the wild brushfires, the lion, and rhinoceros—only

far less particular about where they graze.

Overhead a female hawk eagle searches for a meal that will

sustain her children until they're strong and sufficiently

trained to leave the nest. Under the fire of a searing African

sun, she will cruise between the valley below and the

vultures riding the crest of the warm currents above. Also

searching. This is a nomadic life of combing and

replenishing, as it has always been. I roll over onto my

stomach, split my jaw open, and stretch out my forepaws.

It's time to rise from the night and shake off the moisture

from my coat. To beat a trail, though today I will not graze

or forage unless game is readily available.

I rest back on my haunches, licking away the fire where the

lion's claw ripped into my right hindquarter. Flies again,

hunting for their morning meal, find my wound more than

they had hoped. I chase them away with my tongue. It is

soothing, and will cleanse. If it doesn't heal, I will die. Not

quickly, but all too soon.

Had I known the lioness was stalking the young Thomson’s

Gazelle, I would not have pursued. I had come upon a

fattened, spur-winged goose only the day before and was not

grasped with hunger. But my instincts would not permit me

to bypass such a satisfying opportunity.

Having wandered off from the herd, the gazelle was grazing

indifferently, as if it had abandoned reason and caution.

Possibly, in the turmoil of a chase, as if it had separated

from its mother. Or she had been taken by the pack of

spotted hyenas I saw canvassing the perimeter of the herd. I

crept to the fringe of tall grass and waited, vigilant that the

wind might still run against me. I thought the child was

alone. I was wrong. Almost fatally so.

I was close enough, and fortunately not so aggressive as to

launch myself sooner or I would have run headlong into the

lioness who leapt from the bushes just as I did. We

converged before either of us knew of the other's presence.

The lioness swung around, sweeping out defensively with

her forepaw as I spun and clawed myself to a halt. I've been

wounded worse. Once, as a goshawk in an arid land, I lost a

vital flight feather when a peregrine falcon shot from the sky

in a withering attack. As a crocodile, I ambushed a herd of

zebra crossing a swollen river and for my resolve was

savagely kicked, leaving the right side of my skull reeling in

pain.

That I have been more successful than injured had lead me

to my present path. I have killed so much game there is a

blur of squealing and twisting, of feathers and crying froth.

Pulsing squirts of blood crisscrossed my face and shot over

my back as I disemboweled my prey. This day, and the next

few, will decide if this life will end before I would have

liked. I have been many animals before. Flying, swimming,

slithering, tunneling, prowling—but never have I been the

leopard.

I move off from the swarms of flies that are drawn to my

wound and lethargy. The sun crested in the sky long ago.

But there will be no relief from the heat and the choking

dust sucked up by the swirling winds; not until nightfall

when the herds have eaten and satisfied themselves that are

safely through another day.

By then I would have ranged at the heels of gazelles,

gemsboks, wildebeests, and impalas, waiting along with the

lions and cheetahs and pack dogs until my turn and then cut

out the weakest, most infirmed. It does not matter if you live

in the air or water or roam in the dark for food as I do; the

weak, slow and inattentive live out their lives quicker than

most. And the lion does not draw a distinction between the

unlucky and those with questionable judgment.

I can survive many days without making a kill, though not

as long without water. I picked up the scent of water last

night but the racking wound forced me to discontinue my

drive. I sought refuge, sanctuary. It is too early to judge the

measure of my narrow escape. Though today the pain does

not feel as threatening. I can still see the lioness's open jaws.

Startled, her instinct was to flail out, defend herself and take

down the intruder with one vicious swipe with her paw;

indignant, annoyed that I had warned the gazelle, and almost

deprived her of an easy meal. Had I not been as agile, had

she not been, for just a second, indecisive as to whether she

wanted to pursue the gazelle or punish the intruder, I might

not be here—wound, hunger, thirst and all.

The wind shifts, a trio of suricates stand lookout on top of

their raised mounds searching the horizon for food and

danger. These mongooses are too far away and, at the mouth

of their burrow, unreachable. I have had them before, but

not as a leopard. And this sensation of knowledge rings

alone where before there was silence. I recall crushing the

neck of the mongoose and watched its life spread red around

my paws but only because the taste of it is less desirable

than most prey. A distinction I have never made before.

I

also recall slashing the throat of a newborn impala, also

not as the three-year-old leopard I am. These memories,



(Continued from page 43)

events that do not come to mind naturally, are easily

misplaced or overwhelmed by the immediacy of my journey

on the plains. Yet, there is a difference. If I survive this

wound, I might live long enough to understand. Though I do

not know what advantage that will give me when evading

those who pursue me, or locating those upon who I feed.

What I feel, the spirit of my past is different than before. In

the fact that I can recall a before, an image, events, escapes,

and kills assuming others forms, is something I have not

seen in the eyes of other animals. I have become aware of

myself, my life and circumstances and relevance that are

being fed by a force that I cannot clearly identify. Perhaps

that is best. My struggle must be confined to the present, not

distracted by speculation of my past.

Impala ahead! The pungent scent of their musk and

droppings is strong on the wind. As it will be for all the great

cats and those who plunder in pursuit and scavenge behind

their tailings. This lesson I learned from my mother.

Looking up, staring at the blood-soaked coil attached

between her shaking legs to a place where I began. It is a

vision I will never forget.

And it was in that same instant I recalled the male gharial I

was before this birth—and in moments of flight and recent

reflection, a bonobo, the pygmy chimpanzee, dancing from

limb to tree, delighting between the green canopy and gold

sky which left me with a freedom I've seldom found.

Now I am of the earth. Leaving scent and stalking scent.

Tethered to grass, scrub and sand I must make do with the

hearts of springbok, gazelle and eland and the ancestors of

those I've been. I prefer the sweet, gentle taste of ming

berries, the tight thickness of nuts found only high in the

forest, the lingering softness of bananas and tang of mangos.

Though springbok and gibbon seem preferable to fish and

floating carrion.

She severed the link between us with her teeth and washed

me with her tongue. We were one. For many days, we

remained close until I learned what she and my ancestors

had taken a lifetime to collect, and then, because of a lion's

flashing claw, it may not be enough.

I recognized her smell before anything. Her touch was new,

only her tongue was strange. I scampered to my feet,

momentarily blind, but already alert to her stirring. She was

vulnerable because I was at her side. And I, like all children,

would be for some time. She brought me kill, sacrificing

herself that I may be nourished and grow.

Her insides remained fresh to me until my maturity drove

me from the pack, or was it her natural insistence? That day

the sky blackened and roared, as would a wounded lion.

Rain fell for days after. I sought protection in a rocky

outcropping that sheltered me from the torrent and my loss.

Except for the light in my mother's eyes, I've never seen the

sparkle of comprehension in others that I see in pools of

watery reflection. The look in the eyes of macaws and

giraffes are quite similar. Spirits driven from one dawn to

the next dusk to spend the night in seclusion and not

succumb by accident or fate to the jaws of a more adept

predator. This difference troubles me. When left to my own,

to wander, to hunt, to establish my own territory, or to find a

mate, it is ever on my mind. Why do I question my

succession?

Another leopard joined her. They sniffed after each other but

the hesitation was perfunctory. It was her sister. She sniffed

me, establishing a link that instantly endowed me to her

brood. There were seven of us. Myself, my mother, her

sister, and her three offspring.

That is not unusual. Floating as a goshawk, I know that

leopards give birth to two or three cubs. Then I noticed the

difference. My aunt's twin girls are a season older than the

male who is not a week older than I. More protection for us

in the future, but a greater handicap now. Two adults torn

between five children. Many mouths to feed and protect

from lions and worse, and more deadly, the spotted hyenas.

With its solid build, high sloping shoulders, coarse coat, a

large muzzle and long teeth it is an ever-present threat. The

tan and reddish coat blends in with the scrub and parched

underbrush. The spotted hyena will take down a bull

wildebeest, and in packs that can range from twelve with

eighty in reserve, fear nothing. It is the most ruthless,

aggressive pack animal alive. Hyenas will not be intimidated

or chased away from a kill. So pervasive is their thirst. An

even earlier lesson learned.

My mother prodded me to my feet again and again that day.

I preferred to roll about, taunt my siblings, and dance close

to my aunt's tolerant side. She was more severe than my

mother. Utterly without emotion. Her children respected and

feared her. They stood away, patiently distant until she came

to rest, unsure unless she gave them a signal to approach and

suckle. I took my mother's milk without permission and

stumbled about making whimpering sounds of satisfaction

she knew might endanger our safety.

That first day of life passed easily. I fell asleep. The pride

did too. A rich land will do this. Food was plentiful. It is told

in the eyes of the hunters. As a falcon, I traveled among the

currents during storm and famine and watched. I always ate.

When it rained, I feasted.

When there was drought I was nourished by an ample supple

of fresh carrion. There is no dry season for those of the air.



Thus is my preference driven not by interest but by a thirst for

life. Who would not want to be offered such permanency?

There is less danger in the air than anywhere else. Not in the

grass, certainly not clinging to the muddy riverbanks.

Am I the only one who is aroused by this conscious

distinction? The first year of life told me so. I watched my

brothers and sisters, their disorganized scampering preparing

them to hunt and track and stalk and cut out the weakest from

the herd and to race to that spot where the frightened might be

directed. To make the most of each attack as the expenditure

in time and energy is too great to waste. Like most cats,

except for the lion who will kill and eat once in every four or

five hunts, I will eat only one in ten. I will take food from the

cheetah and pack dogs while relinquishing my kills to the lion

and hyena.

This day I am hidden, patient in the underbrush, the wave of

grass rises up on both sides protecting me as it did the lions

yesterday. A herd of gazelle. Many will give birth in the

coming days. Many will die in the coming weeks as hunters

pick off the young and feeble. Only those who are born to

speed, agility, and good fortune will escape and pass quickly

into adolescence. Life in the herd is dangerous, though in the

anonymity of such numbers, not without its benefits.

I rest. My hindquarter begins to burn, a sensation that does not

concern me as long as it is soon relieved. If it is still inflamed

by tomorrow, I will not live long. I wait for the scent of cats

and pack animals, and those who fear them both. I hear only

the sweep of wind scratching the top of dry grass. There is

safety here, but no prey and no water. But something else.

The wind has shifted. I get up and pace about, still secluded,

though unusually pensive. As though I should be moving on. I

do not feel threatened as much as curious. There is something

distinct and distant in the air. I knew it from before. From

long ago, though I am uncertain in which life I first

encountered it.

I move slowly away from the underbrush, constantly aware of

my injury and limitations. I am the hunter. Wary. Always

ready. Now I must think differently. Wild pack dogs, even a

pair of hyenas, might tree me and simply wait for others to

join in the kill. I am not who I was yesterday. I cannot concern

myself with the possibility I may never be again

The scent intensifies. I pause and crouch, my snout to the soil.

My hesitation is great, but I must not let it cripple me. I crawl

closer as flies, once settled in the grass, are roused and swarm

into my eyes, nose, and ears. A few lengths every so often.

There is the smell of death. Of great defeat and greater danger.

A covey of white-backed vultures begins to gather overhead.

That will bring the lions and with them come the hyenas. I

have not much time. I cannot suffer curiosity at the expense of

my life, which is already in great jeopardy.

I should not have taken this course. I am wounded, no match

for an encounter. I am no match for my own curiosity and

combativeness. I decide to pull away when the wind shifts

again, as it does at this time of year, unpredictably, and

recognize the experience of death. I turn back into the wind,

crouch down, and step to the fringe of the clearing.

A giant beast of an elephant lies bleeding from a gaping

wound in the side of its skull. Three creatures move about on

their hind legs cutting away its two giant white teeth. They

make quick, high pitched, unsettling noises. They lift the teeth

and set them into something I have never seen, which

swallows them whole and roars away. I watch apprehensively,

as they trail off into a dry riverbed. Soon they are out of sight,

though the dust kicked up from their flight can be seen for

miles casting a shadow over the land.

I am left in doubt. Who would want elephant teeth? They have

no value, cannot be eaten, or stored for subsequent meals, are

of no importance in hunting except for those who first

possessed them. How could these creatures benefit from such

a conquest? And at the sacrifice of such a magnificent animal.

I have seen these creatures before, not necessarily here, under

this sun and not, if memory serves, merely as hunters. I will

make an effort to clarify my suspicions, and not for purposes

of curiosity, but rather so that I may be assuaged that I have

not repeated a lifetime in such skin.

I get up and examine the carcass. It is a female elephant. The

largest animal I have ever seen. The meat is fresh and there is

moisture in fresh meat. There is also death. The vultures drop

lower. The lions, even members of different prides, may be

drawn to a kill of this size. I decide to withdraw downwind.

As I take cover in the grass, I see pack dogs moving in from

behind, their low murmuring howl signaling their intentions.

If I stay, I will be caught in the savagery that is close at hand.

I am no match for anything but healing.

I track a wide arc back to the trail of the impalas. They will

lead me to water. I must drink today, or tomorrow I may not

have the energy to venture out. Without water, even what

remains in a mouthful of fox, I am going to die. The wound is

not as painful, but it may fester and become deathly. I am

exhausted and the sun has not yet joined the horizon. The

incident with the lion has made me cautious, something

unaccustomed to my nature.

My aunt was the first to encounter the maturity of my true

spirit when I scent-marked a tree already stained with the

urine of a large male lion. She tried to warn me but I wouldn't

have any of it. My mother came up after I had urinated and

dropped feces at the base of the tree. It was foolish and I was

dragged away. We never went back to the hillock. I do not

recall why I was so defiant, other than the fact that I believed

my territory was wherever I pleased to be.



That was some time ago, and yet my memory reaches further

back in time, beyond my life and into the lives of gharials,

eagles, and cobras. Among these echoes is an even stronger

sensory pattern that I could only speculate upon. There are

images, similar to those of the gibbon, but larger, whose

habits and speech eludes my recall, but who I am uneasy

about.

I come to a band of acacia trees stretching out for some

distance. They will allow me to flank the impalas in cover and

observe their watering hole. I prefer fruit trees, which attract

less attentive parrots, trumpeter hornbills, and starlings. From

my vantage point, the sweep of the grassy plains opens up into

a vision of ill-tempered animals roaming from one dry

lakebed to another. The lush foliage is all but gone.

Either eaten or burned off. Mudflats wither and crack. Even

the hardiest will suffer. Some will dig watering holes under

dry streambeds, but the brief gurgle will not support many

searching tongues. Others will drop off from the herd and

cling to strips and patches of forest, unaware that the lion, the

most territorial of all animals, rests in their afternoon shadow.

I have hovered above sand dunes, watched great nesting

colonies of heron, ibises, and stork blacken out the sky in

search of elusive freshwater marshes.

The rest of the afternoon is expended with getting into

position, resting, and coating the wound with my tongue.

There is nothing else to do but wait. The herd is made up

mostly of impalas, intermingled with zebras and wildebeests.

This is quite common and brings the entire herd into jeopardy

as the mass of life grows to cover the grassland. I can live off

many kills and, while instinct taught me to accept insects and

birds, I've always preferred a chase before a meal.

What I prefer comes as a surprise. I prefer the gentle flush of

tidal estuary waves against a mangrove, the small animals that

live in the lowland rain forest, the simplicity of taking down a

dik-dik, palm thickets that are free of flies, the highlands and

verdant plateaus, stalking flamingos in seasonally flooded

marshes, the taste of palm-nuts, warm and humid air and

heavy rain, dense foliage, scrubby grassland whose only

attraction is enormous baobab tress with branches sheltering

nesting blue-bellied rollers, parrots, and barbets.Savannah

woodlands with wide grassy plains, gallery forests, rivers

flanked by borassus palms and thick with duikers, red-fronted

gazelles, bushbucks, patas monkeys, scissor-tail kites and

cranes. Always cranes, whose flesh I prize above all others.

A large troop of savannah baboons, the largest of its family,

advances into the path of the impalas. There are about thirty

of them, though troops can amass up to two hundred animals.

There is nervousness among the herd. A new species attracts

new predators. The mix is unsettling. However, the baboons,

themselves capable fighters, expend their energy cleaning and

preening and gathering into clearly defined groups.


The dominant females and males, the children skittering

among the elders, searching for approval and acceptance.

They scream, mate, eat, and rest under the broad canopy of

branches. It is in those branches I would have taken my next

kill. Into those notches in the high branches, I would have

carried my prey secured in my jaws. It is in those branches,

safe from other cats, I would eat. However, not today. Now I

am as earthbound as the rhino, though there the comparison

ends.

Soon I am alerted. The wind has not shifted, though there is

something close by. I do not fear the intruder but the impalas

should. I lift my head and see the thick golden collar of a

massive lion. He is shepherding two other males into position.

They are there for the ambush, not for the kill. That will be

left for the females waiting on the other side of the herd. A

well-orchestrated technique will take down one or two large

impalas and will amply feed the lion pride. If they get wind of

me and feel I have compromised their hunt, I will be chased

down and killed. I drop myself down to the earth as they pass

close by.

The two male lions rouse the herd, which stampedes toward

the waiting females. As the trap is sprung, I get to my feet. I

am taken by their contained stride, by the effortless power of

their assault, their graceful arrogance, and the presumption of

their heritage. This is their land. Every other creature is here at

their sufferance. They will not condone temerity or

transgressors. I cannot help but wonder what it would be like

to be a lion. To be totally fearless. To be totally feared.

Thoughts like these lead me to question my past, which does

not augur toward a successful future. It is at best a point of

interest animals do not possess. Then if that is true, what does

that make me? Am I more than the leopard? The sum of my

past?

The dust settles. Overheated lions decorated with bloodstained

muzzles stand triumphant over two dead impala. There are

eight lions with enough fresh carrion to keep the pride

content. As soon as the herd sees that the kills are complete,

they return with excessive energy to grazing and securing

their young.

Toward the fringe of the herd is a broad watering hole

surrounded by clusters of uprooted junipers that have long

succumbed to the elephant's destructive feeding habits. A

family of zebra staked out one side of the watering hole, while

baboons gather on the other. Impalas slip in between.

I must drink. The thirst is making breathing difficult; my heart

races to keep my body cool. I could wait another day, but then

I would be weaker, more vulnerable. Less audacious. Then

there would be no room for any more miscalculations.


Under the mask of confidence, I move out of the clearing. At

this heightened pace, my injury is deeply uncomfortable.

Before the vultures signal hyena and lion, several impalas

notice my presence. They whinny an alarm which sweeps

through the herd. I pick up speed, not making for the watering

hole at first, but in that general direction. They scatter,

reminded of the more fearsome pride that attacked only

moments earlier. The baboons pull back from the watering

hole, not frightened, though heedfully suspicious. The zebras

lift their heads indifferently. A zebra has nothing to fear from

leopards. I approach the pool, stop, scan the horizon, growl

contemptuously at a clot of frightened elands, and proceed to

drink. More than necessary, but anxious that it may be my

last.

The water is cold. I cannot wait too long as my weakness may

alert others, especially the two young approaching hyenas.

They glance over at the muddy waterhole, and then continue

their advance on the lions. In the distance, double their

number head toward the lions at a pace that will quickly bring

them into confrontation. I take one last gulp and leave, aware

that I must not let on how difficult this journey has been.

Stuart Westmorland/Danita Delimont - stock.adobe.com

That night I sleep in the crown of a broad acacia. I have found

an old tree with a thick branch that is over three of my lengths

from the ground. I am fearful that being too close to the herd

will draw my enemies to me. I need the herd, for if I am to

live, I will have to make a kill soon. If they leave, I will

follow. If not, I will remain here until I heal or die.

Tonight the memories return. A mass of steep canyons.

Mountain ranges and the inland plateau edge of a great

escarpment. Dry lakebeds. Remnant ponds. Mass migrations

of grazing animals, flamingo, and stork. A maze of channels,

papyrus swamps, wet swales, rocky outcroppings, towering

green mountain ranges, and mountaintops covered with

stunted woodland, standing over the kill of a golden jackal

and red fox. Is it that I am so close to death that my past, and

the past of others I have been, wells up so easily? Finally, the

image of an adult male impala presents itself. I do not recall

details of that life. I am grateful for not recalling the details of

that death.

Sometime during the night I am awakened, but not by danger.

I open my eyes and look down. A female African hare moves

about in search of nuts and insect burrows at the base of the

tree. She is not aware of my presence. This would make a tidy

meal but under these circumstances, unable to leap from this

height without endangering my wound, she is safe. She fills

her mouth and scurries on into the night. The moon gives

away her position, as it would have mine had I not taken to

the trees. An adult female topi grazes in her path. She turns to

avoid it and disappears in the grass. The topi presented no

threat. In darkness or light, there is never safety.

The ones who claimed the elephant reappear in my sleep, as

though there was a singular kinship calling me to their side.

From the sky I have watched their stirring, where they wander

and how they hunt and the fact that they do not stalk or

ambush, rather, simply interpose themselves in the tracks of

an animal and the beast succumbs. I do not understand. If this

is true, then we all are doomed. Such is the greatness of their

hunting skills. There is no sanctuary in the rain forest, the

forest or savannahs, in the lush rolling grasslands or stands of

evergreen. Not in the air or in the water. I have seen them hunt

bird and now the majestic elephant. How easy it is for them.

How strange they never feast on their kill though their

exultation was quite evident.

The next morning I am aroused, but it's not by a hungry plains

hare. Two hyenas linger where the hare was foraging. They

are onto her scent. I cannot stir for fear I will be detected.

They will remain at the base of the acacia until their search is

rewarded or they are attracted by other game. They lift their

heads. They have caught another scent. Mine. Neither can

make a location, but they persist. There is a commotion in the

distance, in the direction where the lions made their kills. It

distracts the hyenas. One draws the other out from under the

canopy and together they trot off together toward the rising

cloud of dust and opportunity.

A female cheetah stalks an impala. The herd is swelled with

newborn. A nursing herd is a favorite killing ground,

especially for the cheetah that, although it is the fastest animal

on the plains, gives up much of its kill to more powerful

hunters. The cheetah's small jaw and short canine teeth make

the killing bite, crushing the victim's throat, difficult.



The cheetahs, like the wild dog, hunt in the baking heat of the

day to avoid what every animal fears most, the lion, and packs

of roaming hyenas who are not bound to territory as even the

lions are. The cheetah is not outmaneuvered by the impala,

which it snares in a thicket. If the hunt is not successful, the

cheetah would have to rest after its body overheats from the

frantic short chase. The mother examines the lifeless impala

then cries a short pattern of barks for the cubs who come

running along. Five of them. Two or three or more will be

dead soon, as most large litters do not survive their first year.

A large scarab beetle advances down the branch toward me. A

small morsel indeed. But as the most adaptable of the big cats,

I will eat many animals from termites to antelope. Whatever it

takes to stay alive. That is why I can be found from the sultry

rain forest, where I am master, to the steaming savannahs,

where I must share my spoils. But to be the most adaptable, I

have had to give up much. I have not the strength of the lion

or speed of the cheetah, nor the communality of the hyenas. I

hunt alone. A third the size of the lion, my strength is cunning

agility.

A warthog piglet. I rise and loosen my body. The taint of pain

from my right hindquarter reminds me why I am hungry,

thirsty and in the notch of the tree without a kill to awaken to.

I turn to inspect the damage. The wound is not completely

healed, for that will take more time. But I am well enough not

to be a banquet for flies and not stifled by pain to be

concerned about my stride. I scan the plains. The herd is just

stirring. The mother cheetah has found a spot to hide the

carcass and watche her cubs eat.

The warthog piglet skirts the watering hole between giraffes

and elephants. A white rhino shuffles about restlessly,

distrusting and alert. There is no reason to the huge snorting

animal's behavior, which seem at odds with order. Unlike the

rest of those who live in the herd and are always searching

over our shoulder, the rhino, like the elephant, has no natural

enemies and no use for energies that might be expended to

save its life.

I climb down, relieved that the pain and weakness has

lessened. That I am more who I was, and less fearful of what I

might have become. I will continue to favor the wound until it

is completely healed.

I am not even distracted or bothered by the flies and notice a

collection of termite mounds lying between my tree and the

watering hole. I make my way toward them, building

confidence with each new stride. I leap to the crest of a mound

whose height is almost the length of my body. The top is

flattened, perfect for resting and surveying. Unlike lions and

cheetahs that possess great skills of pursuit, leopards prefer to

ambush prey. This requires a combination of patience and

instincts found in few other plains animals.

I survey the kills that were made in the night, the time I once

shared with the wild dogs. Roiling plumes of vultures dot the

plains fighting over the remains of ibex, impala, wildebeests,

topi, and other less fortunate. I am not as hungry as I thought I

would be. The rest, not having to charge and replenish, stalk

and ambush, the cool water and deep sleep have saved my

life.

The piglet races about, frantic with fear. It knows not to bleat

and alert nearby predators. Without protection from its

mother, it will be picked off. A twinge of hunger. Perhaps I

was wrong. But the distance is too great. Unless the creature

comes directly for me, I will let it go, or watch a lion take it

down. Then I hear it.

The mother warthog, a formidable fighter with two razor tusks

that outweighs most leopards. Still, she is moving in the

wrong direction. Along the border of the herd and away from

the watering hole and her child. But the piglet hears her and

lifts his head and takes up a trot in her direction.

He is moving directly towards me. There is nowhere to crouch

or hide. If he sees me slip from the mound, it will distract him

and he will run back towards the watering hole that is slowly

filling up with the thirsty and vulnerable. Right towards me.

An easy ambush, a quick killing bite, a certain meal.

The mother continues her misdirected search as the piglet

approaches. By the time he sees me rise, it is too late. He gets

off a sharp squeal and I am upon him. He thrashes about, but I

am more than I was yesterday and he is no match for my

powerful, experienced jaws. The killing bite crushes his

throat. He squirms. Gasping for air, his heart pounds to make

up the deficiency. Soon, the throbbing lessens until there is

nothing. I get up and drag him to the tree, and then bound up

into the notch where I spent the previous night.

He is larger than I first thought. I am relieved to see my

wound does not limit my aggressiveness. I am exhausted, not

by the kill, but by the anticipation of failure. I survey the

plains for signs of unrest or curiosity that may have been

stirred from my kill. Secure, I begin to eat. A lioness kills an

ibex near the watering hole. If she had missed the ibex, she

would surely have found the scent of the piglet. The mother

warthog's call dissipates until I am left alone, carving out the

animal's innards.

A pair of gray kestrels swoops down in pursuit of a vole

caught too far from its earthen den. I have been that female

kestrel. I have taken that vole back to my family. I have

watched my children eat what I have set out before them. I do

not recall the end of my life as a kestrel. Nor as any other

animal. I just know I have been many.



I should have not been so distracted. It is already too late for

me to react as the male lion approaches. He is the leader of

the pride. His carriage and bearing tell me so, as it would

any other. He looks up at me, not under the tree, but from a

comfortable vantage point. A lioness joins him. They wait

for my response. This confrontation has happened before.

Once while my mother trained me and another time when I

had taken a guinea fowl into a tree like this one. I pause

defiantly, then rise and move down from branch to limb until

only the drop to the grass remains. I look back at my halfeaten

kill.

This is an act of pure arrogance since lions do not climb

trees. They simply do not want me trespassing in their

territory. And, if I do encroach, not be such an affront as to

feed while they are near. The ibex kill brought them to the

watering hole and bad luck brought them to me. Had they

tracked the scent of the piglet that lead them to me? It does

not matter. I hit the grass and walk submissively into the

bush without the slightest intimation of injury, knowing they

will not pursue. After a while, I turn, giving final notice of

impudence and see something that I, nor other leopards I

believe, have ever witnessed. The lioness parades around the

tree with the arrogance of its breed then, in one vaulting

leap, launches herself into the branches and snares the

remains of the piglet. A shattered shadow in her massive

jaws.

The male waits for the female to descend. She hesitates.

Two other lionesses approach. Finally, she drops to the grass

and the male and two other females tear at the tiny morsel

dangling from the side of her mouth. In one powerful

motion, she twists around and rips it away. A small piece of

flesh protrudes from the jaws of the male. The remaining

two females act out their frustration in mock combat for

their loss of the kill. So powerful is the drive to feed that

failure is not dictated by amount, but by prestige.

But I am satisfied and know that I only have to make one

more kill soon, to live through my wound. I must have been

moving along at a quick pace for I find myself ahead of the

grazing herd. It does not concern me. I have passed the scent

markings of lions, cheetahs, and hyenas as well as a leopard.

It may be a brother or sister my mother has spawned.

There is a calm about me that was not present yesterday, as

it was before the encounter with the lion. I will hunt

differently now, though I do not know how long that caution

will last. I have become more respectful of circumstances

the most skilled hunters cannot control. I am aware of this

and more; certainly that I was fortunate to survive a wound I

have seen hobble greater beasts. These same circumstances

favored my recovery, and I have been granted the value of

experiences from other lives beyond a mere scattering of

unconnected recollection.

As the land warms and gray clouds wither, territorial

boundaries become vague and float to the needs of the

predators. Many prides and packs will rather die than leave

their territory knowing that it will not be unoccupied when

they return.

The rains finally abandon the grasslands. Before the seasons

change again, many will perish in the wake of the heat and

unbearable thirst. Fires will sear the plains killing grass and

in the process, replenishing. Cubs will litter the savannah; a

reminder of what parents will sacrifice so that they may live

to create another, stronger, more fortunate generation.

Swarms of vultures will outnumber the flies, whose

tormenting mass explodes on the bounty of death. I have

seen ibex wilt from the heat, elephants driven mad with

thirst and exhaustion, and lions with gaping, slashing

wounds that could have only been made from one of their

own, stagger from the shade of one juniper to the other until

they're bled dry. Death has many ways of taking less willful

souls such as black crowned cranes, secretary birds, and

bustards that follow the great herds in anticipation of the

insect life that is kicked up by their hooves.

Soon fur begins to grow beneath the wound and replenish

my yellow markings. Like most, I will grow weary of the

baking sun. But I will survive the dry times watching from

an acacia, a juniper, and from a hillock. Waiting with my

memories of fox, impala, fowl, hogs, oryx, and snakes.

Taking whatever I find into the trees and never forgetting the

lioness whose instinct carried her beyond the boundaries of

her species. I feel a little more vulnerable, slightly less in

command of myself. I have passed through the worst of it.

With the end of this season, as I wait for the rains to wash

away the scent markings, fill the lagoons and seal the

mudflats, rejuvenate the monkeys and giant forest hog,

instill hope into vast numbers of cormorants, geese, plovers,

sandpipers, gulls, and terns, I am left to think of what may

have been. What I may become in my next life—a bird, a

bat, a cape buffalo, a predator lurking in the waterways, or

raptor in the skies. Possibly a black rhino or wistfully, a lion.

I have no desire to return as what I must once have been—

the beast that savors the teeth of the elephant.


Contributor Bios

Ann Hultberg (tote bag) — Ann Hultberg of Western PA and Southwest Fla is a retired high school English

teacher and currently an adjunct composition instructor at the local university. She writes nonfiction stories

about her family, especially focusing on her father’s escape from Budapest, Hungary, to the United States. Her

essays have been accepted by over a dozen magazines and journals including Persimmon Tree, Drunk

Monkeys, Thorn Literary Magazine, Her View from Home, Moonchild, and Mothers Always Write. You can

follow Ann on Facebook at 60 and writing.

Arthur Davis (leopard) — Arthur Davis is a management consultant who has been quoted in The New York

Times and in Crain’s New York Business, taught at The New School and interviewed on New York TV News

Channel 1. Over a hundred original tales have been published in eighty journals. He was featured in a single

author anthology, nominated for a Pushcart Prize, received the 2018 Write Well Award for excellence in short

fiction and, twice nominated, received Honorable Mention in The Best American Mystery Stories 2017.

Additional background at www.talesofourtime.com, (https://www.amazon.com/Arthur-Davis/e/

B00VF0GDG4), at the Poets & Writers Organization (https://www.pw.org/content/arthur_davis), and at

https://www.facebook.com/arthur.davis.737

Christian Hanz Lozada (book) — Christian Hanz Lozada is the product of an immigrant Filipino and

Daughter of the American Revolution and has co-written the poetry book Leave with More Than You Came

With and a history book. His poetry has been anthologized in 100 Lives (forthcoming) and Gutters and

Alleyways: Poems on Poverty, and his poems and stories have appeared in Hawaii Pacific Review, Dryland: A

Literary Journal (forthcoming), A&U Magazine and various other journals. He hosted the Read on till

Morning literary series and Harbor College Poetry Night, and has been invited to read or speak at the Autry

Museum, the Twin Towers Correctional Facility, and other places throughout Southern California.

Darrell Petska (doorknob; marble) — Darrell Petska’s writing has appeared in The Chiron Review, Muddy

River Poetry Review, Perspectives Magazine, Verse-Virtual and widely elsewhere. New work will appear soon

in Fourth & Sycamore, Loch Raven Review, Amethyst Review, and Soul-Lit. Darrell has tallied thirty years on

the academic staff at the University of Wisconsin-Madison, 40 years as a father (seven years a grandfather),

and longer still as a husband.

Ed Ruzicka (ceiling fan; spoon) — Ed Ruzicka, an Occupational Therapist, canoes and gardens alongside his

wife, Renee, and their doddering bulldog, Tucker, in Baton Rouge, LA. His second book, “My Life in Cars”,

will be released later this year. Ed’s poems have appeared in the Atlanta Review, Rattle, the New Millennium

Review, many anthologies and other literary journals. More at: edrpoet.com.

Eric Rosenbaum (comforter) — Eric Rosenbaum has taught writing, adult literacy and English as a Second

Language at several campuses of the City University of New York and at the New York Public Library. He

received an MFA in Creative Writing (Fiction) from Brooklyn College and currently participates in the Sarah

Lawrence Writing Institute. He has published flash fiction in internet magazines and in a feminist textbook for

English language learners. Recently retired, he spends his social distanced time writing and laundering.

J L Higgs (Kelly bag) — J L Higg’s short stories typically focus on life from the perspective of a black

American. He has had over 40 publications and been nominated for a Pushcart Prize. Magazines publishing his

work include Indiana Voice Journal, The Writing Disorder, Contrary Magazine, Rigorous, Literally Stories,

and The Remembered Arts Journal. He resides outside of Boston.

Jane Blanchard (cat) — Jane Blanchard of Georgia (USA) has recent work in Aethlon, The French

Literary Review, The Lyric, and Third Wednesday. Her fourth collection, In or Out of Season, is

forthcoming from Kelsay Books.


Jen Mierisch (bridge; raven) — Jen Mierisch draws inspiration from science fiction, ghost stories, and

the wacky idiosyncrasies of human nature. Her work has appeared in Dream Noir, 50-Word Stories,

Fudoki Magazine, Horla, and elsewhere. She lives, works, and writes just outside Chicago, Illinois.

Joan Mazza (cat) — Joan Mazza worked as a medical microbiologist, psychotherapist, and taught

workshops on understanding dreams and nightmares. She is the author of six books, including Dreaming

Your Real Self, and her poetry has appeared in Rattle, Valparaiso Poetry Review, Prairie

Schooner, Adanna Literary Journal, Poet Lore, The Nation, and Crab Orchard Review. She lives in rural

central Virginia. www.JoanMazza.com

Kat Terban (painting) — Kat Terban is an emerging writer and an AFAB gender-fluid, gray-aromantic,

asexual person. Their work has been published in the Plum Tree Tavern, AZE Journal, Open Minds Quarterly,

Eunoia Review, Little Death Literature, The Avenue, and Neon Mariposa Magazine. In March 2020 they were

shortlisted in the 18th Annual BrainStorm Poetry Contest. They are a member of the Connecticut Poetry

Society and of the National Federation of State Poetry Societies. In early 2019 they received Manchester

Community College's Outstanding Young Poet award. Most recently, they were invited to read their poem

"Pandemic - COVID19" to a live audience as a guest on the first of Rattle Poetry Review's weekly Poets Respond Open Mic

podcasts and an excerpt of their poem "When the Interviewers Asked What They Did During the Pandemic" was featured on

WGBH's In It Together radio broadcast on 4/14/20.

Lisa Roullard (rock) — Born and raised in Seattle, Lisa Roullard holds an MFA from Eastern Washington

University. Her poetry has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and has appeared in various magazines as

well as on busses in Boise, Idaho, as part of Poetry in Motion. Her chapbook, An Envelope Waiting, will be

published by Finishing Line Press in fall 2020. She lives in Salt Lake City, Utah, with her family. As often as

possible she walks in the rain.

Mark Tulin (mountaintop; playground) — Mark Tulin is a former therapist who lives in California. He has

two poetry books, Magical Yogis and Awkward Grace. His upcoming book, The Asthmatic Kid and Other

Stories available in August, 2020. Mark has been featured in Amethyst Review, Strands Publishers, Fiction on

the Web, Terror House Magazine, Trembling with Fear, Life In The Time, Still Point Journal, The Writing

Disorder, Oddball Magazine, New Readers Magazine, among others. Mark’s website, Crow On The Wire.

Mary Marino (golf ball) — Ms. Marino is a former college coach who has happily discovered the many doors

waiting to be opened upon one’s retirement. One new threshold she has stepped through is writing sports stories

for the young adult reader. Just weeks ago Ms. Marino left a “wayward” golf ball behind and for a moment felt

like a mother who had abandoned her child … but only for a moment.

Melodie Bolt (brownfield fence) — Melodie Bolt earned an MFA—Writing from Pacific University. Her

poetry has appeared in Pasque Petals, Verse Wisconsin, Yellow Medicine Review, and Prairie Schooner. She is

originally from South Jersey, but calls Flint, Michigan home. She enjoys gardening and watching her

Chiweenie sunbathe.

Meryl Baer (timbrel) — Meryl Baer worked for a financial firm, and after years as a financial geek quit her

job and moved to the New Jersey shore. Friends and family visit during the summer, but no one stops by in

winter, so she writes. Topics include her travels and travails, family and food, and anything she finds

interesting, often with humor. Her work has appeared in anthologies and journals (recently Pure Slush

anthologies, 'Angel Bumps' and Pomme Journal) and she is a 2014 National Society of Newspaper Columnists

award winner. Check out her blog Beach Boomer Bulletin at merylbaer.com.

Nancy Lou Henderson (cedar chest; seed) — Nancy Lou Henderson was born and raised in Texas, where

she met and married her soulmate, Frank, when they were both eighteen. Frank was in the Army, so they lived

in Massachusetts then Okinawa before Frank went to Vietnam in 1971. After twenty-nine years of marriage, in

1997, Nancy became a forever widow and is still devoted to her soulmate. In 2015, she said a prayer to God for

purpose. Her prayer was answered that night through a dream leading to a cedar chest that contained a box of

letters. The box of letters through God’s inspiration led her to write a four book memoir including all of Frank's

letters. Nancy has since branched out into writing Flash Fiction, Short Stories, and Poetry. One of her favorite

things to do is bringing to life inanimate objects through poetry and writing.


Pamela Sinicrope (driveway) — Pamela Sinicrope lives and works in Rochester, MN with her husband, three

sons, and a pudelpointer who keeps her going outside, even when temperatures go below zero. Her poetry has

appeared in the local paper, 3 Elements Review, the Appalachian Journal and The Talking Stick, among others.

paul Bluestein (kilim) — Paul Bluestein is a physician by profession (still practicing), a self-taught musician

(still practicing) and a dedicated Scrabble player (yes, ZAX is a word). He writes poetry when The Muse calls

unexpectedly and rings insistently until he answers, even if he doesn't want to talk with her just then. He

currently lives in Connecticut with his wife and the two dogs who rescued him.

Rebecca Rose Taylor (plaque) — Rebecca Taylor lives in a small town in the province of Quebec, Canada.

She loves reading, writing, and spending time with her pets and farm animals. She has had two children's books

and two novellas published. Rebecca is also a frequent contributor to Perspectives Magazine, and she assists in

writing blog posts for Teelie's Fairy Garden and Teelie Turner Author. To learn more about Rebecca, visit her

Facebook page at www.facebook.com/authorrebeccarosetaylor.

Rick Swann (mite; mosquito) — Rick Swann is a former children’s librarian and a member of Seattle's

Greenwood Poets. His book of linked poems Our School Garden! was awarded the Growing Good Kids Book

Award from Junior Master Gardeners. He’s been published in Windfall, Blue Collar Review, and Red Eft

Review.

Robbi Nester (fried egg; LP) — Robbi Nester is the author of four books of poems—Balance (White Violet,

2012), A Likely Story (Moon Tide, 2014), Other-Wise (Kelsay Press, 2017), and Narrow Bridge (Main Street

Rag). Her poems have appeared in many journals and anthologies The Liberal Media Made Me Do It (Nine

Toes, 2014); Over the Moon:Birds, Beasts, and Trees (published online as a special issue of Poemeleon Poetry

Journal in 2017); and The Plague Papers. She is an elected member of the Academy of American Poets and a

retired college educator.

Steve Carr (figurine) who lives in Richmond, Virginia, has had over 380 short stories published

internationally in print and online magazines, literary journals, reviews and anthologies since June, 2016. He has

had six collections of his short stories, Sand, Rain, Heat, The Tales of Talker Knock and 50 Short Stories: The

Very Best of Steve Carr, and LGBTQ: 33 Stories, published. His paranormal/horror novel Redbird was released

in November, 2019. His plays have been produced in several states in the U.S. He has been nominated for a

Pushcart Prize twice. His Twitter is @carrsteven960. His website is https://www.stevecarr960.com/ He is on

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/steven.carr.35977

Susan Zeni (crow) — Susan Zeni lived in Manhattan, in the East Village, Chinatown, and Harlem for five

years, Seattle for ten, and is now back home in Minneapolis, living four blocks from the recent protests on Lake

Street for George Floyd. Publications and honors include a Lucille Medwick Award for a poem with an

humanitarian theme, “Black Angel,” published in the New York Quarterly, danced by members of the Erick

Hawkins troupe, and read up on stage with Gwendolyn Brooks; a Seattle Weekly article, “Portrait of Ralph and

Mary” about an old couple removed from their Second Avenue Hotel digs by the Seattle Art Museum; and “The

Street Walker’s Guide to Wealth,” recently published by the Minneapolis StarTribune. Susan gets her kicks playing accordion

(and really wishes there were a Vancouver Folk Fest this year), having been in a number of bands, including the Polkastra, and

the all grrrl klezmer band, the Tsatskelehs, as well as performing solo at art openings, Quaker events, and farmers’ markets.

Virginia Amis (tree) — Virginia Amis is a fiction writer who loves gardening and practices law to support her

writing and gardening passions. An English major before attending law school, she enjoys losing herself in

afternoons of writing. She has recently honed her writing skills by studying with Robyn Conley, The Book

Doctor, and Sheila Bender of Writing it Real. Ms. Amis has written two novels and is beginning her third in the

series.


I hope you enjoyed the object and

animal perspectives.

It’s been a pleasure publishing

these inanimate and animal points

of view.

Perspective submissions for

objects, animals and now—human

body parts—will continue in my

other magazine:

Founder’s Favourites

(foundersfavourites.blogspot.com).


The

End


Gerd Altmann - Pixabay.com

PM - July 2020 - Final Issue

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