joyful!
"Make A joyful! Noise..."
December
The Boy Who Knew The Mountain by Katherine Lerner Kathy Lerner
Changing Views
Mediating High School by DJ Morris
Battles, Big and Small by Claudia Mannon I had just crawled into bed and was about to turn the lights off when I discovered that a horse fly had found its way into the house. Now I ask you, why those critters always seem to wait quietly in the corner of the ceiling until you are almost asleep and then start dive bombing toward your head. It has to be a conspiracy of some sort. Anyway, I sat up in bed and watched as the fly circled around the room a few time before it singled Miguel out and dove down toward him. As the fly started its nose dive toward Miguel, which apparently scared the bejeebers out of him, he jumped straight up then landed in an opportune spot to skid under the sheet. The bed had fallen onto the floor, the night stand was lying on its side, the bedside lamp was shattered, a picture had fallen off the wall, and little Miguel was nowhere in sight. Then, I heard his pitiful whimper but couldn’t determine where the sound was coming from. While I frantically grabbed at the sheet that had become entwined around my ankles, his frighten wimp grew louder, and then I saw him peeking out from beneath a chair that sat on the other side of the room. Evidently he had taken refuge underneath it during the battle and apparently had watched the entire battle from that vantage point. Also, I gather he had not been too impressed with my combat skills, because he seemed as frighten by the sight of me as he had been by the fly. I really couldn’t blame him.
Once, in the valley of the red rock, there lived a boy who knew the mountain. Each night he would escape from the houses to the edge of the valley, and here he would sit and have great conversations with his friend. He talked and he listened. He prayed and he danced. He laughed and he wept, with the mountain. Nobody knew where the boy travelled in the night. He was the only one in his village who heard the mountain’s voice, and he told no one.
The voice that everyone did hear belonged to the man in the moon. When his home was crescent, people would say the man was fishing over the edge. When it was full, they would say he shouted while dancing around the rim. But however the boy listened, he could not catch a note of the moon man’s song. He tried making his breath quiet. He tried shutting his eyes and concentrating. And he tried starting off a hundred songs to see if the man would follow. Still, the boy could not hear the voice of the man in the moon. This too he told no one.
Before long, the boy began to feel lonely. His village gathered in the evenings when the moon appeared, to ask the man questions, and make bargains with him, and sing him all the songs that they knew. But the boy was still the only soul who could not hear him answer. One summer night such as this, the boy could not bear it any longer. While the people’s faces were turned upwards towards the sky, he slipped from the fringe of the crowd, darted behind houses and dry bush, and finally rested by the foot of the mountain.
With troubled eyes and aching legs, the boy sat down on a flat rock, still warm from the summer heat. He drew his knees to his chin as he gazed up to the glowing crescent moon. He thought it looked so very far away. As curious lizards scuttled by his feet, the boy closed his eyes and listened with all his might. He listened for the voice of the moon man, for the song which all the others heard him sing while he waited for nightfish. He listened, but did not hear a sound.
Just as the last star was flickering to life in the deep blue over his head, the boy began to feel a familiar rumble in the ground. The still-warm rocks around him seemed to quake, and the sound of loose pebbles crashing down the hillside reached his ears. He turned and looked up to see the great mountain waking behind him. She stretched and
shook off the dust that had settled on her, and she opened her vast stone eyes to the boy at her feet.
“What is troubling you, my son?”
“Oh mother, what will I do?” the boy cried. “Everybody in the village can see and hear the man who lives in the moon. Even the young children say they have heard him singing when they go to sleep.”
“And you have not?”
“I have never heard, nor seen him – not once! What is wrong with me?”
The mountain’s voice was firm but soft. “Why should anything be wrong with you, my son? Is the man of the moon the only one there is to know?”
“Everyone hears him, mother! Every last babe! They ask him questions, and make their bargains with him, and sing to him! But he won’t answer me. I can only watch the others. How will they accept me like this? I will be worth nothing to them.”
“My son,” the mountain spoke, “you have many gifts. They are not the gifts of every person, but they are yours.”
But the boy was too impatient to listen to her counsel. He was already pacing back and forth, back and forth, kicking up the red earth beneath him. Suddenly, he turned his back to the mountain and walked a few paces away.
“If the moon man will not speak to me, then I will force him out from his hiding place! I will find him, even if I must lasso the moon and pull it to the valley!”
The mountain behind him was silent. The boy thought for a moment that he felt her growing sad. As he turned back to look at her, however, his eyes strayed over her shoulder and up to the shining moon. He remembered his dilemma, and he strode briskly back to the foot of the mountain. Climbing once more on the large, flat rock, which had by then grown cold, he turned out towards the valley and began his declaration,
“May every rock and every brush hear my words! May every star in the skies, and every speck of dirt on the land remember what I say. Tonight, I say to the man who lives on the moon that you can no longer hide from me. Whatever it takes, I will make you show yourself! I will make you answer me!”
And so the boy leapt from the flat rock and faced the houses that were now filled and peaceful. He puffed out his chest, balled his fists at his sides, and stalked back to the edge of the village. His face would have frightened away a wolf. And though the boy did not once stop to look back at the mountain, the mountain watched him walk all the way home.
***
The next night, just as the boy had sworn, he travelled back out to the end of the valley, this time with a bow in hand and a satchel full of arrows at his back.
“Man of the moon, won’t you speak?” the boy called in his loudest voice up to the cream colored sliver of light.
He waited one second…then two…and not a sound came from the sky.
“If you will not speak, then take an arrow in your side!”
And the boy drew from the satchel behind him, and pulled the string of his bow taut across the thin wooden arrow. Closing one eye and aiming towards the bottom curve, where he imagined the man might be sitting to hang his fishing pole, he snapped his fingers away from the silver bowstring. The arrow took flight into the dark night sky, fire colored ribbons streaming out behind where he had tied them.
Smaller and smaller did the sharp rod seem to become, so that the boy thought it must have struck the moon’s toe. He held his breath as he waited – one second…then two…and as moments passed, nothing.
And so the boy took out his second arrow. Then, he took out his third. Finally, he stretched his bowstring and sent his last arrow soaring up into the deep night. But the sky remained silent around him.
“You have hidden yourself from me tonight, moon man,” the boy called, “but tomorrow I will find you!”
As the boy stomped homewards across the dusty land, just before he came to the houses, he stopped to gaze back out over the valley. His eye caught the mountain, still and quiet in the distance. But he could not make out her face from where he stood.
***
And so the next night the boy took stones, and pitched them high into the air. The night after that, he tried tossing a rope, with a prickly branch tied to one end. He danced and prayed one night, and he sang and shouted curses the next. He even tried eating the special medicine plant, thinking that might help him to see the man. Days grew into weeks, until the moon became full and close to the land, lighting up the valley. After resting near a rock to drop his empty satchel, the tired boy walked out into the open land. He lifted his eyes to the glowing disc in a sea of blue night.
“I have nothing else to bring here, moon man,” the boy called. “There is no other way I know to make you come out from your hiding. I can only ask you, beg you, once more to show yourself to me. Man of the moon, won’t you speak?”
The boy watched for the slightest shadow to appear. He listened for the smallest noise to reach his ears. He waited one second…then two…and still not a sound could be heard in the valley.
Lowering his sight to the warm, dried land, the boy turned and walked towards the foot of the great mountain. He sat and drew his knees to his chin, gathering himself up tight. His eyes closed and he hid his face in his knees, while hot tears rolled down his dusty cheeks.
As the boy only cried, and forgot the world, the faintest of sounds came whispering through the valley. It started with a distant hum of vibration, quickly followed by the screeching echo of rocks scraping against one another. Soon, streams of loose pebbles could be heard tumbling down the hillside. And beneath his seat, the boy, still clutching his knees, began to feel that familiar rumble in the ground.
He snapped his head up and twisted himself around to look up the steep rock face. Dust fell away as the mountain opened her eyes to gaze gently down upon him.
“What is troubling you my son?”
“Oh mother, what will I do?” the boy cried. “I have failed to make the moon man show himself to me. What will the people say? I have listened and listened, but I can’t hear him.”
The mountain was silent for a few moments, and the boy at her feet waited – one second…then two…and she closed her eyes and began to hum softly. She sang and played a strange melody, while the boy sat still and quiet. Once the song had ended, she slowly opened her eyes again and bent herself low around him.
“My son,” the mountain spoke, “can you not hear me?”
***
That night, the boy again became a child of the mountain. He knelt at her foot and promised to listen for her voice in each day. There at the edge of the valley, until the morning sun burst over the rocky peaks and chased the moon from the sky, the boy danced and prayed. He sang and he shouted. He laughed and wept.
And even now, as he has grown old with many days and many months, he still tells the people there this first story of the mountain he knows.
by
D.L.M. Clarke
Hitchcock showed vertigo as a revolving pinwheel. Jimmy Stewart whirled into the center of it, screaming. The only thing Hitchcock got right was the scream. Vertigo stops everything. Your entire world stands absolutely still. The earth no longer rotates on its axis. All the oxygen in the atmosphere is sucked through the holes in the o-zone. A big chunk of dry ice is shoved into your pelvic region and spreads through your body, freeze-burning every muscle, I mean, every muscle in your body. You can’t move. You can only scream.
“Get me down. Get me down, now.” That took all the oxygen in my lungs, and they refused to fill up again.
“Close your eyes.”
I whimpered. The early morning darkness hid the cracked and sharp-edged rocks that lined the granite descent and the stony canyon floor. But I knew they were there, waiting for me.
“Close your eyes. It won’t bother you if you can’t see it.”
“Wrong.” How could I have been so stupid?
Stupid may not be the precise word. Bob and I had climbed for years, and I had never frozen up on him.
“Come on, Mom. You’ve done this climb before. It’s easy.”
That from a twenty-something who could leap up a mountain in a single bound. Heck, he’d probably just pick it up and move it if it got in his way. Lucky for him I’m not breathing at the moment. I would give him such a piece of my mind.
Not that I have any to spare. What I do have, I’m obviously not using, or I wouldn’t be strapped into this harness and dangling off-.
He’s got my ankle.
I moaned and pulled myself as close to my handholds as I could.
“You have keep going.”
I’ve got news for you, child. No, I don’t.
That ungrateful, little rat-fink son of mine had promised me sunsets in the mountains. I would be taken care every second. Taken care of. Yeah, right. When I get home, if I ever get home, I’m changing my will.
You should have seen the brochures my children brought me.
Majestic mountains, snow-covered peaks crowning acres of pine-covered slopes framed in the windows of a rustic lodge; a bar, a restaurant, a gift shop, for heaven’s sake. 
Nothing like the little pup tents we used to pitch. Fires roared in fireplaces a cow could get lost in. The “quaint” log cabin had a deck and hot tub. A slim, silver-haired gentleman, who wasn’t anything like my chubby, balding Bob, sipped from a champagne glass. No one said a thing about climbing, those sneaky little-.
“Whoa, you stop that now. Let go of my foot.”
The twerp shoved my knee up to my elbow and lodged the toe of my climbing boot into a crevice.
So what if I don’t get out very often anymore. What’s so great about getting out of my house? So what if I don’t always answer my phone. The tele-marketers drive me nuts. If I don’t want company, why should I answer the door? If I want to sit around in the dark, it’s my business.
Try telling that to the pack of obnoxious brats I raised. Not one of them will give me a moment’s peace. You think it’s bad when your parents call you all your names. Wait until your kids start calling you "Mother" instead of Mom. Doesn’t sound that bad to you, eh? Just wait. "Muuutherrr!!!" Good thing there’s no finger-thingy to do for exclamation points or they would be doing that at me, too.
Oh, geez, he’s got my other foot now.
What does he think, I’m a reincarnated frog? My butt is hanging out like one of those things the kids swat at for their birthday parties.
If Bob were still alive . . .
But he’s not.
The cold of the stone had penetrated my fingers. I couldn’t feel them anymore.
Damn him.
Yeah, I know, it wasn’t his fault. Yeah, I know, no one wants to have a heart attack and die. Do you think that makes one little iota of a difference when I wake up in the middle of night and he’s not there. Or when I look down and realize I’ve set a place for him, poured coffee for him. Sometimes, if it’s quiet and the house is dark and I’m alone, I can feel him sitting next to me. I think, if I listen hard enough, he will explain to me, exactly, how I am supposed to live without him.
There is a hand on my butt.
It pushes me upward. I let go, leaning back into the harness.
I don’t have to do this.
Nylon whines through metal. The harness drops. The mountain slaps my face and knees. Hard.
My eyes open. My fingers scrabble across rock and dig into a handhold. My toes prod the cracks for support.
Mountains don’t forgive. They don’t have pity. They don’t care.
I look at my son. He smiles at me. He has his father’s smile. Another handhold. Move my foot. Test the hold. Move. Move. And move again. Until I reach up and pull myself onto the ledge.
The sun is hiding but its light spreads across the craggy heights. The soft gray shadows of the snowcaps sparkle to life, so bright my eyes start to water. Opal clouds dapple the sky. Each tree claims its own shade of green. The rock face I just climbed is streaked with gold. Even the depths, where the sunlight does not yet reach, hold a shadowy promise of unrevealed beauty.
My son patted me on my shoulder. “Aw, Mom.”
“It’s just the sun.”
Maybe I won’t change my will just yet.
Audrey spat out the gnat that had flown into her mouth. She glanced guardedly around at the other girls walking through the flowering courtyard to lunch.
She needn’t have bothered worrying. Most hadn’t noticed her awkward flailing because, as usual, most hadn’t noticed her. A few regarded her with vapid curiosity for eons of seconds. Then, they blinked her forgotten as they turned back to their friends and conversations and lives. Audrey wiped the bug on her jeans and continued towards the door that led to school’s main corridor.
Once inside, she passed posters and flyers on the hall walls – bake sale, craft fair, yearbook club, school dance, rings for juniors, college applications for seniors. She looked at each - read the words - but no meanings registered. She passed the double glass doors that opened to the parking lot filled with small cars, new and used, purchased by parents. Beyond the lot was a field, and beyond the field were hills of wooded green, and beyond the hills the blue sky rolled forth clouds that sped by as wisps and tumbling, changing characters. She saw it all for an instant and then dropped her sight to the weeds sprouting in the cracks of the walkway outside the doors.
She stopped at the door to the girls’ bathroom and went in. She glanced towards the long mirror over the sinks as she walked toward the stalls. She ignored herself and looked only at the reflection of air vents at the top of the wall behind her.
Once in the stall, she sat and studied the scratches on the metal sliding lock, loosened by years of slamming. She heard the restroom door open and a school bag scrape the floor as it landed. Sneakers squeaked and stopped near the mirrors, followed by a rustling in purses and complaints about lunch selections and boys.
Audrey startled when she heard her name.
“She’s kinda strange. She just watches everything and then moves on as if nothing matters. Does anything get to her?”
Audrey blinked her eyes slowly while she grimaced at the knot in her belly. She stared at the screws and hinges on the stall door.
“I don’t know. … But it doesn’t matter, you know? It’s like she just kind of quiets everything around her. Yuh know what I mean?”
“No. I don’t.” Audrey heard a lipstick case snap shut.
“Well, like we were in biology lab yesterday and there were like six of us at the table. And Jason kept dangling the frog’s guts with the tweezers and saying stupid stuff. You know how Jason is. And we were laughing. But she wasn’t. But she wasn’t criticizing either. It was like none of it mattered to her one way or the other.”
“Just like I said – nothing matters. So she’s dead. Or too scared to show that she thought it was stupid. Which is just as stupid. You got some hair gel?”
“Hold on … here. No, it was more like it really didn’t matter. Jason wasn’t cool or stupid to her. It wasn’t important to her.”
“What do you mean? Should I put my hair up or the leave the back down?”
“Put it up. It just wasn’t a big deal to get hung up about. Jason was trying to irritate the teacher. We didn’t feel like working so we were laughing. But it really wasn’t that funny. And the teacher was getting mad. But Audrey didn’t care about Jason bein’ silly or us laughing or the teacher getting mad. Nothing mattered to her. Like it wasn’t important or that big a deal. And then everything just seemed kinda quieter. Calmer. And slower. She just looked at Jason. And then at us. And then at the teacher. And then she went back to doing her work. She had this, like, tiny smile – like it was all amusing but didn’t matter. It was weird.”
Sounds it. Here’s your gel.”
“Yeah, but weird in a good way. Jason stopped showing off, we stopped being silly, and the teacher wasn’t mad. And it was okay. We weren’t being good. But we weren’t being bad, either. It just kind of blew over and we got it out of our system. We went back to doing our lab work and everything was okay. It actually felt good.”
“You’re weird.”
“Shut up. No, really. I think she’d be good doing something. You know, like with the school.”
“What are ya talking about?”
“You know, some kind of official job. Like student council or something.”
“Nah, she’s not popular. You know it’s a contest.”
“Yeah, maybe. But sumpthin. I don’t know, something where she could help.”
“Hurry up, I’m hungry. Like what?”
“Stop rushing me. You’re the one who had my brush. I don’t know. But I think people could trust her, rely on her.”
“What about ‘student mediator’?”
“Yeah! That’s a good idea! She’s so calm. She’d be perfect. And she doesn’t seem judgmental.”
“Not like Karen. She sucks as a mediator. She acts like she’s better than everyone, even the teachers.”
“Yeah, that’s true, she does. She tried to tell me I should make up with Briana cuz we used to be good friends. We weren’t even in mediation. And we’re not even fighting. We just don’t hang out. It’s like Karen thinks ever since she was elected she can tell everyone that they’ve got problems.”
“Well, maybe this Audrey chick would be better.”
“Yeah, I think she would. She’s not in a clique. She’s her own person.”
“’Her own person’? I hate that phrase. What’s that supposed to mean? Like, if you’re in a group, you’re not ‘your own person’? You’re someone else’s? That’s so stupid.”
“Don’t be such a pain. She wouldn’t pick sides. I think she’s kind of cool.”
“Then tell her. Stop yapping to me. I wanna go eat.”
“When are the next elections?”
“End of the month. … C’mon.”
“Maybe I’ll tell her to run.” The bathroom door squealed open.
“Good idea. Then I won’t have to listen to you jabbering.” The door thumped shut.
Audrey opened her stall door. She went to the sinks and looked at to the mirror. She didn’t look at the air vents or cracks in the wall or water stains. She looked at herself. Yes, there was a tiny smile. It widened with surprise when she saw it.
And she noticed gentle eyes that blinked slowly back at her. They were calm, as if none of it mattered. Everything was okay. It actually felt good.
We face so many battles in our lifetime. Some we win some we lose, but each are significant to learning one of the lessons we need to learn to survive living as healthy, productive, and happy individuals. The following is a story about how my dog and I won a battle, with God’s help, and how God uses things as seemingly simply like swatting a fly in our lives to remind us that He is our fortress and stronghold.
This is the story of Miguel, my Chihuahua, and the night of the great battle. 
However, it only took a second, after finding sanctuary under the sheet, before he apparently realized that I might be in danger and started back with that that hunched crawl that signals the rest of the pack, me, to stand back the great hunter was going in for the kill. As he, slowing began to work his way out from under the sheet, to come to my rescue, that the fly must have seen the sheet moving back and forth. No to mention that there was no way it could have missed Miguel’s low growl. All of this noise and movement signaled the fly to begin the first of several brutal attacks upon Miguel’s head. I’m not sure but I think I heard that little fly holler game on, as it repeatedly dove at, and hit, the top of my now terrified little warrior.
Poor Miguel let out a resounding YELP then started to shiver. No, let me rephrase that statement. He began to shake. No wimpy little shiver for him, no sir, he was shaking so hard that the bed began to move. There was no way that the many comforting words I spoke, and loving pats I administered would have changed Miguel’s mind. He was flat out terrified.
It is the following chain of events that will stay forever imprinted on my mind, I realized that in order to save Miguel from a heart attack I had to hunt down and destroy that annoying, nose diving, vicious critter. So, I went to the kitchen and got the fly swatter off the top of the refrigerator, then
tippy toed back into the bedroom with my mighty weapon held high. Ready, I thought, for the battle to unfold. As I entered the bedroom I realized that finding that fly might possibly be a challenge, since they all seem to have built in radar when it comes to flyswatters, so I turned on every light then nonchalantly walked to the bed’s edge, sat down, and began to whistle The Battle Hymn of the Republic while Miguel, who had buried himself beneath the sheets once again, was shaking violently.
I waited through a couple of very long and intense minutes until I heard that evil critter revving its little fly motor, then I heard the unmistakable sound of its decent. Whoop, it hit the top of my head, quickly circled, dove, and hit it again. Each impact not only hurt like crazy, I was certain that the monster had dug a small crater in my skull, and I understood completely why Miguel was so frightened.
There are several minutes following the attack that aren’t clear, but I do remember leaping into the middle of the bed and wildly thrashing that flyswatter as that fly dove at me over, and over again while I twisted in circles and shouted unspeakable threats. I don’t remember tangling my feet in the sheet, Miguel jumping from the bed, the bed crashing to the floor, or fainting (of course I wouldn’t remember fainting). Anyway, I do remember the fuzzy feeling that flooded my brain as I began to come back to my senses. And, I remember looking around my bedroom and thinking how in the world did a simple attempt to swat at a fly cause such trauma and destruction, as in shock I surveyed the room.
It took about twenty minutes of my persistent coaxing for Miguel to start a slow and hesitant crawl toward me. I knew he was really torn between the idea of being safe under the chair or trusting me, because he would crawl a bit then look back at the chair and whimper. Thankfully, his finally resolved the problem and settled into my lap. However, it took the rest of the night to get him calmed down completely. I was terrified that the suicidal fly would try yet another attack, but thankfully that didn’t happen.
It was the next morning, as I was cleaning the room, that Miguel discovered the fly lying dead amid the rubble of the shattered glass of the bedside lamp. I heard Miguel whining and looked up from to see him standing over some debris. At first I was afraid that perhaps he had cut himself but after a closer inspection I realized that he was looking at the dead fly. Then it must have dawned on him that the battle was over, and he began telling the world of his victory with a bark of triumph.
Since that day I have often thought about how easy it is for people to take matters in our own hands, and not depend on God to resolve the situation. I believe that if I had just left the bedroom door slightly ajar, or even better if I had opened the window a crack that God would have eventually sent that pesty fly out of the house, and all the trauma would have been avoided. Sometimes learning to let go is so very hard even in the smallest of matters. Now, I must report, that Miguel has never shown any fear of flies since that fateful night, as for me, I’ve grown to be a wee bit frightened of the wicked critters!
Psalm 46:1 (NIV) 1 God is our refuge and strength, an ever-present help in trouble
Considering Joseph
by
Margaret McMullen
He found the place. He secured the manger, even the clothes. The child’s name was supposed to be Emmanuel, but Joseph called him Jesus.
Joseph was a builder. He took care of the details. He knew about framing houses, raising high the beams, making floor joists true. He took the young child and the mother and fled to Egypt, waiting there until the killing spree was over and Herod was dead. Then the Lord came to him in a dream telling him to take the child and his mother and go into the land of Israel.
Unlike the boy, Joseph always did as he was told. He dwelt in a city called Nazareth so that Jesus would be called a Nazarene. Years later, John baptized his cousin Jesus in the River Jordan, and there, when Jesus came up out of the water a dove descended and lit upon him saying, This is my beloved son, in whom I am well pleased.
The child grew up and learned his father’s skills. When he was 12 years old, the family went to Jerusalem at the feast of Passover. On the way back the boy tarried behind, hanging out in the Temple. His parents had to turn back to go and find him. It was his mother, Mary who asked the boy “Why?”
How is it that you sought me? Knew you not that I must be about my Father\'s business? This is what the boy said. Did he consider Joseph then, a cornerstone of his life? Joseph said nothing. He was not much of a talker. He was a builder. But surely while he drilled and sanded wood, dove-tailing pieces to fit, didn’t he look at the boy, his son, the child he saved and fostered and think, he is mine too.
CROWS AND PIGEONS OF MUMBAI
by
Ashutosh Ghildiyal
Most people are other people. Their thoughts are someone else's opinions, lives a mimicry, their passions a quotation. - Oscar Wilde
In the city of Mumbai, there was once a rare bird, called Bugun Liocichla.
This bird was one of an endangered species, with the only known population
estimated to consist of 14 individuals in Mumbai. This bird had two sons who
were growing up and had started asking him questions – on life, on conduct,
on work, and on wisdom. The bird was reputed for his wisdom among all the
birds of Mumbai. He had the reputation of being an ascetic who was not
concerned with material riches and was content with whatever little came his
way.
One day his two sons, who were about to finish their education, asked him
what profession they should choose. They told him about the popular
professions that were being pursued by other birds at the time. Of all the
professions being pursued by the birds of Mumbai, the professions of crow or
pigeon were the most popular. Everybody wanted to become either a crow or a
pigeon. It is always safer and more comfortable to do what many people are
doing or seemed to want to be doing. The rare bird listened to them and said
the following words:
“Two winged creatures are plentiful in the skies and grounds of Mumbai – the
crow and the pigeon.. The crows scavenge through the garbage and the pigeons
make every building and pathway their abode. Crows are noisy and pigeons
make sounds like an echoing ghost. Crows and pigeons don’t hate each other.
Though they have their own interests, their motives converge into one.
“Crows are the kings of garbage and pollute the air; pigeons scavenge food
others provide for them – intentionally or unintentionally. Both usually
make their living by feeding on and spreading disease amongst birds.
“The crows are the glamorous ones – they easily come to prominence with all
the noise they make. Birds like this noise and make a culture out of it.Pigeons are the ones who work stealthily, keep in the background but poison
all the same. One crow is enough to generate a lot of attention but birds
don’t notice pigeons unless they are in large numbers. Crows exalt in the
garbage, proclaiming it to be the ultimate, considering it to be the
pinnacle of their existence. This they call fame and success. The pigeons
follow them, are their fans but feed on them nonetheless. It’s a symbiotic
relationship. Both need each other, both feed on each other and on others.
Nevertheless, popularity and fame rest with the crows for garbage is what
all the birds are attracted to these days.
“The faces of these crows haunt one all the time, are ever present in front
of one’s eyes, their voices always being heard in some form or other from
various sources. Their language becomes the language of the birds, their
voice becomes the voice of most other birds. Their acts become the acts of
other birds and their thoughts become the thoughts of other birds. They act
as if acting is real and indeed they proclaim this to be the real. Their
followers too become actors and their lives become a series of acts. Their
influence is exerted over large domains, across many seas. They attract,
seduce, and captivate the minds and hearts of other birds. Their poison
spreads effortlessly. They easily, swiftly and most naturally create an army
of their clones.
“The pigeons are ever ready to have their fill and nothing is enough for
them. Saturation does not exist for them. They want more and more. They
didn’t want trees, so now they have buildings made all for themselves;
carefully and with determination, they have covered all space. They are the
marketers – they sell and trade everything. Trade is their natural
occupation. They never do anything but trade. They never possess anything
that they can’t sell. Trade is their religion and selling is their life.
“The skies of Mumbai are full of crows and pigeons. Indeed, they want their
kingdom to expand to the farthest shores. Pigeons make tall buildings and
crows have their faces painted on them. They are the rulers of the skies and
the grounds. They poison, trade and sell and are bestowed with honors and
fame. Their names are well known, their voices recognized, they are loaded
with honors and fortune and exalt in their happy lot. Is it so surprising
then, that all the other birds want to be like a crow or a pigeon?”
The father, the rare bird, then continued, “Are you an ambitious bird? Do
you know what ambition is? It is the desire to become somebody, is it not?
And do you know what it does? It causes us to be against one another.
Everybody is struggling to be rich, to have fame, to be more clever. You
want to be greater than the other person and he wants you to be greater than
you. So ambition really means trying to be something you are not. And which
is important? To be what you are or try to be something you are not? You
must first look at yourselves and begin to understand what you are. And then
perhaps you’ll never ask what you should do.
“Do not compare with what other birds are doing. Don’t try to become like
them, even if everybody else becomes like them. It is hard for you because
comparison is the basis of our so-called education, and of our whole
culture. Comparison is the most destructive thing in the world. If you
compare yourselves with others then how can you find out what you are
interested in, what your capacities are? Don’t imitate, don’t try to become
like anybody else, no matter how great. It is you who are important, not
somebody else. Find out who you are.”
The two boys understood what their father said. No more did they want to be
a crow or a pigeon. No more did they want to become like others. No more did
they want to become common. They said to themselves, it is better to be a
rare bird than to be a well known crow or a pigeon; it is better to be an
unknown than a known poisonous creature; it is better to remain obscure than
to shine with artificial light.
Ashutosh Ghildiyal
EARLY MONDAY
by
D. Kalteis
“What time is it?” I half-opened my eyes and focused on his face. The grey light filtering through the sheers over the French doors helped silhouette his four-year-old frame. The shock of kid-blond hair was mussed from sleep – the usual cowlick at the back.
Leaning close, he studied the digital clock next to the bed. “Seven … two dots … five, four.”
I reached a hand to the empty side of the bed, then tapped at the alarm button. I swung my legs to the cold floor and stood and stretched. I followed him down the hall. He held his stuffed lion Joey by an ear and his Fisher-Price phone in the other hand and padded toward the kitchen. I guessed he made a call to his Mom before he woke me.
“Okay, let’s get you ready,” I said, running the morning routine through my head.
“Is it school today?” He turned, his blue eyes looking at me hopefully.
“Yes, it’s Monday.”
“And you have to go to work?”
“Yes.”
“But I don’t want to go to school.” He drew his face into a pout and stepped heavily. “I don’t want you to go to work. I want to play monster tag at the park.” It looked like tears were next.
I scooped him up. “Me too, but you have to go to school, and I have to go to work.” I straightened his hair with my hand. “Come on, let’s get some breakfast.”
“Pancakes?” He brightened a bit.
I opened the cupboard and slid a box of baking soda aside. “Let’s see … Corn Flakes or Shreddies, and I think there might be a crumpet left in the freezer.”
“We got syrup?”
“I’ll get some on the way home – think there’s strawberry jam.” I wondered if it had a shelf life.
He furrowed his brows and squeezed his lips – a crucial decision. “Shreddies then.”
“Okay, Shreddies.” I took the box down, shook it and went to the fridge covered in his artwork. I had to start making lists or we would starve.
“In a cup, not a bowl with milk.” He went to the table and drew out his chair.
“Okay, Shreddies in a cup coming up.” I got his big, yellow mug and half-filled it with cereal.
“What about you?” he asked, climbing into his seat.
“I’ll grab a coffee on the way.”
“It’s the most important meal, you know?” He waved a miniature finger at me.
“You’re right, I’ll get a muffin or something. Tomorrow I’ll start having breakfast with you.”
“We can have pancakes.”
“Sure.” The kid was a pancake junkie.
“You know how to make pancakes?” he asked.
“Are you kidding?” I’d ask Jan at work, either that or run to the library on my break and get a cookbook. “So what are you doing in school today?” I was careful not to call it preschool since it somehow diminished it for him.
“I don’t know.” He shrugged and cupped a handful of Shreddies into his mouth. “I hate school.”
“I thought you liked it.”
“Stephen hates it and Michael hates it.”
“That’s why you hate it?”
“And Justin hates it, too.”
“I see.”
“Dad?”
“Yes.”
“Kids shouldn’t be in school when they’re sick, you know.”
“You’re right.”
“Justin has a cold, and he’s in school.” He stopped eating and looked around.
“Something wrong?”
“You didn’t get me a napkin.”
I looked around the kitchen.
“Mommy always got me one, otherwise she had to stay up late washing my clothes when I spilled on them.” He got that familiar distant look in his eyes.
Pushing my chair back, I got up and found him a napkin.
“And Dad?”
“Yes?”
“You forgot my glass of milk.”
I returned with a glass of milk. “Here you go.”
“Thanks, Dad.”
“You’re welcome.”
“And Justin tried to cover his mouth when he coughed …”
“Uh huh.” I guessed what was coming next.
“But a few germs snuck out.” His fingers wriggled at the side of his mouth to simulate the escaping germs.
“And you figure some got on you?”
“Right here,” he said, lifting his Big Bird pajama-top sleeve and pointing at a freckle.
“Think you’re well enough to go to school.”
“I can feel the coughs coming. Ones so big I could cough you right off your chair.”
I bugged my eyes in mock-fear. “Then you’d better cover your mouth.”
He cracked a smile.
“Do you want anything else – a few raisins or a banana?”
“Uh uhn.” He scrunched his face.
“You just told me it’s the most important meal.”
“Okay, a banana,” he said.
I got the fruit bowl and held it out to him, glancing at the clock on the stove.
“That one.” He pointed, and I pulled it from the bunch and peeled it down for him.
“You know in that movie about the firemen you let me watch?”
“Yes?”
“I heard a bad word in it.” He leaned closer and whispered it in my ear. “Is it?”
“Yes.”
“And we don’t use words like that.”
“That’s right.”
“Miss Dylan said we shouldn’t spit either.”
“She’s right.”
“But Dr. Chin makes me spit.”
“Dentists are funny that way.”
“Do the airplane.”
I raised the banana and loudly flew it in.
“Harrumph.” He took a big bite; his cheek puffed out.
When the banana was gone, I said it was time to get dressed.
“But Mommy said I can have one treat after breakfast before I brush my teeth.”
“Really?”
“Sure. You can call and ask her.”
“I’ll take your word for it.” I couldn’t handle the imaginary call to Mom right then.
He pointed to the cupboard next to the microwave shelf, and I got down the bag of Gummi Worms.
“Take one.”
“Two,” he said.
“One,” I said with a touch of finality.
“But one’s for you.”
I poured some on the table and let him select two, and he handed me a red-and-blue one. As we quietly ate our worms it started to snow, a few dancing flakes at first until finally it snowed hard.
“You know what?” I asked.
“What?”
“Let’s take the day off and go tobogganing, maybe stop for a hot chocolate after?”
His eyes lit up like it was Christmas. “Really?” Then he looked down. “I’m not really sick.”
I ruffled his hair.
Once upon a time, there lived a scientist who loved to make things. One day he decided to make a giant omniplex, a building so huge that if you stood inside it you couldn’t see any of the walls. Within this omniplex, he built hundreds of laboratories. He filled his laboratories with all kinds of creatures, big and small, strong and weak, smart and not so smart. To connect them all together, the scientist introduced mice to scurry from lab room to lab room, delivering messages. One of the messengers was bigger, faster, stronger, and smarter than all the others. He was a rat and he liked being a rat. “The scientist likes me best,” it decided, and wouldn’t let anyone else forget it.
Then one day, the scientist entered a laboratory and set a small petri dish on one of the empty counters. The dish was filled with hundreds of different kinds of bacteria, all squirming around having a great time. The scientist had excellent eyesight and didn’t need a microscope to see them. “How funny they are!” he exclaimed. “I like them very much, especially that one.” He took that bacterium and put it in a special place in the petri dish, where it had plenty of food, water, and light from the heat lamp.
He discovered it had a language, very basic, and that its little microscopic mind couldn’t begin to understand the scientist’s thoughts and feelings, but he was determined to get through to it.
“I am a scientist,” he said. “I caused you to exist and I take care of you.” The bacterium, though it understood little, seemed happy to hear his voice. 
“I like this creature very much. I will make more of it,” the scientist decided. He caused the bacterium to divide and was even more pleased to see how happily the bacterium reacted to its new friend. “I want you to make many more of your kind,” he told them. “I want you to fill this entire petri dish, but be sure not to harm the other creatures living in it, or each other. That would be terrible.”
All this time the rat watched with growing jealousy. How can the scientist spend so much time on those bumbling, blind, stupid creatures? it thought. They’re always running into the sides of the dish and live completely meaningless lives compared to the mice and especially me! But do I get any special attention? No!
So the rat went to the petri dish and spoke silver-spun lies. “The scientist doesn’t really care about you. He wants you to stay weak and stupid, but if you listen to me, I’ll make you wise.” Instead of ignoring the rat like the scientist told them, the bacteria listened intently, soaking in all it had to say about disobeying the scientist and hurting each other to get ahead. All the while they didn’t notice the rat slowly tipping their petri dish until it was too late. Out splashed the life-giving liquid all over the lab table. The scientist, furious, shooed the rat away. “See if I ever give you cheese again!” he shouted.
He turned the petri dish right side up and saved the bacteria, but the rat’s damage was done. The petri dish had become Tainted, along with all the little creatures that lived inside. The microscopic plants could only be cultivated with great effort; pain and sickness ran rampant. Worst of all were the two bacteria the scientist loved best. Instead of being happy and grateful to the scientist for saving them, they were afraid and hid.
The scientist tried many things to regain their love and trust, but they no longer listened. Instead of doing the things he told them to, caring for one another and the other creatures in the petri dish, they did hurtful things. They used the materials in the petri dish the scientist meant to help to hurt, even kill one another. It broke the scientist’s heart to see them so stubbornly bent on destruction.
“What can I do?” he cried. Tears ran down his face and he wept with sadness and anger. “They are more foolish than I ever imagined.”
Meanwhile, the rat, always watching, saw his opportunity. It slunk up to the scientist, laughing. “What are you still doing with those stupid bacteria? Can’t you see that they don’t want to listen to you? Oh, sure, sometimes they wave their little flagella at you in meager thanks, but why should you delight so much in that? They use the same flagella to strike each other and infect each other and kill each other. Why not destroy them like they deserve?”
The scientist thought, and suddenly the strangest, craziest idea he’d ever had popped in his head.
“I will become one of them,” he whispered.
“What?” the rat scoffed. “Become a bacterium? You’re a scientist, you made them!”
“It’s the only way to get them to listen. To save them. ”
“B-but--” the rat sputtered. “They don’t deserve it; they won’t understand; they won’t care. They’ll kill you!”
“I know,” the scientist said. “And that’s why I have to do it.”
“Stop, you’re being irrational, insane! Who dies for bacteria?”
But the scientist wasn’t listening. He’d already turned himself into a baby bacterium, born in the dirtiest, most unhappy place in the entire petri dish.
I have to stop this! the rat thought. I can’t allow the bacteria to become greater than me!
And so it tried to take advantage of the scientist’s new bacterial weakness and use its silver-spun lies to make the scientist slip up. It wreaked havoc on the other bacteria but this only helped the scientist because he healed those the rat hurt and even more bacteria followed him. All the while the scientist taught about self-sacrifice, justice, trust, and love, all the things he’d tried to teach before but the bacteria in their weakness couldn’t understand.
The rat knew this must stop. At last it convinced one of the scientist’s closest friends to betray him, and all the bacteria showed how terrible they were when they abandoned the scientist in his greatest need.
Laughing gleefully, the rat cried,
“Look at that! The most powerful being in the omniplex, helpless!” And it swallowed him whole.
For three days the scientist seemed dead in the belly of the rat. But he only lay dormant. On the morning of the third day, he made the rat sick and it threw him up. The scientist returned to his full size and gave all who believed in his sacrifice a genetic marker, a portion of his own DNA that could not be seen on the outside, but transformed them on the inside.
The other bacteria saw how they were different, how they refused to hate and didn’t honor the shiny objects the other bacteria loved. Many were jealous of the joy and freedom in their lives. So the genetically-marked bacteria were attacked, even killed. The rat attacked them too, worse than ever, but when it tried to swallow them as it did the other bacteria, the genetic marker made it throw them up.
As time passed, it became popular in some parts of the petri dish to have the genetic marker and some only pretended to have it. They did horrible things in the scientist’s name that made other bacteria hate the scientist, have false ideas about him or not believe in him at all. But whenever this happened, the scientist sparked something in the nuclei of those bacteria that really had the marker, and they would once again spread a true understanding of the scientist and be a blessing to those in far corners of the petri dish who had never heard about him.
And so we find ourselves in a very similar situation in our world. Our scientist has promised that one day he will return, destroy the rat and turn those of us with the genetic marker into his children. What scientist would be foolish enough to turn stupid, hurtful, nasty bacteria into children? Fortunately, our scientist is.
Never a Waste of Time
by
Rob Crandall
Colin sat on his rock. It was the same rock that he sat on when he
prayed for his father to get better. The same rock he sat on when he
prayed for forgiveness about all the stuff that he wished he, himself,
had never done.
Of course, his father hadn’t gotten better. The heart attack had gotten
the best of him in the end. On that hospital bed, it had reduced him to
a shadow of what he had been. It was scary to see him pale and gaunt,
with shaky hands that made a raspy wisp when they brushed against the
sheets. But, it was infinitely worse to see his face waxy in that
casket, and his hair combed in a way that he had never combed it at
home. He had laughed at people with that hair style, but it wasn’t
funny on the day he bore it, himself.
And as for all those things Colin wished he had never done, they still
popped up to haunt him on occasion, but the praying made it better. The
praying made it bearable.
He sat there, and clenched his eyes shut tightly, because, somehow, the
prayers seemed to work better that way. It was a silly thought, but he
knew that God honored even the smallest efforts.
He clasped his hands so that the knuckles turned white with red
blotches, and then he began to picture it. The same way he had done
every day since his mother had told him about it.
In reality, it was smaller than the size of a quarter, but when he
pictured it in his mind, it filled up all of time and space. It was
big, round, red and covered in veins, and it was pulsing. He had no
idea what a tumor really looked like, but this image seemed to work for
his purposes.
And as he had every day, he pictured the tumor shrinking. He made it
shrink. At first it was stretching the bounds of the universe. It
stretched the very fabric of it, like a tennis ball in a sock. Then it
was the size of a galaxy. He pictured the individual stars burning out,
one by one. Then it was the size of the sun. A planet. Then a
continent…a state. A mountain.
He let it dwindle to the size of an automobile. The automobile was
crushed into a small metallic square. Then a basketball. The air was
let out. On down to an orange. In his mind’s eye, he saw the orange
rotting, turning green and folding in on itself. And then he pictured
the tumor sticking to the inside of his mom’s lung, where it was in
reality. It clung there, as if with Velcro, still pulsing, but losing
power. Becoming weak.
Then it was the size of a dime. He made the dime melt. And when it hit
the size of a pea, Colin made something satisfying happen in his mind.
He made it dry up and shrivel like an old leaf. He made it turn brown,
tinged with black edges. And then bits of it would break off and
flutter away, dissipating as they floated. And, finally, the tiny mass
would lose grip with the wall of his mother’s lung, and fall to the base
of it, where it dissolved upon impact.
Colin opened his eyes. The whole process took about ten minutes. He
rubbed his hands together, and spoke to God out loud. That was the good
part about being out here in the woods, on his rock: He could talk out
loud to God, and no one would razz him about it. He might startle a
squirrel. That was it.
“Jesus,” he said.“I know that You can heal my mom. I know You need her, but I need her more.”
Then he put his arms in the air, and said aloud, “I command that tumor to shrink and dissolve in Your name, Jesus.”
With this he put his arms back down, and reached in his pocket for a
cigarette. He took one out of the pack and perched it between his lips.
He brought out a Zippo lighter, and then thought better of it. He let
the flame die, and then he threw the square, silver lighter as far as he
could into the woods. He tossed the pack of cigarettes under his feet,
and crushed it. An enemy was an enemy.
Colin sat awhile longer, letting a ladybug crawl over his knee. He
thought maybe that was good luck. He leaned back and let the sun beat
on him for awhile. It felt good, and clean and healthy. Then after
awhile, he got up and began the trek home. He’d be back tomorrow. He’d
be back every day.
Because a prayer was never a waste of time.
An Act of Chivalry by Ron Arnold I grabbed hold of the rope with my right hand and coiled the loose slack in my left. Michelle and I swung the rope back and forth and let it go. About one foot short. We tried again and again, getting closer and closer. Once we hit the brim of the hat. I was beginning to grow weary, but had no intention of handing over my end to Joe. Not because I was showing off, but because I wanted to get the hat back for the boy. The next time we swung the rope back and forth higher and higher.
I want to start by telling you that in the 21st century, chivalry is not dead. It may be an old-fashioned concept, but it’s still practiced by those of us who are competing for the affection of our lady friends. I engaged in such a competition on a mild day in early March when my buddy, Joe, and I went walking through Manor Park with two ladies we recently met, Michelle and her younger, but more talkative sister, Deb. We were strolling underneath leafless limbs when we came upon a fork in the path. A blue-blazed trail tunneled through rhododendron bushes on the left and a yellow-blazed trail slipped by silver birches on the right. Michelle unfolded a map.
“Let me help you,” I yelped as I grabbed it from her. I surveyed its dotted lines, which represented trails, and was about to suggest a route when her sister, Deb, called out, “Women know how to read,” and gave the map back. I felt like a fool.
Michelle resumed her study. After a moment of reflection, she announced, “The yellow-blazed trail loops back to the Visitors’ Center. We’ll take that.”
We hiked up and down hills and came to the bottom of one with a nasty last step. I dashed ahead and leaped like a mountain lion over a puddle to the trail beyond. But my buddy, Joe, had a stroke of genius. He stood at the bottom and helped each lady step down by offering his hand. What a supreme delight that must have been to feel their warm touch on this cool March morning. My gloves were of no comfort compared to that. And of course, my act of courage and athletic prowess was not noticed at all.
Then we heard a stream racing over rocks as we rounded a bend and saw water washing over any stepping stones. I offered the ladies my walking stick so they could pole vault across without getting their feet wet. They did so to the chagrin of my buddy, Joe, and for a moment I became a hero.
A mile further on, we came to a stream so wide it could only be crossed by scooting across a fallen log. I did so with the agility of an acrobat. Once again I expected the ladies to be impressed by my feat, but Joe strung a rope above the log. The ladies glided across by gripping it tightly, causing them to cackle with delight.
Then we took a break under a red maple that was beginning to bud. While we listened to the sweet caroling of birds above, I heard someone whimpering. Poor Michelle was shivering in the shade. I took off my jacket and wrapped it around her shoulders. She gladly accepted my offer and I checked off another one for chivalry.
After more marching, we came to a clearing and an abandoned limestone quarry used as a swimming hole during the sizzling summer months. We scattered onto the beach and saw patterns on the pond’s frozen surface. An elderly man and a boy were playing nearby when a gust of wind caused us to shudder and the boy to cry out, “My hat! Get my hat!”
But it was too late. The boy’s black hat had been blown onto the ice. And it was a real fine hat. Not as tall as a stovepipe hat, only about four inches, with the left brim pinned up like a swashbuckler and a plume on the right side. And the front was adorned with the gold insignia of a bugle and gold tassels.
The old man ran back and forth along the shore and hollered, “It’s a replica of a Hardee hat worn by the Union’s Iron Brigade. They fought in the Battle of South Mountain and at Gettysburg. They helped to turn the tide of the Civil War.”
The boy leaned forward and was about to step onto the ice.
“Don’t!” I roared. “It’s not thick enough to support you.”
The boy stopped, but his shoulders slumped.
I reached out with my walking stick, but the hat was too far away.
My buddy, Joe, dragged over a branch snapped off a tree during a storm and raked the ice, but its gnarled fingers were too short.
The hat was at least a dozen feet from shore.
“Use your rope,” urged Deb.
Joe unfurled his rope and knotted it at one end to make a lasso. “You can call me, Tex,” he bragged. “I’ve been to the Southwest and seen cowboys roping stray steers. I know what to do.” He twirled the rope and for a moment looked like a wrangler from a rodeo. When he tossed it, the rope made a pretty pattern in midair, but landed on the ice three yards to the left of the hat. Again and again Joe recoiled the rope and threw. Each time the lasso thudded on the ice to one side or the other.
I tried it too. A half dozen times. But my throws landed further away than his and often so short the ladies must have thought I had the muscles of a mouse.
“That’s not what I meant,” said Deb. “Haven’t you guys ever heard of working together?’
She untied the lasso and grabbed one end of the rope. Michelle picked up the other. They stood about twenty yards apart on the beach and swung it back and forth as though they were playing jump rope.
Deb yelled, “Let go!”
When they released it, the middle looped about ten feet onto the ice and landed just two feet from the hat. By pulling on their ends, they drew it back in. They hurled the rope several more times, but the distance kept getting shorter and shorter. Deb looked tired. I stepped up and took her place.
“Get ready,” I said, “…now!”
We let it go and eureka!...it flew a foot past the hat and landed on the ice beyond. We slowly pulled on our ends of the rope until it caught the hat, and brought it closer and closer to shore.
Joe retrieved it.
“We’re very grateful,” gushed the boy’s grandpa.
And Deb said, “You guys are cool.”
Now you may wonder with all the bad things that can happen – folks losing jobs and banks foreclosing on their homes; wars raging in countries with no end in sight; epidemics of AIDS, TB, swine flu, and cholera sweeping across continents - why I would write about an event so insignificant. Because to that boy, it meant everything in the world. And when we wiped off the hat and put it on his head, his smile beamed louder than any thank you we could have received.
November
seagull landed nearby. It turned its back on her, facing into the breeze, as seagulls do. A second gull landed beside it. Perhaps its mate. She came to a decision.
Future Conversations
by
Joseph D. Di Lella
The hurried but gentle swaying of the coach car
an engineer making up time
on the Chicago-Los Angeles run
places me in the netherworld
neither asleep
nor awaken.
I wonder – is that how
you dream
in the womb?
“Daddy is it much longer?”
a peach-blonde eight year old laments,
eyes closed,
snuggling up against my chest
as our train chugs to a halt.
“Sooner than you think . . . sooner than you think.”
I reply as the northbound zips past
causing ours to shudder and shake
like an oak leaf tumbling, falling to the ground
on a windy fall day.
Startled, pulling thumb out of mouth
a comfort she always displayed in the ultrasound,
my child asks, “Do you miss Mommy, too?”
while observing the racing car red
eighteen wheeler on the highway
motors by in the opposite window.
“Every time we’re apart,”
I say, holding her closer
as the Stanford University platform inches closer.
“It’s not long now, Papa,”
the tall and slender thirty five year old adds
while rocking me to sleep in the hospice bed.
“When will we be there?
Will your mother meet us?”
I mumble
holding her for protection
as I did when she was a new born.
“Mama will be at your destination
I promise,” is all I hear
before the conductor bellows,
“Next stop, Willoughby, Willoughby next stop.”
and I awaken from
our future
conversations.
Honey
by
Heidi Cook
They say that after the sight goes you become instantly more reliant on your other senses. People and places are not ‘seen’ in the visual sense, but heard, smelled, felt and even tasted.
I was still learning my way around my new world without sight when they introduced you to me. Sitting in a clinical smelling waiting room, the rough fabric of the seat scratching my skin and forcing me to sit upright, I listened to the other dogs barking in the distance. I can’t deny I was nervous, but I was also excited. After all, this would be my first time at meeting you.
A door to my left opened, creaking as it did so. It sounded heavy, the sort of thick, weighty ones they use for fire-doors, but I didn’t hear it close since I was distracted by the noise of your paws on the floor, the short, quick breaths you were taking as they walked you over. My excitement increased, and I squirmed in my seat, willing you over to me faster.
When you sat down at my feet I reached out to feel your soft fur for the first time, and I somehow knew we would get on. They told me it was the colour of honey, so that’s what I called you. You were as nervous as I was, I could feel your tenseness as you say quietly. I wonder if you knew that I would be your new family member, I hope you did. At least, I’d like to think you did.
From that point on we were inseparable. You were my eyes, an extension of my senses, yet at the same time you were your own dog.
When you became more comfortable with me your personality began to show more. The way you would wake me up in the morning, how you would love nothing more then to play with the squeaky ball I got you one Christmas, a bundle of energy and fur always caring and loving. Yet no matter how cheeky or
playful you were you knew when it was time to work, and when I needed you.As I lie in this bed, the covers soft, cold and smelling clinically fresh, a machine to my right beeping, letting me know that I am still alive and breathing, I replay that night over and over in my head.
Your short, sharp barks that you did whenever there was danger of any kind woke me up. As soon as I took a breath I could taste the acrid smoke. Somewhere in the distance I could hear the popping and quiet roaring of the fire.
You had already pulled the alarm cord as you had been trained to do, and had just managed to open my door as I woke. Getting out of bed I reached out for you, dropping down to my hands and knees. Smoke rises, so everyone says, so getting down close to the ground increases our chances of not being overcome by fumes so quickly. Being close to the ground also meant I was closer to you, my companion through thick and thin.
With one hand upon your back and the other on the floor, I told you to lead on. You walked slowly and carefully, letting me keep up with you. I don’t know how long we traveled for. Although I know it was not far it seemed to take forever.
At one point I could feel the heat to my left, and heard the roaring sound of the fire. I would have panicked had you not been there. You moved around me, putting yourself in between me and the fire. When I smelt your burning fur I knew we had to keep moving, and fast. Had you not been there to guide me however I don’t know if I would have gotten out. My heart was racing, and although I was trying not to I needed to take deep breaths, causing the acrid smoke to rush into my already aching lungs.
I have a vague memory of cool fresh air, a contrast to the area we had been within, the shrill noise of the sirens and strong arms taking hold of me. I lost my grip on you then, but heard your comforting soft bark as they led me away.
They tell me that we were both suffering from smoke inhalation, and were extremely lucky to be alive.
This is the longest I’ve gone without you by my side, and I do worry for you, although I know you are happy and well. I get to have you visit tomorrow, and words can’t express how much I’m looking forward to it. Then the day after we both get to get pampered and taken for your medal ceremony. Have they told you that yet? You’re being given a medal for your quick, life saving actions, and I couldn’t be more proud of you.
Letters From Jane
by
Robert Scott Crandall
The burning rays of the sun bored into Thomas’ forehead, causing droplets of sweat to bead up, and then streak down his face. Periodically, he wiped his eyes with his forefinger and thumb so that he could see. The rest, he just let drip. Partially, because it was a futile effort to wipe them. Partially, because it felt nice with the breeze.
He wasn’t wearing his “pastor clothes.” He saved those for when he was conducting meetings in the small village. Right now he was wearing khaki shorts, a white T-shirt, and leather sandals. He often felt like Jesus, or one of the men of old when he wore the leather sandals, and he liked that feeling. It was a small way that he could relate to the King of Kings, and his followers.
The letter, now damp from sweat, was in his front pocket. His hand covered it, lest it fall out and flit away in the wind, unbeknown to Thomas.
He always enjoyed getting letters from Jane. It was one of his great pleasures. A small thing really, but one that often brought tears to his eyes because of the intense emotion they evoked.
He was heading for his spot. His “letter reading” spot. It was somewhere that he could be all alone. Away from the villagers. Away from his fellow missionaries. Wonderful people as they were, all of them in their own ways, it was a necessary thing to get away sometimes. Necessary for one’s mental health.
His tree wasn’t in an unlikely place really, at the edge of the corn field. The thing that made it unlikely was that there were no other trees around it. It stood alone. In a way it was like Thomas in that sense, and he felt a kindred connection with it.
The tree also had a great sadness about it. The branches drooped and intertwined with one another in gnarly knots. In the center of the tree’s trunk was a hole large enough to house a family of squirrels. Thomas kept all of his letters there, tucked way in the back, bound by a thick red rubber band. He re-read them often It was a secret that he and the tree shared.
Underneath the tree was a rock. Not a large rock really…not large enough to be called a boulder, but large enough to sit on. It had a nice indentation that looked almost custom made for maximum comfort. Thomas thought he knew the maker.
He was about nine tenths of the way there now. It was about an hour walk all in all. It was hard not to open the letters during that hour, but he had never once succumbed to that temptation. He knew that it would ruin everything if he did that.
There was a semicircle of perspiration just below the neck of his T-shirt, and two smaller semicircles underneath his arms. He could smell his deodorant working overtime. It was musky and not altogether unpleasant.
His sandals kicked up dust. This often conjured up the thought of Jesus washing the disciples feet, and today was no exception. “The Son of man came not to be served, but to serve.” he thought for the thousandth time. What a great man. What a great God.
He knew that the tree’s shade would give him relief, the leaves taking the brunt of the heat. “Like Jesus took the brunt of our sin” he thought. It was funny how everything was a reflection of God’s goodness. Or maybe that was just the pastor in him. Maybe that was from hours and hours of studying the Word. “The Word will do funny things to a man’s mind.” he recalled his grandmother saying, with a wary expression.
When he finally made it to the tree, he sat on the rock and stripped off his shirt, and wiped his entire face with it. Then he hung it neatly on a branch to dry in the breeze. As anticipated, the shade brought great succor. He stretched out his legs and both knees popped like kindling in a fire. His hand was still in his pocket, clutching the envelope. He took a moment to breath in the air, filling his lungs to their capacity, and then letting it all out in a satisfied whoosh. Another thought came to mind. Something he had heard in a sermon along the way: How the sound of the inhale and the exhale formed the sound “Yahweh.” Inhale: “Ye.” Exhale: “Way.” Yahweh was one of the many names the Bible used for God. The pastor had said it was almost like God had built his name into our very breathing. Thomas knew enough not to doubt that.
He scuffed his sandals in the dirt, and watched the cornstalks sway with the wind. They looked like a full congregation, waving their arms to the heavens in adoration. Not a seat was empty. Funny things to a man’s mind, he heard again in his mind.
Finally, settled in, he removed the envelope from his pocket. It had blue and green stripes on it, like all the letters from Jane did. He didn’t know what they stood for, or even if they stood for anything, but he always searched for their colors when Phillip Maurez passed out the mail.
Thomas looked at the stamp. It was a cartoon of Homer Simpson. How utterly American. He smiled at that, and rubbed his thumb across it sentimentally. He looked at his own name which was printed in feminine scrawl: Tommy Ubia. Tommy. He laughed at that. No one had called him Tommy in months. It was always Tom or Thomas. So formal. So many things about being a pastor were so formal.
He took his thumbnail, which he left uncut for this purpose alone, and tore the damp envelope open. He eagerly and gingerly took the one page letter out. Her letters were always short, but they were frequent.
He brought it up to his nose and inhaled deeply. Perfume wafted into his awaiting nostrils. That had been her idea. She said that one of those famous general’s wives used to do that. Napoleon or somebody. Thomas thought that if a squirrel ever did get into that knot hole in the tree with that stack of letters, he would get one banger of a headache.
He read:
Dearest Tommy,
I thought of you again today when I found one of your old Bibles underneath the bed.--the one with the photo of Abe Lincoln taped to the front. I wonder what it was doing under there? Perhaps you got tired reading one night, and couldn’t make it to the bookshelf…haha.
Anyway, I read a little bit of “Matthew” and the more I read about Jesus, the more I think that He would be…that He is…proud of you, honey. You know, “go preach the Word in every land” and all that.
I hope that the folks over there treat you right, and that they don’t feed you strange things like insects. I promise when you get home I will feed you chicken and potatoes every night for a week straight!
I got your letter about the old woman, Helena, receiving Christ. That’s wonderful, Tommy. Sometimes I cry into my pillow thinking about what a good man you are.
As usual, Hamilton misses you too. Sometimes he sniffs your shoes and whines, and looks up at me with those puppy dog eyes, as if to say, “Is daddy every coming home?” I pat him on the head, and say your name and his ears perk up. I have a feeling that you will receive a few slobbery kisses when you get home. And a few real ones too --wink, wink…haha.
I know I say this in every letter, but please be careful over there, Tommy. I want you home in one piece. I worry. I know what you would say, “Philippians 4:6,” but I can’t help it.
Well, that’s all for now sweetie. Hope it’s not too hot over there.
Hugs and kisses, Jane.
Thomas read the letter again, slowly, relishing every word, and then he carefully folded it back up. He held it up to his nose once again. The perfume reminded him of things that it was hard to live without. With a deep pain in his throat, he held the letter to his bare chest, and choked back a sob. Sometimes he cried here at his tree, but not today. It was not a day for crying.
He put the letter back in the envelope, and then reached into the tree to pull out the ever growing stack of blue and green envelopes. He lifted the rubber band and shimmied this latest one into its place. Then he put the bunch of them back into the hole, pushing them securely to the very back.
He rubbed his hands together and placed them on his knees.
“Are you really proud of me, Jesus?” He said to the endless rows of corn. He sincerely hoped so. Not for eternal reward so much, but just for the fact that it seemed like a nice thing to make Jesus smile. Like the best thing in the world.
After a few minutes of meditation, Thomas put his shirt back on, and started the long walk back to the village. He felt his stomach growl. Helena would be cooking venison stew tonight.
Somewhere in the distance a crow cawed its protest to the field. And on Thomas’ forehead, the sweat began to bead once again.
Pearl
by
Eileen Kathryn Jacobson
I do remember you, Pearl.
While sifting through my kitchen “junk” drawer, a small pure object caught caught my eye. As I pushed aside more important pieces, I wondered how a pearl made its way into my drawer of “keepers.”
There is was. A round, luminous treasure, somehow hidden from my mind. As I placed it in the palm of my hand, it began to reflect a picture from so long ago.
It was January, 1961. As second graders, we stood in line waiting for our teacher's okay to enter. Bundled, and with teeth chattering, I stepped away from the piercing Montana wind.
Just ahead of me, some commotion occurred while two boys laughed and pushed their way to the front of the line. But they weren't laughing with delight. They were laughing at a little girl. They'd pushed her out of position in front, ridiculing her simultaneously.
I believe this is my first memory of you. You stood on the iced ground with bare legs, no hat, or mittens. You had boots, though. White leather 
ones, with pointed, creased and scuffed toes. A frayed tassel hung from the center of each. Your hair was dingy brown, uneven, and uncombed. You looked at me and I noticed one eye closed as if it were sleeping. The other was a dull gray. And I felt my heart ache for the first time. You walked back to my part of the line. Standing next to me without a word, you took my hand in yours, and shivered.
We walked into the warmth of the school, found our coat hooks, and began removing our winter armor. I couldn\'t help feeling a heaviness inside as I looked at my own attire: a thick wool coat, snow pants, knitted scarf, hat , mittens, and new red, zip-up boots.
But you didn't seem to notice as you removed your threadbare, oversized coat.
“What's your name?”, I asked. “Are you new in our class?” You smiled at me with a mouth missing its two front teeth, and answered. “Pearl. My name's Pearl. And I's seven years old, and these here's my marchin' boots. They marched in a p'rade once.”
I could see your silhouette moving with grace as you showed me how they performed. With hands on your hips, and knees raised high, you marched, marched, marched all the way down the hall.
Days passed. You and I spent more time together. In class, we sat a row apart. While working, I began to notice that you held your pencil with two hands. Scissor cutting was so difficult with your stiff fingers that never opened all the way. Reading group was the same. I thought perhaps you couldn't read because one eye appeared to be involuntarily closing.
Classmates often said words that hurt. But you never cried.
I have often wondered if I defended you. Did I speak on your behalf? What ever happened to you?
Pearl. A perfect treasure. You hand held mine, for a little while.
The Ticket Stub
by
P.A.Bees
My father's hands shook as he unfolded the page. He smoothed it open against the crease and caressed the slickness of the black and white photo story. He struggled to remove the staple that held the page to the stub of a ticket.
I noticed the linear indentation and ragged holes from where the staple was removed. They showed themselves like a notary public's embossed marks. They certified the stub and the paper as authentic and true.
My husband turned the reading light on for my father. Dad directed the page to a place under the hundred watt bulb. His sight was failing, but still good enough to augment what he remembered in his mind. The bright green and strong melon colors of that stub had not lost their appeal. The ink drawing of the Pirate logo showed a dark, menacing buccaneer with gold earring and tri-corner hat. Peaking out from his hat was the trademark spotted skullcap.
“Isn’t it beautiful? When you held a ticket like this, you knew you were appreciated as a fan.” His hand was steadied by force of will so that he could read and revel, "See that? Game 7, Section 17, Row M and Seat 19, the National League vs American League in the 1960 World Series. I was there." Not on the ticket but recounted was, "The Pittsburgh Pirates versus the New York Yankees, what a series!"
My dad was winnowing the things in his life. We would visit and he would say, "Do you think these old books about the Civil War are worth anything?" Or, "My mother kept this set of oil and vinegar cruets for when company came to dinner. Do you think we ought to e-Bay ‘em?” We agreed on a strategy, Amazon for the books and e-Bay for the physical remnants of life.
We waited silently, lulled by the warmth of the room and knowing he would start his recollection when the words sorted themselves out in his mind. A slight smile crossed his tired face and he began, \"Do you remember the year the Pirates won the pennant?"
Those words alone stir one of my strongest memories of childhood. It was a night that both scared and exhilarated me. At ten years old, I knew that something monumental had happened.
“Do you remember how everyone went out into the streets and laid on car horns? There was a lot of beer drinking that night.” His eyes brightened, “It went on for hours after I got home from the game. We yelled players’ names to each other; Mazeroski, Vern Law, Bob Friend and Roberto Clemente. We toasted Danny Murtaugh, the manager, all night. I remember it was a Thursday night. It was real tough going in to work the next day.” He chuckled, “I don’t think there was much work done that Friday in Pittsburgh!”
"Do you remember the year the Pirates won the pennant?" A question made so poignant by the lack of wins before and after 1960. Their last try at the series had been thirty-three years before and their last win even earlier, in 1925, the year my dad had been born.
In fact, I remembered it well. We lived in Penn Hills, a Pittsburgh suburb with row after row of small brick houses built on sides of hills. The street names were Universal, Rodi and Poplar Ridge. The homes were built for returning World War II GIs. Dad had served in the South Seas toward the end of the war where he drove amphibious LSTs. During the war, baseball was an important pastime for young men in the service. They followed their home teams, sometimes waiting weeks for news of a win or loss. They found camaraderie in pick-up games on sandy beaches and on makeshift camp diamonds. When they returned from the war, they married, had children, bought homes in Penn Hills and attended games if they had the means.
My sister and I collected baseball cards. I suspect it was more to garner the sweetness of the pink rectangle of bubble gum that accompanied every packet of cards than actual interest in the players, at least at first. But, there was no escaping the fervor of a winning season that invaded every dinner conversation and was the topic of every KDKA Evening News and Sportscast. My sister and I devised a way to play the game kneeling on the living room floor with our two-dimensional baseball card players and a roll of the dice, the real games playing in the background on the radio.
Dad's voice began to resonate, “An officer of the company where I worked, National Union Insurance Company, had a single ticket for the seventh game of the series. That was if the Bucs went that far. The Yankees had Mickey Mantle and Yogi Berra slamming homers at every turn. They had Joe DeMaestri and Johnny Blanchard on their team. It didn’t look good for the Pirates to make it all the way to the seventh game. Anyway, this guy comes down to our floor and says he is going to raffle off one ticket to the final game. Of all of the clerks, secretaries and managers, out of the whole staff, my name was picked!” Dad leaned back in the chair, relived the moment, and caught his breath.
“You know I had offers from the die-hard baseball fans at the office and even a few neighbors to take that ticket off my hands.” He was now laughing out loud with us. “Even my younger brother Bill called me to try and wheedle away the ticket!”
He was a young man of thirty-five again as he boasted how he had gone alone. “Wow, I enjoyed that game! It was the only World Series game I ever attended. And what a finish! The score was tied at the bottom of the ninth, 9 to 9. All the Bucs had to do was get a run and they would win the series.” He 
took a deep breath and we could hear the wheeze of his lungs. “Bill Mazeroski, the second baseman, comes up to bat and slams a home run out past left field! The stadium was a mad house!”
The three of us watched in our minds as Mazeroski turned the bases to the wild cheers of the Pittsburgh fans.
We asked about the magazine page.
"I saw that article in the Smithsonian magazine. That picture brought it all back to me."
The article was about the sports photographer George Silk. He was drawn to the roof of the University of Pittsburgh's Cathedral of Learning, high over the field. The Pirates were at bat and photographer Silk stood with the young men and women who watched the game on that picture-perfect fall day. They listened to the game on a hand held transistor radio. George climbed up behind them and shot a down-angle picture capturing their joy and Forbes Field in the distance as Bill Mazeroski’s homer made history. The title of the article, “Clutch Shot Clinches Fall Classic” was pure 1960 sports lingo.
"You know they tore it down, Forbes Field." It was a statement more than a question. We commiserated with him over the loss.
"So, Dad, are you sure you want me to put that ticket stub and article on e-Bay?”
My husband said, "Collectors really go for this type of memorabilia. Might bring a good buck."
With the exuberance of Mazeroski completing his winning run around the bases, Dad picked up the stub and slid it back inside the folded magazine page. “Think I'll hold on to it a little while longer."
Fire Hill
by
Chris Castle
I turn off the hot tap with my toes and the water calms itself. I lay there, watching the ripples crease themselves out, settling around my knees, my thighs. I put the bottle to one side and look at the candle in the corner. The flame turns it blue, the kind of shade I imagine igloo bricks are. It fizzes over the waves, flickering stars up and down the water, my body.
I hear her padding around just outside the door. Her feet, bare, sound like a drum intro to a song. Even though we’ve drunk this much she still moves with a grace few people will ever know. I hear her wrestle with the CD case, the gentle snap and roll and then the drum, drum, drum. After this day, this night, this is the first sliver of silence we have known. Since we woke in sighs and whispers, to lovemaking, words over coffee, the bars, the shouts, the laughter, the pledges. Now there is only the drum- drum patter of her feet as somewhere outside of my sight, she peels off the last few items of her clothes.
The CD starts in gently. It is one we bought in a market in the summer. I close my eyes and listen, first to the music, then to her clothes. I hear the whip snap of sandals being unravelled, the blunt sound of a belt falling to the floor, the silver in the buckle echoing for long seconds. The tussle of the jumper being wrestled over her shoulders, then nothing. With my eyes still closed I reach for the bottle and swig from the neck, so when I take it from my lips it makes a popping sound. I let the body of the bottle slip into the water with me and when I open my eyes, she is somewhere in the room with me.
She is standing behind the shower curtain, far away from me, reaching for matches in the silhouette. There is a spark and a crackle and the curtain slowly pulls away. She is naked but for her white vest top, the one she sleeps in the summer. She carefully puts the fresh candle in the far corner and then turns to me as her other foot moves carefully in. We still do not speak. She simply drifts into the water, smiling to me, two candles lighting the small world we have created for ourselves.
The t shirt fills with water until it looks like little more than tissue paper. She pulls it from herself, causing the candles to ripple slightly with the breeze and drapes it round the taps. We meet and kiss and then move backwards. The water feels so good with her heat, that it moves over my skin like warm ripples of wine and butter. I say this to her, finally breaking the thick warm silence of the room.
“I used to swim in water like this when I was growing up. It was called Fire Hill. It was on a path and surrounded by woods and only a few of us knew about it. Sometimes I’d go on my own at night and swim under the moon. ” She closed her eyes and smiled, letting the water rise to the curve of her throat.
“They found it eventually, destroyed it. But for a while it was our and ours alone. Just me, Stevie, Serena and Helen.” The candle flickers again and for a moment, with that smile, I don’t recognise her. She lets the boys name hang in the air between us like a spike. I think about her in this place, letting others watch her, taste a glimpse of her. I reach for her thigh but only touch water. I reach for the bottle instead. I take a hit.
Earlier in the evening we had been with two of her friends, Hattie and Carl. There was coffee and beer, wine and rosewater. When I was in the kitchen drinking beer, Carl walked in with three empty glasses. He was a little drunk and wanted to talk. He started to talk, saying without fail, without fail, there is someone who holds the power within two people. Those who pursue and those who accept. He said that he pursued Hattie and that he offered her love to accept and that makes him weak. He said that love can only ever make someone weak when they push it onto others. Because there is never a balance.
“I went to the exhibition today. The work from Brazil.” She went to an exhibition every week. It was her passion. I went when I could. I did not understand a lot of it. I watched her and waited for her to speak. This was enough for me. I ask her to tell me about it.
“It was okay. The book was a blast. ” When we started to first see each other, she told me about art, galleries, and ‘installations’. Then one night, when we lay close and started to defeat secrets, she turned and smiled to me. She told me what she liked most was to read the comments book. She said she loved finding out how strangers felt inside. Like hearing someone read from their own diary page. She told me this with a smile that was half guilt and half pleasure that stayed with me for days after.
She leans over and drinks from the bottle, then passes it to me. I do the same. We kiss. We kiss for a long time, the music hushed by the movement we make. She holds my cheeks with both hands, stares at me with wine and tears and water in her eyes, then she edges away, though still close enough to hear my every breath.
“Talk to me about love.” She says quietly.
I look at her. Her hair is straight and the colour of autumn leaves. Her eyes are dark and her smile is honest. I know what I feel. I tell her. I say that love is absolute. Love is dangerous. I tell her I need love.
“But then there are people who look back to lovers and hate them now. Who’ve hurt and twisted the love you had into something hurtful. I have. You must have too. Even though you never tell me.”
She smiles and we link hands under the water. I tell her some of it, not all of it. Neither of us are married, which sometimes makes me think there is no history before the two of us. I know otherwise but that feeling makes me feel good sometimes. When we met she was a flower seller. She’s moved onto other things now, more responsible positions, but I’ll always remember her as a flower seller. Handing out beauty; the girl people sought out when their emotions were at their strongest, for better or worse.
“Remember Terry? Remember him? Look at our love. Look at how that love worked out.”
Terry was with her for a couple of years and stalked her afterwards. It was before me and it was brutal. He followed her and rang her and threatened her. He scared off the men that went before me, so in a lot of ways I can thank Terry for helping me to meet her. Terry was broken and dangerous and lost but I could never quite dismiss him, his actions, outright. I might do the same if she ever breaks my heart. How we see ourselves and how we should react is a long way from real life, I know that much.
“Terry loved me. Terry loved me even though he lied and he cheated on me. He said to me once that I was his heart, in amongst all the clutter and filth and jumble of his life. That I was the good blood that moved in his veins. I remember that, word for word. Even as he was screwing around and stealing from my purse, I knew that he did love me.”
I repeat what she has said. That he lied to her, cheated on her. I say this is a love that has no strength.
“I think it is. He just had other emotions that were as strong, but it was still there. It was definitely there. He was a photographer in his spare time, did I tell you that? He used to snap all the time. I wonder what he did with all those photographs. Whether he burnt them all up, or kept them in a box someplace. What would you do? If you had all those photographs?”
I thought about it for a while. I kept a box of old love letters in a cupboard. I hadn’t thought of them for years until she brought all this up.
“I’d hold onto one, at least. One definitely. So it was there. All of them? Too painful. But one? I could hold one.”
One of the candles flickered and then resumed its light. Whenever we talk about love it always seem to be as much about sadness as it is about joy. I drank from the bottle then pushed it through the water to her hand. We were close again.
“Will you ever hate me?” She says.
“No. Will you?”
“Only when you hate me first.”
I held her hand up to the weak light. I held her knuckles to my cheek, and thought, somehow, that I could still smell the scent of flowers on her skin.
“When I was at the exhibition today, do you know what I thought to do? It was so quiet and I had my notebook and pen in my pocket. I thought I could scrawl on this painting. Not even deface it, but add something to it, just add the slightest thought in my head which would completely alter the history of the painting, the man who worked so hard to create it. So many things are fragile. I guess what I’m saying, is sometimes I get scared. Scared at how fragile it can all turn out to be. ”
I held her face with my own hands then, felt her skin that didn’t seem to hold a single crease, even when she spoke of fear. I held for the longest time and we moved in and out of the water and the shades of dying candles.
We lay on the bed. We did not reach for towels, we simply moved out of the water and into the room. When I touched her again she felt like someone else, ignited with all the heat and steam. I pushed a strand of hair from her eye. We made love and afterwards went back to looking into each other’s eyes.
I see she is getting close to sleeping. I lean forward slightly, still looking into her nearly fallen eyes. I think she is most beautiful when she is close to sleeping. Her eyes are heavy and darker somehow and there is no tension left. No fragile fear. Just her. Just her beauty. I whisper this too her.
When I move away she is smiling and nearly asleep. I wonder if she’ll remember what I have just said. I watch her for a while longer. Then I roll onto my back and lay awake. I lay there until the dawn begins to edge into the corners of our night. I lay, listening to the two of us breathing, awake, asleep, together. Then I close my eyes and all that was before me disappears.
Eyes on the Hilltop
By
There must have been thousands of us. I could barely see the top of the hill from where we stood. It loomed so far away. How were we all going to make it up that narrow path?
I was shoved from side to side, elbows poking into me. Groans from hot, tired people echoed from everywhere. My sun-baked clothing clung to my perspiring body.
A voice called from the top of the hill.
I recognized it, but couldn’t quite place from where. I only knew that the source of the voice was my goal, as was everyone else’s. The frenzied faces around me verified that the voice stirred in them the same thirst it stirred in me. A thirst that could only be quenched by reaching the top of the hill, the source of the calling.
I strained to focus on the voice and found myself farther forward in the crowd. It felt wonderful—as though someone had allowed me a dribble of water after days in the desert. It soothed me and settled the beating of my heart. My goal seemed suddenly attainable. My feet carried me on, but I became distracted by a woman lying on the ground, nearly getting trampled.
“I’ve lost him! Where is the voice? I can’t hear it anymore!” she cried.
“Quiet!” someone shouted. “Neither can we, and you’re not helping with all your carrying on.”
I reached out my hand to her. “Here, let me help you.”
She smiled at me, clasped my hand, and pulled herself up. “Thank you, my boy. I can’t find my way. Can you help me?”
I shook my head. “I don’t know the way either. I’m only following . . .” The words caught in my throat and I frowned. Following what? I still didn’t know the source; only the drive that pushed me on.
She released my hand. “Me, too. Me, too . . .’’ She drifted off into the crowd.
People milled around me, and I realized I had stepped forward, but not by much. I closed my eyes. The voice . . . I need to find it again.
I heard it then, calling. The words were indistinguishable, but it was the voice. I closed my eyes and concentrated, stepping toward it. When my eyes opened, I was at the base of the hill. Several people cried out in joy and began running up the hill, but many of them faltered after only a few steps. They clung to one another and only staggered more, then tumbled down. They shook their fists at the ones who had made it to the top. 
More people moved forward to take the places of the fallen. As some dashed up the path, I noticed that many others carried sticks. They bore down on their crutches, gripping them with white knuckles, their eyes set firmly on the path before them. Despite their vigil, they tripped over unnoticed rocks, twigs, and other obstacles. They too stumbled and fell. Most never took their eyes from their crutches long enough to witness the ones who had succeeded.
I moved forward with the next group, my heart pounding. So many people. I stared in all directions. How could this mass of humanity possibly fit on this narrow road? The path seemed impossibly thin only moments before. People were running, walking, leaning heavily on crutches, and as in the previous groups, most of them tripped, fell, and disappeared back into the crowd at the base of the hill. Their disappointment seeped into me. Why was this so hard? As my eyes wandered from person to person, my own feet slid out from under me. I dropped to my stomach and grabbed at the earth.
Tears stung my eyes. “No! I have come too far!” My fingers dug into the dirt. It made no sense; this should not be difficult. But the need itself, the very thing that swelled my heart with hope also squeezed it with fear and misunderstanding. I closed my eyes again, gritting my teeth with determination. This is what I want. With all my heart, mind, and soul.
The voice boomed in my ear.
I lifted my head, trying to absorb my surroundings while attending to the message. At that moment I finally understood the common thread among the people who didn’t falter in their climb. They locked their eyes on the top of the hill. They didn’t mimic the attempts of those around them, nor rely on crutches, nor stare at their own footing. They held their heads high and focused on the source of the voice.
I sucked in a deep breath and stood. Blocking all distraction, I raised my gaze to the hilltop. There he stood, the man whose voice had called me, and I could finally make out the words. The dribble of joy I had felt became a flood, quenching my thirst more fully than anything before. With my eyes fixed on him, I smiled and rushed forward. My feet gripped the ground with ease until finally I stood before him.
My thirst was vanquished.
The Scientist and the Bacteria
by
Laura Jane Popp
Once upon a time, there lived a scientist who loved to make things. One day he decided to make a giant omniplex, a building so huge that if you stood inside it you couldn’t see any of the walls. Within this omniplex, he built hundreds of laboratories. He filled his laboratories with all kinds of creatures, big and small, strong and weak, smart and not so smart. To connect them all together, the scientist introduced mice to scurry from lab room to lab room, delivering messages. One of the messengers was bigger, faster, stronger, and smarter than all the others. He was a rat and he liked being a rat. “The scientist likes me best,” it decided, and wouldn’t let anyone else forget it.
Then one day, the scientist entered a laboratory and set a small petri dish on one of the empty counters. The dish was filled with hundreds of different kinds of bacteria, all squirming around having a great time. The scientist had excellent eyesight and didn’t need a microscope to see them. “How funny they are!” he exclaimed. “I like them very much, especially that one.” He took that bacterium and put it in a special place in the petri dish, where it had plenty of food, water, and light from the heat lamp.
He discovered it had a language, very basic, and that its little microscopic mind couldn’t begin to understand the scientist’s thoughts and feelings, but he was determined to get through to it.
“I am a scientist,” he said. “I caused you to exist and I take care of you.” The bacterium, though it understood little, seemed happy to hear his voice.
“I like this creature very much. I will make more of it,” the scientist decided. He caused the bacterium to divide and was even more pleased to see how happily the bacterium reacted to its new friend. “I want you to make many more of your kind,” he told them. “I want you to fill this entire petri dish, but be sure not to harm the other creatures living in it, or each other. That would be terrible.”
All this time the rat watched with growing jealousy. How can the scientist spend so much time on those bumbling, blind, stupid creatures? it thought. They’re always running into the sides of the dish and live completely meaningless lives compared to the mice and especially me! But do I get any special attention? No!
So the rat went to the petri dish and spoke silver-spun lies. “The scientist doesn’t really care about you. He wants you to stay weak and stupid, but if you listen to me, I’ll make you wise.” Instead of ignoring the rat like the scientist told them, the bacteria listened intently, soaking in all it had to say about disobeying the scientist and hurting each other to get ahead. All the while they didn’t notice the rat slowly tipping their petri dish until it was too late. Out splashed the life-giving liquid all over the lab table. The scientist, furious, shooed the rat away. “See if I ever give you cheese again!” he shouted.
He turned the petri dish right side up and saved the bacteria, but the rat’s damage was done. The petri dish had become Tainted, along with all the little creatures that lived inside. The microscopic plants could only be cultivated with great effort; pain and sickness ran rampant. Worst of all were the two bacteria the scientist loved best. Instead of being happy and grateful to the scientist for saving them, they were afraid and hid.
The scientist tried many things to regain their love and trust, but they no longer listened. Instead of doing the things he told them to, caring for one another and the other creatures in the petri dish, they did hurtful things. They used the materials in the petri dish the scientist meant to help to hurt, even kill one another. It broke the scientist’s heart to see them so stubbornly bent on destruction.
“What can I do?” he cried. Tears ran down his face and he wept with sadness and anger. “They are more foolish than I ever imagined.”
Meanwhile, the rat, always watching, saw his opportunity. It slunk up to the scientist, laughing. “What are you still doing with those stupid bacteria? Can’t you see that they don’t want to listen to you? Oh, sure, sometimes they wave their little flagella at you in meager thanks, but why should you delight so much in that? They use the same flagella to strike each other and infect each other and kill each other. Why not destroy them like they deserve?”
The scientist thought, and suddenly the strangest, craziest idea he’d ever had popped in his head.
“I will become one of them,” he whispered.
“What?” the rat scoffed. “Become a bacterium? You’re a scientist, you made them!”
“It’s the only way to get them to listen. To save them. ”
“B-but--” the rat sputtered. “They don’t deserve it; they won’t understand; they won’t care. They’ll kill you!”
“I know,” the scientist said. “And that’s why I have to do it.”
“Stop, you’re being irrational, insane! Who dies for bacteria?”
But the scientist wasn’t listening. He’d already turned himself into a baby bacterium, born in the dirtiest, most unhappy place in the entire petri dish.
I have to stop this! the rat thought. I can’t allow the bacteria to become greater than me!
And so it tried to take advantage of the scientist’s new bacterial weakness and use its silver-spun lies to make the scientist slip up. It wreaked havoc on the other bacteria but this only helped the scientist because he healed those the rat hurt and even more bacteria followed him. All the while the scientist taught about self-sacrifice, justice, trust, and love, all the things he’d tried to teach before but the bacteria in their weakness couldn’t understand.
The rat knew this must stop. At last it convinced one of the scientist’s closest friends to betray him, and all the bacteria showed how terrible they were when they abandoned the scientist in his greatest need.
Laughing gleefully, the rat cried,
“Look at that! The most powerful being in the omniplex, helpless!” And it swallowed him whole.
For three days the scientist seemed dead in the belly of the rat. But he only lay dormant. On the morning of the third day, he made the rat sick and it threw him up. The scientist returned to his full size and gave all who believed in his sacrifice a genetic marker, a portion of his own DNA that could not be seen on the outside, but transformed them on the inside.
The other bacteria saw how they were different, how they refused to hate and didn’t honor the shiny objects the other bacteria loved. Many were jealous of the joy and freedom in their lives. So the genetically-marked bacteria were attacked, even killed. The rat attacked them too, worse than ever, but when it tried to swallow them as it did the other bacteria, the genetic marker made it throw them up.
As time passed, it became popular in some parts of the petri dish to have the genetic marker and some only pretended to have it. They did horrible things in the scientist’s name that made other bacteria hate the scientist, have false ideas about him or not believe in him at all. But whenever this happened, the scientist sparked something in the nuclei of those bacteria that really had the marker, and they would once again spread a true understanding of the scientist and be a blessing to those in far corners of the petri dish who had never heard about him.
And so we find ourselves in a very similar situation in our world. Our scientist has promised that one day he will return, destroy the rat and turn those of us with the genetic marker into his children. What scientist would be foolish enough to turn stupid, hurtful, nasty bacteria into children? Fortunately, our scientist is.
September
So Much More Than Hair
by
Janna Qualman
“All done, sweets,” the hairdresser announced, pulling the smock from my daughter’s small frame, and giving the chair a quick spin with her foot. When it snapped to a stop, Caroline faced me, her eyes big as a doe’s.
“Aw, honey! It’s adorable,” I gushed. And I meant it, too. The pixie style was perfect for her tiny nose, those cherub cheeks.
But the way she sucked in her bottom lip, the way her baby blues looked to be swimming, told me she was upset. I’d been afraid of that.
I dropped to my knees and she sprang into my arms, tucking her face into that hollow, sacred space between my neck and shoulder.
“Mommy, I shouldn’t have done it!” she wailed. “All my long princess hair, gone!”
“Caroline, I’m sorry you’re upset, but we talked about this,” I reminded her with gentle words. “It was your decision. And you had a special reason, remember?”
Gone for the moment were her best of intentions. “But now we can’t braid it or curl it.”
“Well, I suppose you’re right,” I said, shooting an it’s-okay-not-your-fault smile at the hairdresser. “But you know who has hair like your new ‘do?”
“Who?”
“Tinkerbell.”
Caroline gasped. “Yeah, she does!”
“And isn’t she kind of like a princess, anyway?”
“Maybe..” She shrugged, dipping the toe of her sequined slipper into a gouge in the linoleum.
“But you know what is so much more important?” My nose burned as emotion bubbled in my chest.
“What?” Caroline said, giving my neck a tight squeeze. She eyed me with suspicion.
“Think about the little girl who’s going to get the wig they make with your hair—and how it’s going to make her feel just like a princess.”
“Are you sad, Mommy?” She always noticed when my eyes grew misty. “It would be sad not to have any hair at all.”
“Yes, it would. But I’m not sad. I’m proud.” I cleared my throat and rose from my crouched position, taking her hand in mine. “I’m proud of you, for donating your princess hair.”
A slow smile touched her face. “I’m glad someone will get to wear it, even if it’s not me.”
“You know, I just had a thought?” I dropped my cash payment on the counter as we passed, waving to the hairdresser.
Caroline’s face, so beautifully showcased by the new cut, so beautiful because of the precious and caring girl she was, was tilted toward me with anticipation.
“I’ll grow my hair out.” I fluffed my stacked hair. “And when it’s time to donate again, we’ll do it together.”
Image by:s nada
Acceptance
by
Neil Fontaine
Little Charlie spun around, doing a cartwheel on the backyard grass. “Daddy, you weren’t watching. Dad, watch.” He did another cartwheel. He was lightheaded from all the spinning around. He pouted. His dad flipped another burger. Behind him and the walnut tree, the sun was setting. 
He stared at the tall, white fence, and then ran inside. “Mom, I did a cartwheel.”
“That’s great, honey.”
“Can you come get Dad to watch me?”
“I’m making the salad. It’s almost dinner time.” She chopped lettuce.
He darted out the sliding glass door. “Daddy, please watch me.”
He rolled on his hands, landing on his feet. “Did you see that?”
“Sure did, buddy.”
“Wasn’t it cool?”
His dad placed a burger on a plate of burgers. “It was a little off balance. Keep practicing and you’ll get it.”
Charlie kicked his stupid ball. It bounced off the perfect white fence.
The seasons passed. Charlie spent the last three hours getting his soldier custom just right. He glanced in the mirror. His hair wasn’t as brown as his dads, but his eyes were just as bright blue, and the stripes on his face looked like the soldiers in the movies.
He skipped into the living room. “See, daddy, I’m a brave soldier like you. Do you think I could trick and treat this year with my friends?”
His dad sat on the sofa, eating one of the mini Snickers bars from the plastic pumpkin head. “Maybe next year, bud.”
“But, Dad, they get to go alone.”
His mom sat up from the fluffy chair. “Invite them to come along with us.”
His dad was never going to think he was brave enough.
As the years carried on, Charlie tried to impress his dad. One time he even jumped off the big rock at the lake. All his dad did was jump off a larger rock. “Now that’s how it’s done.”
One day Charlie came home from high school. Using a magnet, he slapped his report card on the fridge. He smiled big. “Check that,” he said to his father. “Got an A in math.”
His father ripped it off, glanced it over, and said, “You got a B in history.”
“Nothing’s ever good enough for you is it?”
His father gripped the counter table, his forearms tensed like bulging vines. “Don’t take that tone with me, boy.”
“I’m not a boy anymore. If you bothered to pay attention you would know that.”
Jack looked at his mother. “What’s gotten into our son?”
She closed the fridge. “Maybe if you congratulated him once in a while.” She ruffled Charlie’s hair. “Good job on getting an A in math, but don’t talk to your father like that, okay?”
He sighed. “I’m going to play football. Be back in a while.”
Instead he went to his girlfriend’s house. They walked to the park and sat by the pond. They chatted for a bit.
“What’s wrong?” Jessica asked. “You seem down.”
“Nothing’s ever good enough for my father. He can never say, great job, no matter how good I do something. He didn’t even congratulate me for taking first place in that painting contest.”
She kissed him. “I think you’re great.”
#
His mother sat at the dining room table. His father was still at work. Charlie poured a glass of milk. “I’m joining the military.”
“But you just graduated.”
“I know. It’s what I want to do.”
She shook her head. “You don’t have to join the military just because your father did.”
“I know, Mom.”
Charlie was in the top of his class, and they accepted him into the Special Forces. And after five years of traveling the world, he returned home. Jessica said she was faithful the whole time, and he believed her.
It felt strange when he walked up the stairs to his parent’s soft-blue colored home. It used to be his home. He had a lot of memories of this place. When he looked down at the green-frog mat, he smiled. He couldn’t believe they kept that thing. He stepped through the door. “I’m home.”
His mother leaped from her chair and hugged him. Frank turned the TV off.
“Mom, don’t cry.”
“I’m just so happy to see you.” She hugged him again.
After catching up and eating dinner, Charlie looked at Frank. “You know I was Special Forces like you right?”
“Well, I don’t know if it was the same. I fought in two wars.”
“Okay, well, I gotta go.”
“No, please stay a while longer,” his mother said.
“Jessica’s waiting for me.”
He left the house and didn’t look back. Why did he even mention the Special Forces to Jack? What was the point? Nothing had changed.
#
It was sunny out. He and Jessica walked in the park when he collapsed and awoke in the hospital. For the next week the doctors ran many tests.
Dr. Halls entered the small white room, holding a clipboard. “Without chemo, you will die. Unfortunately, your chances don’t look good.”
Charlie wiped his hands on his pants. “What percent chance do I have of beating this?”
The doctor looked at his clipboard. “If we start right away. Maybe thirty percent.”
Charlie’s chest felt like it sank in. The room closed in on him.
“Charlie? Are you all right?”
“I’m fine.” He tried to hold the tears back. Why was this hard? He faced death many times in the Special Forces. “Don’t tell anyone.” He stood up from the patient’s table. “If anyone asks, tell them that my chances are good.”
“I don’t know—“
He gripped the doctor by the shoulder. “Just do it.” He wiped a tear away. “Please.”
The doctor nodded. “You want to start chemotherapy then?”
“I have to try. Jessica’s pregnant.”
#
For the next year he struggled through chemo. They kept him on a lot of pain killers and drugs that were supposed to help the nausea. They didn’t work. He puked at least once a day. His parents visited him regularly.
One of those times Jack came alone. When he stepped into the sick room, Charlie tried to sit up.
“It’s okay, Son.”
“I can do it.” It took all his strength, but he sat up in the white bed.
“Feeling any better?”
“Not really,” Charlie said weakly. “Some days it feels like I’m on fire. Other times I feel so weak and sick I was sure I would breathe my last. The doctors are surprised I’m still alive, but I’m not giving up. I got a little baby boy now.”
“He’s adorable.” Jack chuckled, shaking his head. “You should have seen her after delivery. She almost looked as bad as you do.”
“Stop, don’t make me laugh.” He coughed. It was like needles tearing through his lunges. He lay back. “Thanks for stopping by.”
“I wanted to tell you something.” Jack sat up. “Maybe next time, you need rest.”
Two months later they released him from the hospital. They said his cancer had gone into remission. Boot camp and other military training had been hard, but none of that could compare to going through chemo. Several times Charlie wanted to give up and just die. He was glad he hadn’t.
Charlie sat on his front porch. He watched the cars drive by, listened to the birds singing in the trees, and sipped his nutrition drink. Then Jack pulled into the drive way. He stepped out of his white Cadillac.
Charlie stood. “What brings you this way? Where’s Mom?”
He fidgeted with the bottom of his shirt. “I came alone. Is Jessica around?”
“She went to her moms for she could see the baby. Is something wrong?”
“I’ve been trying to tell you something. This is hard for me.”
“Is something wrong with Mom?”
He shook his head no. His eyes watered. He knuckled a tear away. “You know my father, he was a strong man. He raised me to be strong.”
Charlie couldn’t remember a time he had ever seen his father cry.
“He was a soldier too, right?”
“A damn good one,” Jack said. “You got a nice house.”
“What did you come to tell me?”
Jack looked at the grass, then at the bushes next to the front porch. “I thought I was going to lose you. It was hard watching you battle cancer. I think I would have given up. I would have just died.”
“Is this what you came to tell me?”
Jack began crying. He held his arms out and stepped closer to his son. Charlie stepped into them. His father squeezed. It was a warm, loving hug. “Son, you’re the damn bravest and strongest man that I have ever known. Ah-and you were a great football player. You’re a fantastic painter. I don’t know why I never told you that because I love your paintings. I read up on your military files. You’re a true soldier. You would have even made my father proud.” He pulled back and stared into Charlie’s eyes. “I know you will be a better father than I was.”
Charlie wept.
Image by:Daniel Moore
August
Dearly Beloved
by
DJ Barber
The old Dodge Dart sputtered and chugged to a stop alongside the two-lane. Out of gas—again! Mary looked with chagrin at the gas gauge which pointed stubbornly at one-quarter. The pile had more things wrong with it than right! Well, now it was another anomaly--and every time the old bucket was up to one of its tricks, Mary was in for another adventure.
Being a barmaid was adventure enough for Mary, but stuck out here on highway 569 at two-thirty in the morning was a tad too much. She wished it were a holiday weekend--then, at least, old Fred Timson would be out prowling for drunk drivers. But on an anonymous early Thursday morn, Sheriff Timson would be tucked tightly into his bed.
Mary banged the steering wheel of the Dodge and got out into the darkness. Crickets and frogs chipped in the sultry breeze of the country night and the car ticked as its metals cooled off, making a backbeat to nature’s own song. It was six miles home--may as well be sixty! She looked up and down the highway, hopeful of some late-night motorist, but not really wanting there to be one--after all, these days it would just as likely be some nutter, if anyone were out at all.
This car! It was just full of tricks. Why she kept it at all was--well, she kept it because it was her husband, Tommy’s car. Tommy had disappeared two summers back without hide nor hair of him seen since. He had left for work down in the coal mine and just vanished. The car was found somewhere along here on the verge of the highway, door open and no sign of Tommy.
She needed to pee and angled into the woods beside the car. Just her luck! Nothing but wild rose and brambles so she squatted just inside the
woods’ edge. She got back up and when she turned she saw that the car was across the highway and facing the other direction! Now how--? Had she crossed the road? But no! She hadn’t... And another thing--the Dodge’s hood was up, like someone had come along trying to figure out what was wrong.
She crossed the highway and approached the car slowly. First thing tomorrow she was taking this heap to Walker’s Auto Emporium and trading it for something else.
The songs of the frogs and crickets suddenly stopped. The breeze stilled also. It was if someone had turned the volume down to zero. Mary could almost hear her heart beat--she could certainly feel it’s quickening thrum.
From around the front edge of the car came the tall figure of a man. He had been hidden behind the raised hood.
“There,” he said. “She’s all fixed up now. And you jes forget all that thought about goin’ to Walker’s and getting shuck of her, too.”
Mary was dumbstruck.
The tall man came closer. It was Tommy!--all dressed up in a clean, white suit, wiping his hands off on a handkerchief even whiter. “What you had there was the hose that feeds the gas come off the carb. She’ll run now, all right.”
Mary found her voice. “Tommy! Oh, Tommy! Where have you been?” She started forward to take him in her arms, but he retreated to the far side of the car.
“No-no! You mustn’t touch me now.”
“But Tommy!” She started forward.
“No. Stay back--now I mean it, Mary.”
She began to cry.
“Now, don’t go and start all them waterworks. You can see that I’m okay, all right? And I come down to get you out of this mess. There’s nothing wrong with this old heap if you jes keep the oil fresh and get her looked over from time-to-time, she’ll run forever.
She again went towards him, but as she got near he faded into memory. Mary looked round and round the car, calling out, crying, and finally giving the Dodge a good kick in the hindquarter, but Tommy was gone--again!
She stumbled more than walked over to the open door, just as the police said it had been on the night Tommy went missing, and she climbed behind the wheel. It started on the third try and she slammed the door shut and spun wheels getting out of there.
It was Tommy, all right. He had come down from on high. He said he come down to get her out of this mess. But Mary suddenly wondered--had he come to save her--or the car?
FAREWELL
By
Karla Lammers
A twenty-something man sits in a taxi in front of his parents' house, trying to find the strength to tell them that he won’t be visiting again. The car is ancient but sports a new car smell, and the vibration of the engine through the seat soothes him.
The driver, Peter, mirrors the car’s age and taps his thumbs on the top of the steering wheel. He turns to look at the man in the backseat. “It’s time.”
“I don’t think I can do it. They are so sad already.”
Peter sighs. “It will help them to move forward.”
“Can you explain that to me?” The young man wrinkles his brow. “I mean, it’s been a year and they aren’t over it yet. How will my farewell provide any relief?” A lone tear trickles down his cheek.
“Danny, are you saying, no one explained the stages to you? No one?”
“When it first happened, my counselor met me with for several days. She passed along a lot of information, but I didn’t absorb much.”
Peter turns off the engine. The temperature barely tops zero outside, but the heat hasn’t been on anyway. He pulls out a pack of Marlboro’s. “You mind if I smoke?”
“Is that allowed?” 
“What’s the difference?” Peter replies as he lights up. The smoke permeates the compartment but emits no odor. “Listen, I’m going to give it to you as straight as I can. You know, this is my job, but I traveled the same path you’ve been walking. I know how hard it is to let go. But the reality is, your parents won’t be able to heal so long as you’re in the picture.”
“Why? I’ve been careful! I never let them see me.”
“All the same, they can feel your presence.” Peter takes a long drag and exhales slowly. “You can’t fool me, kid. You knew you’d get a year to check-in, and then it would end. If you don’t say good-bye, you’ll remain in limbo.”
Danny sits without moving, his head lowered, his hands in his lap. “I remember. I’ve tried to avoid the truth, but I always knew my visits had to stop.”
“Where did you go when you weren’t with them?”
“I traveled—roamed the streets of
“That’s not so bad. Some I’ve transported, all they did was camp out at their loved one’s place and cry the whole time. I don’t know how they worked up the nerve to say good-bye.” He lets out another thin stream of smoke. “You didn’t shed any buckets right?”
“I didn’t see the point. My dad’s Mustang that he loved more than anything would still be totaled.” Another tear slides down his cheek. “I didn’t mean to be such a huge disappointment to my folks.”
“Danny, Danny, Danny.” Peter lowers his window and flicks the cigarette butt out. “If you’ve learned anything from this past year, you’ve learned how important your life has been to your parents. You couldn’t help what happened that day.”
“I shouldn’t have been in that car! No one drove it but my dad, and I ruined everything.”
Peter doesn’t respond. He stays quiet for a few moments, then looks his passenger in the eye. “It’s time, Danny.”
“No. No! Can’t we just leave?”
“You have to take this last step.” Peter turns back to the front and waits.
A few moments later, the young man closes his eyes. When he opens them, he’s inside his parents’ livingroom. His father sits in one chair holding his unread newspaper. His mother occupies the other, her knitting needles resting in her lap. Their grief stricken faces are visible even though only one small lamp glows in the corner. The rest of the house is dark. They each raise their heads a notch upon his arrival.
Danny remains standing and whispers, “This is my last visit. They say it’s time for me to travel to my new home. Please don’t mourn for me any longer. Start living again because that is the only thing that will ease my soul.”
They can’t hear a word he’s said, yet his mother smiles slightly and stretches out her hand. His father reaches for it.
“So long, Mom, Pop.” Danny closes his eyes.
Image by:Jolka Igolka
The Miracle
By
"Tell me about your miracle again, Granddad," little Jennifer demanded as she threw herself into his open arms for a good night hug.
"What miracle might that be you little rascal?" Matthew asked as he caught the precious bundle that was his favourite granddaughter.
"Why the miracle of the talking animals."
"Well," began Matthew as he settled into his easy chair. "You understand that every Christmas Eve the animals are allowed to speak in human tongue for a moment. That was the Christ child's present to the animals who shared the space in the barn, and the hay in the manger. When that moment comes, you have to listen very closely because it only lasts for a second. It's late at night so a little doll like you should be asleep, and only the pure of heart can hear the animals talking. At least that's the way my mother always told the story to me."
"Go on," Jennifer said, as she snuggled her head into his shoulder to find the perfect comfortable spot where she could watch his eyes.
"Well, I think I heard the animals talk, once. I'm not certain, but I do know that it was an extraordinary time. I remember it as well as I remember every freckle on your nose."
"I don't have freckles."
"You do too."
"I don't, and that's final."
"Do you want to hear the story? Then be quiet and let me tell it."
Jennifer settled back again. Her annoyance at that deadly freckle insult died away in anticipation of the story she heard each Christmas.
"It was 1933. There was a depression on. Do you know what a depression is Jennifer?"
"Yes, Granddad. It's when everyone is depressed because no one has a job, and everyone has to wear old clothes and eat turnips."
"Close enough, my child. It was during the Great Depression. My dad had lost his job, and travelled back East looking for some work. That left me and my mother alone, well almost alone. We had to move into a room at my grandparents house. Did you know that I once had grandparents too?"
"Oh Granddad. Everyone has grandparents, well almost everyone. Bessy at school says that her's are in another country so she's never seen them. If I bring Bessy here will you show her how a grandparent acts?"
"Yes, I will. My grandparents were a little crotchety. At least I thought so. They complained about all the noise I made. When the Christmas holidays began, I was home all day so Grandma kept finding chores for me."
"That December winter had a bitter bite, so I used to escape by slipping out to the library where I'd read about other places and sail away on fantastic voyages. At other times I tried to earn a little money so I could buy my mother a Christmas present. Sometimes I would hear her crying at night when she thought that I was asleep.
I would search for soda pop bottles. You could return them for the two cent deposit. That was enough to buy a newspaper, or a small candy bar in those days. I'd run errands, or I'd wait outside the food store with my wagon. Sometimes an old lady would hire me to help her take her groceries home. Other times I'd run errands for the butcher when his own boys were busy. He didn't pay with money, but he'd give me a soup bone to take home."
"Did you make a lot of money Granddad?" asked Jennifer.
"Not then," he replied, "But that's another story. Anyway I'd saved up a whole two dollars, and let me tell you that was a lot of money in those days. I wanted to buy my mother something pretty, a scarf. I was going to buy my Grandpa a tobacco pouch, and my Grandma an apron. After all those presents I still have fifty cents left to spend on myself."
"What I wanted more than anything in the world was a dog. My best friend George, had some pups, and I knew he'd sell me one for that much if I asked politely. Those puppies were the funniest little creatures you ever saw. They were always jumping up and licking your face and tearing around and play fighting and then running back to their mother whenever they got hurt."
"The problem was that Grandma didn't like dogs. The puppy had started more than one argument between her and my mother. All the arguments ended with my mother going upstairs to the bathroom. When she came out her eyes were red. "
Granddad always got quiet for a while at this point in the story although Jennifer wasn't really sure why. It might be because mothers shouldn't have to cry, or maybe Granddad still wanted for that puppy. Idly Jennifer wondered why Granddad would have wanted a puppy. They were so rough.
"Anyway, it was Christmas Eve," continued Granddad after a second. "I still didn't have my puppy, but I wasn't going to mention it right now. We were all dressed in our finest outfits. Mine was a little too tight everywhere, but my mother told me not to complain. She said that I should think about the starving in
"As we walked to the church through the light flurries I held onto my mother’s hand. Since everyone attended church on Christmas Eve we had to arrive early to get a seat. You never saw so many people jammed together. While it was crowded, it was warm in church, and everyone was in a good mood. Even Grandma was happier than usual. I enjoyed being up so late, although I did a lot of yawning."
With that Granddad yawned a cavern and that made Jennifer do the same. She was feeling the tiniest bit sleepy, but wouldn't have admitted it.
"Outside the church the CWL set up a wonderful nativity scene, with plaster statues that were as big as real people. After midnight mass, I went over to it. There was a plaster donkey, on one side, and a cow on the other. Mary and Joseph knelt on either side of an empty manger. The CWL didn’t put the baby Jesus in the scene until Christmas day. Then I rubbed my eyes . The manger wasn't empty."
"I clambered over the fence to get closer, and my mother made a quick dash to see what trouble I was getting into. When I showed her what I'd found she beamed. She was pretty when she smiled."
Granddad paused again. Jennifer, still awake, gave him a moment. She could tell from his eyes that he was lost in long ago. Finally, youthful impatience made her squirm and that brought the story teller back to life.
"I had found the finest calico kitten that you ever saw with fur that had every colour you could imagine, black, white, brown, even orange. He was only a little ball of fur, all cold and shivering, and he snuggled up to me the instant I picked him up."
"When Grandma and Grandpa came over, I knew that I was in big trouble. Grandma said something about another homeless stray, but mother told her that they weren't going to leave a kitten out in the cold on Christmas Eve. She shamed them into letting me bring that little bundle of fur home."
"Tell me about the miracle," Jennifer said, impatiently.
"Hold your horses, young lady. I'm getting there. Now after we got home, we all went the kitchen and got out a saucer of milk for the kitten. He was a little uncertain at first, but after a couple of licks his tongue became a blur. He cleaned that plate better than I did when I washed them."
"Grandma wandered where the kitten had come from and if it had an owner, or if it had a name. At that it marched up to her, bold as could be, and said 'Berrrrt'. Now that made Grandma laugh, and it was a rare thing that made her laugh. You see, Bert was my Grandpa's name."
"Now, I don't know for certain that little kitten spoke, but he certainly said the right thing. From that day one he was named after my Grandpa, 'Bert'. Now, young lady, I've seen those yawns. Off to bed for you."
(Image By: Kathryn Cairney)
August
Breathing Freely
by
Adam A Sanford
(Photo:Marc Slingerland)
There once was a man who, in the deepest reaches of his heart, knew he could breathe underwater. Everyone told him that this was a silly notion, but when he was a child he had gone to the beach and breathed underwater many times. He would swim for miles and miles and go on grand adventures with the crabs and the sea urchins, far below the surface of the ocean, but his parents one day told him that he was too old for children’s games and they stopped bringing him to the beach, only allowing him as close as the lighthouse they cared for, the lighthouse on the cliff which overlooked the rocky shore.
So he grew older and was pleased enough to spend afternoons in the lighthouse upon the cliffs, but he never forgot the place he truly belonged: beneath the waves, his real home. He knew it was silly, and that others thought him strange for his obsession with the sea. But no matter what anyone said, he knew it was real, certainly more real than anything else that had ever happened to him, and that if he could only go back he would finally be at home.
He wanted to leave their house on the cape, sometimes, and flee into the deep, but every time he climbed up to the top of the lighthouse and prepared to dive into the ocean, someone would watch him preparing to dive and would start laughing, for they knew what he was going to do, and he would climb down the stairs and back across the street to his house, his head hanging. He could not return to his real home. All he could do was dream.
Even as he got older, his past life was one of only two things he could think about. The other was Hannah Crowley, the most beautiful girl he had ever seen. Her hair was a wave on a windless day. Her smile was the sun rising over the shore. But her eyes were the most striking; they were as if someone had refined the ocean’s waters into their purest form. He could not look away from her eyes, for they brought him home again.
They were his two loves, Hannah and the sea.
But just as he could never bring himself back into the water again, he could never talk to her. Oh, there were times when they would be both walking down the same hallway or sitting at the same table and he yearned to breathe to her, “I would do anything for you, I need you,” but every time before he could say anything she would be talking to John Parsons and he would be alone once again. He could not have her. All he could do was dream.
So he satisfied himself with his dreaming and watched the world grow older around him. He watched his mother die and his father leave. He watched Hannah Crowley become Hannah Parsons and move to a big house in a meadow looking over the rocks into the ocean. But mostly he watched the sea, as he always had, from the top of the lighthouse on the cliff.
And he was content, mostly, to care for the lighthouse and keep things running. It was an important job, he always told himself. If he didn’t care for the lighthouse, no boat could land on the shores nearby. He could never leave the lighthouse because the job was too important, and that importance gave him purpose. And that purpose made him content, mostly. But sometimes, the man would think about what it would be like to go back to his home in the sea, to live the wonderful adventures he dreamed of. To swim with the fish flitting around him. To bravely explore all of the deepest shipwrecks and find hidden treasures. To be king of the ocean, with Hannah at his side. What a hero he would be, if he could only just jump into the water and leave the world behind!
But he could not leave the lighthouse. All he could do was dream.
There was one thing he did enjoy about living on land in the lighthouse, and that was four o’clock in the afternoon on Saturday. It was not his favorite time of the week because that was when the fish jumped and splashed and reminded him of days long gone. Nor was it his favorite time of the week because the sun would glow orange and first begin to set. No, it was his favorite time of the week because it meant that Hannah would be walking through the meadow beside the ocean.
He’d wake up and know she was coming. He’d feel the familiar itch like a little pulse running through his veins. The pulse would grow louder and louder until his ears were roaring with the sound of his beating heart until by four o’clock he would finally stand atop the lighthouse that looked over the ocean and, exhilarated, watch her walk through the meadow.
He wouldn’t allow himself to blink. He wouldn’t allow it. He would stare, transfixed, as she wandered along the usual path, first through the meadow, then along the jagged rocks beneath the lighthouse, and finally back towards her mansion on the shore. And then she was gone, and the feeling faded, and he would wearily look back towards the ocean and imagine what could have been.
Until one day, when he was watching her walk along the rocks, she took an awkward step. It was if everything had slowed down for a moment; as she picked up her left foot he wanted to shout out, “No! You’ll hurt yourself!” but he didn’t, and her ankle rolled and she stumbled, headfirst, into a large boulder, before he could understand what had happened.
Someone should help her.
He glanced downward at the beach, but there was no one there. It was just the two of them and the ocean. A spot of red glinted on the boulder, crimson and glowing. There was no time. Her body was floating out to sea. There was no one there. There was no time. He could see, he could feel the small bubbles rising from the side of her face as the water filled her lungs, as she dunk deeper to the bottom of the ocean. Someone had to do something.
He looked over the side of the railing. He could see the water below him, deep and pure, and he could see the rising trail of ruby blood from where her body lay sinking in the water. He stared in horror as she went deeper, deeper, she must be thirty feet deep now. All he could think of were those beautiful ocean eyes, and he found himself suddenly tired of dreaming.
And so he climbed on top of the railing, took a deep breath, pushed himself off, and plummeted downward into the ocean.
LATE AGAIN
by
Diane Arrelle
Margaret Smith's mother came into the bedroom and pulled back the curtains. "Margie, get up," she called.
Margaret, ignoring the command, covered her head with the pillow.
"Margie, I said get out of that bed!"
From under the pillow Margaret mumbled, "Don't wanna get up."
Sighing, Mrs. Smith tucked some loose hair back under a roller and yelled, "Margaret Catherine Smith, you better get out of bed right now! You know today is the first day of school!"
Margaret knew when her mother used her full name, it was time to respond. She threw the pillow from her face and sat up. "Mother, I don't feel good. I thi--"
"Well," Mrs. Smith corrected. "I don't feel well."
"Then that makes two of us!" Margaret said in a hopeful tone. Seeing the look of annoyance on her mother's face, she started again. "Mother, I don't feel well. I'm too ill to go to school."
Mrs. Smith started to laugh.
Margaret, still sitting in bed, was shocked by this outburst.
Finally, Mrs. Smith stopped laughing, wiped the tears from her cheeks and said, "Oh come on now! You really have to get more original, you use that excuse every year."
"Well it's true," Margaret whined. I'm sick!" She flopped back onto the pillow and dramatically threw her arm across her face.
"Sick of school?" her mother asked.
"Yeah, sick of school!"
"Well Margie, you know you have to go. We all have to do things we don't enjoy. Life is just that way."
Margaret sat up again and snapped, "Oh really, Mother!"
" Come on," Mrs. Smith coaxed. "Get dressed and I'll make a good breakfast and pack you a special lunch."Well...That's my girl, I knew you'd come around."
Margaret got out of bed and shuffled to the bathroom. She took an extra long shower and slowly brushed her teeth.
Her mother called from downstairs, "Margaret stop wasting time. Your breakfast is getting cold."
Margaret sighed, "Ah Mom, stop treating me like a baby!"
" Then stop acting like one and get down here!"
Sulking, Margaret stamped down the stairs. Her mother had made her favorite breakfast and the aroma of French toast and bacon enticed her into the kitchen.
Doesn't that look wonderful?" Mrs. Smith gushed. "Let's eat all of it so we'll have energy for a full day."
Margaret was tempted to ask her mother if she were joining her but decided that the humor wouldn't be welcomed. Instead she started eating. The meal did make the day a little brighter, but still she said, "I really do hate going to school. I've been going to school almost all my life and I don't want to go anymore."
"Now Margie," Mrs. Smith sighed. "You don't mean that. We have this argument every September. Once you're there everything will be fine."
"No it won't! I hate it there!"
Mrs. Smith rolled her eyes.
Margaret got angrier at her mother's familiar gesture. She shrieked, "I hate my principal, and all the teachers! I even hate all the kids and I'll tell you something. They all hate me right back!"
"Don't yell at me," Mrs. Smith snapped. "I've had enough of this nonsense! Now, you are going to finish and leave. You had better not be late."
Margaret got up, her faced flushed with anger and ran up the stairs. Five minutes later she stormed from the house. Once in the warm sunshine she slowed her pace. She kept wishing for one more week of summer, but all too soon the brick school loomed in front of her. Too late for wishes, summer was officially over.
There were no children in the yard so she knew she was late, not to mention in trouble. She tried to sneak inside but just as she entered one of the teachers leaving the office noticed her. "Hey look," he laughed. "Margaret is back and she's late again. Margaret, I thought you said that you weren't coming back here ever again."
Margaret ignored him and continued walking. When she got to her room, the principal was there speaking to the class. Seeing her enter, he said, "Well, well, Miss Smith, I see you're tardy again this year. We will certainly talk about this after school."
Margaret stared at her new shoes, her face hot with embarrassment and softly said, "I'm sorry, Sir. It won't happen again."
Then she turned to the class, looked at the children and said, "Good morning and welcome to the third grade.I'm Miss Smith - your teacher."
Mittens
By
Connie Vigil Platt
I guess the best place to start this story is the beginning. I thought I didn't want a new cat or any kind of pet. I had lost my trusted companion of many years to the ravages of old age. Friends encouraged me to get another pet to take up the slack of being lonely.
There was no room in my life style to be responsible for any kind of animal. But one-day fate changed my mind. I heard mewing outside the front door. I opened the door to see this beautiful creature standing there waiting for me, and with tail straight up, and nose in the air, without so much as a "by your leave" she walked into my house and into my life. She stood there as if she had the deed to the place and was trying to decide if I could stay.
There in the middle of the living room, looking as if she were royalty, waiting for the proper homage to be bestowed upon her, stood a Russian blue Persian cat, this means she is a smoky blue/gray color with four white mittens and rounded ears instead of pointed like most normal cats, she has fur on the bottoms of her paws for better traction on the snowy tundra.
She is a long way from a typical house cat. She might be the queen of
Naturally I named her mittens. She answered to that name from the very first day. She is far and away the most exquisite animal I have ever seen, but a long way from normal. She is much smarter than any other cat I have ever known, and smarter than any cat has a right to be. She understands every word spoken in her presence and will cock her head to one side to see if you are talking about her.
One day I was teasing her about getting fat, she fasted for one whole day and the next day before she would eat a bite of food she got on the scale, it looked to me as if she was reading the numbers to see if she had lost any weight. I never told her she was getting fat again.
She is a child in a cat suit. Sometimes, like a child, mischievous, sometimes sweet and cuddly, but always with unconditional love. She doesn't care if I am fat or skinny, short or tall, rich or poor. She loves me just the way I am. I can tell her anything and I know she will not repeat it. She forgives me for any wrongdoing I might have done. If I happen not to be feeling well she will purr and rub up against me as if to say what can I do to make you feel better? She always seems to know when I am sad or sick or just not up to par for any reason.
As time went by she became more precious to me with every passing day, and I wondered how I ever got by without her. Of course the time had to come. She wanted more than me, she wanted a male companion. I hated to see it happen. I told her she was better off with me, but she was adamant about needing to go outside.
Finally against my better judgment I allowed her to search for a handsome prince, but instead she found a traveling man who I knew would love her and leave her. He was a good-looking devil though, complete with a saber scar across his cheek, from defending the honor of a lady no doubt. Sleek and black as a moonless night. If I had been a cat I would have been attracted to him myself. When she came back inside she slept by the telephone for two weeks but he never called. I knew that would happen but I am proud to say I never said "I told you so" not too often anyway.
The only thing to do now is help her raise the kittens to be as spoiled as she.
Make an Appointment
by
Lyn Michaud
Budgets and funding cuts at the HMO mean I’m expected to see more patients per day and sometimes my schedulers double or triple book appointments especially right before lunch. So, I grab a meal in a glass and see patients straight through.
“I miss residency. We always joked about too little sleep and no personal time, but at least we had a chance to eat.” I’m always hungry when I get home and my husband has dinner ready to be reheated. He doesn’t seem to mind when I snuggle up next to him on the sofa and fall asleep either. Not until he joked about it.
“I’m going to have to schedule an appointment to see you.”
Still I was surprised to see him waiting in exam room four and stunned because I’d read his name on the file and it hadn’t registered. My patients were becoming nameless illnesses.
Rowan held out a small gift box and gave me a big smile. He wore the usual white gown with blue flowers and I’m not sure he had it tied in the back.
“Are you feeling ill?” I didn’t change from my clinical persona.
“Never been better.” He looked fit, healthy and hard to hide very happy to see me.
“Then why are you here?” I hated the brusque tone, but couldn’t seem to shed my work mode.
“I wanted fifteen minutes alone with my wife to tell her how much I care about her and to see if she needed anything from me.” His arms went around my waist and he pulled me against his chest. His lips touched mine, one gentle caress.
I jumped away from him, distracted. “I love you darling, I’ll see you at home this evening, but right now I have two patients who need to see
me.”
“I need to see you.”
“Make an appointment.” I heard the words one minute after he shook his head, laughed, tossed the gift into my hands. He threw off the gown and walked out pulling on his shirt as he walked. I still heard his chuckle when the door closed behind him.
His gift to me was a watch. Hint. Hint. So it was a really nice watch engraved with the words – I’m here for you. Always.
He knows I love him. Right? He knew my dream of being a doctor would take up most of my time. Right?
Just to be sure, I finished my appointments and decided to save the paperwork for the next morning so I could go home early and spend time with him. When I arrived home, the house was dark. He wasn’t there.
I called his cell phone. “I’m home. Where are you?”
“In the waiting room. Someone would like to speak to you.”
My nurse came on the line. “I’m sorry. You must have snuck out the back door before I could tell you I’d made an add-on appointment.” Even my staff conspired to get me a few minutes of romance.
My husband didn’t wait for me to apologize. “It’s fine honey, my plans
are portable.”
I waited at the front door for him to return home. He held a picnic basket with salads, bread, wine and chocolate truffles.
July
The Way Of The Rose
by
Norman Cooper
I was a solitary man, locked in my private hell. The memories, though not forgotten, were clouded with a haze. In the fleeting sober moments, I remembered the sins and the pain I caused. I felt the cries of souls that perished at my hands. The very hands that held the keys to my spiritual freedom. These moments perished like those before me when I consumed the medicine and allowed reality to fade.
But nothing was left, not a drop to spare. Only the taste of the numbing elixir remained. I couldn't bear the thoughts, I didn't wish to feel. I knew my sustenance must be found to regain my stupor.
Lacking proper shame, I searched the trash cans at the park. Bottles and cans were to be my currency. It was there that I heard a tiny voice call to me. The sound halted my labor and I listened with suspicion. The hallucinations must have returned. I continued and ignored the sound, but the voice persisted like a stalking mosquito on a summer evening.
I felt a tug on my shirt and slowly turned to see my horror before me. My heart thumped with the force of galloping horses as the ghost from my past smiled up at me. Her straight hair appeared black as night, skin milky and white, and in her large eyes I saw the innocence of youth that haunted me.
She tugged again, "For you."
She held a single white rose in her hand. Distrustful of my eyes, I slowly reached for the flower and expected her young hand to change into a vulture's talon. I grasped the flower and the sharp thorns pierced my fingers. I felt the pain, real pain for the first time in many years.
As she turned and skipped away on the path, I thought of the children. The innocent ones who were caught in the fight. In the villages we burned, I must have seen thousands like her. And the boys too. Burning, crying, and finally motionless. I didn't want to see those images, I didn't want to remember these images.
She looked over her shoulder as she skipped, playful and full of energy, she motioned for me come along. I followed her up the path, limping as I tried to run. She stopped and turned toward me. After smiling and waving, she turned and disappeared into the woods. Barely trotting, I arrived at the spot where she vanished.
I saw no trace of her, only a clearing beyond the trees with field of white roses and a statue of Jesus, his arms opened to me. I fell to my knees and cried. I finally cried for the children, instead of crying for me. I wanted to live again, to feel again. I wanted to be free of the bondage that sheltered me.
The little girl saved me from my own destruction. She led me to the path of sobriety and I grew to believe that she led me on the path to Christ. To be born anew.
dreams those hopes inspired can finally escape to the sky. The angels once etched in stone have carried off the souls of those in the graveyard. Little girl thoughts and imaginings have time to mature in eternity.
The Visit
by
Katherine K. Horrigan
Homer didn’t have to set an alarm clock to know that it was time to haul himself out of bed. Time to put on khaki pants and the dark blue work shirt with the tear. Snagged it on barbed wire last winter, trying to help out a cow with the calf puller. Dot had mended the tear, but her eyes weren’t so good anymore. Used lighter blue thread - made the L-shape stand out even more. Every time he put on that shirt, Homer reached back over his shoulder and ran his fingers over the stitching, even in the dark, even with his bursitis acting up.
Dot didn’t like him to turn on the light. Woke her up. Once he got to the kitchen, the red button on the coffee pot gave out a glow, and there would be plenty of light when he opened the refrigerator door. By then the sun would be up, the kitchen and the whole world lit up anyway.
Didn’t have too many visitors at the farm anymore. Today was different. An old friend, one he went to grade school with, had called him last week and said he was gonna be in town for his sister’s funeral, and could he drop by. Homer said fine, come on by whenever you’d like. Told him that if he, Homer, had to work away from the house, Dot’d be there, no question, what with her hip and all.
When Homer told Dot that his old buddy Pete would be dropping by, she rolled her eyes.
“Hope you asked him to stop by during the day,” she said.
“Looky here - couldn’t really give a time limit to a man whose sister just died. All I did was ask him to come by after the funeral. Two, I think he said it was.”
“Well, we’re gonna have to get him out of here before the sun sets.”
“Yeah.”
* * * * * * * *
The sun was low on the horizon when Pete showed up at the farm. Homer was already back from his chores, rocking in wait with Dot on the front porch. When they saw a dark blue sedan kicking up white caliche dust, Homer pushed himself up and out of his rocking chair and then helped Dot out of hers.
“Sure good to see you, Pete. Sorry for your loss.”
The men leaned across the two-foot chasm separating them and shook hands.
“You remember Dot.”
“Sure do.”
“Sorry for your loss, Pete. We all thought highly of your sister.”
This was a lie, but Dot knew she should say something encouraging to a man who just lost a sibling.
“Why thank you, Dot. Sure appreciate it. She and I were two peas in a pod, you know, growing up. Won’t be the same without her.”
Dot’s eyes met Pete’s for a moment. She would later tell Homer it was sort of like a camera flash, seeing his pain like that.
* * * * * * * *
Homer liked to say that the fabric on the sofa in the den was so rough you could light a match on it. He helped Dot sit carefully on the sofa, motioning to Pete to sit in one of the easy chairs.
“You staying in town long, Pete?”
Pete cleared his throat.
“No, got to get on back. Just wanted to stop by to say hello.”
By this time it was dark outside.
Dot gave Homer a funny look. Her eyes were real big, like when she had a new idea. She stood up, but only on her third try, when Homer gave her a hand.
“Hey, Pete, you wanna come out back for a few minutes before you go? Got somethin’ to show you. ”
Dot felt Homer’s eyes on her, but she didn’t look his way, didn’t give him the time of day. It was her decision to make, not his. Didn’t they come to her first?
It was pitch black in the back yard, but the three old friends helped each other down the three back steps, moving carefully to the center of the small back yard.
Dot’s voice, low and scratchy, seemed to project itself into the dark.
“Where are they? Shouldn’t they be here by now?”
“Just be patient, hon. They always come. Like clockwork, my old dad used to say.”
And then it began, hundreds, maybe thousands of little lights, encircling them, and then they could see each other again, glowing in the night. Dot’s voice came out of the light first, stronger somehow.
“It’s always like this, Pete, like the stars are falling down all around us. Like we’re in the middle of one of those roman candles on the 4th of July.”
“And look, Pete, you can darn near see your reflection in that light.”
Homer’s voice, and Dot’s, too, sounded different –younger. The old couple stood up straighter, carried themselves differently, their eyes brighter, as if the light from the
fireflies had somehow entered them.
The three held hands, in wonder.
“How long will it last?” Pete asked.
Anybody could have heard the smile and vigor in Pete’s voice. Homer and Dot, their voices suddenly softer, spoke in unison.
“Not long enough.”
The Cross
by
Wayne Faust
I had been running away my whole life. The Lord had been working on my heart but I kept on running. Then one night I found my way to a little church in the city. I had been out walking for hours when I came to its front door. It was unlocked and I stepped cautiously through. I found my way in the darkness and sat in the front pew. I looked up at the altar. Moonlight shone through the window and lit up a simple, wooden cross.
The cross had no gold, no silver. There were no carvings on it, no fancy sculpture of Jesus hanging from it. But somehow, it seemed so beautiful to me, maybe the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. A message called to me from that wooden cross. It said that Jesus had died on a cross just like this one. He died there for me. I could be saved - not through anything I might do or say or be, but because He died for me.
I had heard that message a thousand times before, but this night it was like a beacon of light in the dim light of that church, as if the cross itself was speaking just to me. I felt a burden lift from my heart. Tears filled my eyes and I knelt down and wept. At that moment I accepted the Lord and was saved. Saved forever.
I spent a long time in that pew, gazing at that cross. I felt my life change and I left that church a new creation.
The next few weeks were wonderful. I made a new start in so many ways. I often went back to that little church in the evenings and looked up at that simple cross from the front pew, just like I had that first night.
One evening I was joined in the pew by a middle-aged man. He prayed a little and then turned to me.
"You've just been saved, haven't you?" he said warmly.
"Yes," I replied. "Is it that obvious?"
He chuckled. Then he gave me a hug. "Welcome to the Kingdom," he said.
"Thanks," I replied, and I felt warm, knowing I was part of such a fellowship of believers.
"Where do you go to church?" he asked.
"No place right now," I said. "A friend invited me to his church Sunday morning. I think I'll go there."
The man frowned. "Let me show you something," he said. He brought out his Bible and began to read me verses, lots of verses. Then he produced a pamphlet that talked about the Sabbath. There seemed to be some question about whether the Sabbath was really on Sunday, or had actually been intended to be on Saturday, just like in the Old Testament.
"You see," he said, "God intended us to worship on Saturday. The sign of real Christians is that they worship on God's Sabbath, not man's. Your friend's church is probably well-intentioned, but they are in error. Look it up for yourself."
He handed me the pamphlet. "Take this and study it. The address to my church is on the back. We'd love to see you there this Saturday. In the meantime, I'll leave something here for you, to remind you of what is important."
He pulled something out of his coat pocket. It was a banner, which said in big, blue letters, 'SATURDAY SABBATH.' He reached into another pocket and pulled out some tacks and a small hammer. He walked up to the cross and tacked the sign on one of the crossbeams.
"See, that's better," he said. "Now when you gaze up here you can know the truth."
After the man left I pocketed the pamphlet and again gazed up at the simple cross. The banner hung a little crookedly, and covered some of the wood, but the cross was still beautiful.
The following week was hectic as usual, and I found the need to return to the little church. Coming to that simple cross could calm me down, no matter what. I sat in the front pew and looked up. The banner was still there. As I was praying, a woman strolled by the altar, carrying some flowers. She stopped in front of me.
"New believer, huh?"
I nodded my head.
"Welcome to the Lord's house," she said, and her voice sounded like music.
"Thank you," I answered.
She sat down next to me. "Let me say a prayer for you." She proceeded to pray, and I prayed with her, feeling the warm presence of God's love. I finished and gazed up at the cross. She continued to pray. After a while she switched to a tongue I didn't recognize.
"What is that language?" I asked.
She stopped and smiled. "I am speaking in tongues," she said. "Have you spoken in tongues yet?"
"I don't think so," I answered.
"Oh, but you must. That is the sign of a real Christian. It's God's language, a most wonderful thing."
She explained how she was able to speak in a tongue, and how I might achieve the same thing.
"I tell you what," she said encouragingly. "You work on it and I'm sure you'll be able to do it before long. Then you'll see the light. In the meantime, I will leave something here to remind you."
She produced a banner. It simply said 'TONGUES' in big, red letters. She walked up to the cross and tacked it up on the crossbeam opposite the other banner. She waved to me and left.
I tried to make my tongue form words it hadn't formed before. Nothing happened. I tried some more. Still nothing. Finally I went back to looking at my cross, feeling a little bit frustrated. The shape of the cross was becoming obscured by the banners, but I knew there was simple wood underneath. I calmed down.
Two weeks later I was back. The banners were still up there on the cross, but I guessed it was good I should be reminded of important things. I prayed for a while and watched the cross.
A man in a nice business suit sat down in the pew behind me.
"Just recently sanctified?" he asked.
I wasn't sure what that meant, but I nodded my head anyway.
"Praise the Lord," he said.
"Praise the Lord," I answered.
He asked me for my testimony. I told him a few things about my life, how I had been running away from the Lord for so long. I told him about a night in a bar when a stranger had witnessed to me, and how what he said had stayed with me, even though it had been a year later before I finally came into this little church and saw the cross. I told him how I wished I knew that stranger's name, because I would love to thank him now.
"That's wonderful," the man in the suit said, and he put his hand upon my shoulder. "It's a wonderful thing that that fellow risked his soul for you by going into such an evil place."
"Evil place?"
"Of course. The bar. Christians have no business in a bar. They must abstain from alcohol altogether." He produced a Bible and read me some verses.
"Well, now that you're saved," he said, "I'm sure this won't be a problem for you any more. The Spirit has set you free from all of that. But just in case, I'll leave you a reminder on this cross here."
He produced a sign that said 'NO ALCOHOL' in bold, orange letters, and tacked it up to the center beam of the cross. "There," he said. "That's better." He smiled and walked away.
I went back to gazing at the cross, but it didn't calm me as much as it had in the past. I figured I must be just tired, and I stood up. I glanced at the cross one more time over my shoulder as I walked down the aisle towards the front door. I shook my head and left.
In the next weeks I went back less and less. Each time I went, someone would come along and tack up another banner. Pretty soon there were banners of all types draping the cross, overlapping each other and shouting their words until there was just a jumble of paper. There was a banner that said 'NO AMPLIFIED MUSIC.' Another said 'SUITS AND TIES ONLY.' Yet another said 'APPROVED LITURGY A MUST.' And on and on.
I stopped coming altogether. My life settled into a routine and I didn't feel the need to come there anyhow. I could get by just fine. I was saved, after all.
I began to feel sad most of the time, and pressures built inside of me. Finally, late one night, I could no longer resist the need to go to that little church. I had to come to the cross.
I walked down the aisle of the church and saw that all the banners were still there, tacked to the cross. I sat down in the front pew. Well, I told myself, I guess all those rules are important, and if I study them long enough, I can become a good Christian.
I stared at the banners. I said their words aloud, over and over. My mind was muddled, as muddled as all those banners hanging there. Finally, in frustration, I closed my eyes. I began to pray.
I must have prayed for an hour that night. As I prayed, a picture formed in my head. It was a picture of a cross - a simple, wooden cross, with an even simpler message. I remembered how that message had sounded to me, the first night I had seen my cross, in this very church.
I opened my eyes. The banners fluttered in a soft breeze and the sound was loud in the quiet little church. I stood up on shaky legs.
Slowly, I walked up to the altar. I reached out my hand and then pulled it back. I reached out again and touched one of the banners; I don't remember now which one it was. I grabbed a piece of it and pulled, tearing the paper. I saw wood underneath - beautiful, simple wood. I grabbed a larger piece in my fist and pulled as hard as I could. There was a loud ripping sound as the whole banner came away in my hand. I crumbled it up and tossed it aside. I grabbed another banner and tore it to shreds. Pretty soon I was ripping and tearing like a madman, until there were no banners left. Crumpled paper was scattered all over the floor like snow. I gathered it all up in a big ball and threw it down the aisle as hard as I could.
I turned back to the cross. Moonlight shone through the window on the simple, rough-hewn wood. It was again the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. I touched the cross gently and fell to my knees. Tears filled my eyes.
"Thank you, Lord," I whispered, and I prayed that everyone could see the cross this way - simple and so very beautiful. I stayed on my knees that night for a very long time.
June
After the Funeral
by
Elmore Hammes
Jason Mitchell escaped into the kitchen, leaving family and friends behind in the living room. He sat down, burying his aching head in hands, elbows resting on the kitchen table, just wanting this horrible day to be over. Or better yet, to have never happened. He desperately longed to return to last Tuesday and prevent his wife of seven years from getting into her car. Go back in time and somehow convince Laura that she should skip her Bible study. He would get on his knees and beg her to stay home with him and Megan instead of driving off on a wintry February that would end with her car skidding through a patch of black ice and ramming into a telephone pole in a vicious collision that only the car would survive. He had screamed at the insurance agent who told him the car wasn’t technically totaled, his brother holding him back from outright assault as the agent had scurried away.
The pounding in his head would not cease. He opened bleary red-rimmed eyes. Through his tears he saw a glitter of gold shining from the kitchen table top. He reached out and grasped a thin strand of metal loops and lifted. A shining gold cross twirled in the air at the end of the chain, and with each spin he envisioned Laura performing the Sign of the Cross: Father, Son and Holy Spirit.
He tried to hold in the wracking pain and grief but failed, slamming the cross to the table. It had no business being there. He had last seen it around Laura’s perfect neck, resting in the valley between her forever dormant breasts as she lay in the half open coffin at the funeral mass. He had not wanted it returned – had told the funeral home director to leave her things with her, to bury it all deep under the ground. He had no use for the cross or what it represented. Where was her God when the Taurus slammed into that pole? Where was He when his wife bled to death in the bitter cold?
He cradled his head in his arms, giving in to the pain. Wet tears soaked his sleeve, turning the thin white fabric semi-transparent. He was lost in his misery, and had no desire to rejoin the crowd in the living room. He did not hear the kitchen door open or the soft footsteps that padded across the tile floor.
“Daddy.”
The word tugged at his heart. No, he thought, he wasn’t ready to be ‘Daddy’ again.
“Daddy.”
The pleading voice was louder, and as it called a small hand pulled at his arm, tugging for attention.
Jason lifted his head and saw his six year old daughter looking up at him like a lost lamb. She was shaking, quivering with fright, tears streaking her cherubic face. “Megan,” he whispered, ashamed he had withstood her first entreaty.
She leaned against him and when he lifted an arm from the table she crawled onto his lap. He caressed the back of her head, running his hand down her long hair and comforting her as she cried on his shoulder.
After minutes of mutual consolation, salving balm against their open sores, Megan’s cries trailed to silence. Slowly, she straightened up. She rubbed her eyes and then cocked her head and looked into Jason’s eyes. “Daddy?”
“What is it, Megan?” he asked.
“Mommy’s not coming back, is she?”
He choked back a sob. Hope was in her eyes, in her words, but he could not support that burden. “No, honey, she isn’t.”
Her face clouded, eyes and mouth scrunching in tearful preparation. “Why not? Doesn’t she love us anymore?”
Jason looked at his girl, then away, as her eyes were too trusting to face. He knew she would believe whatever he said. He wanted to tell her that love had nothing to do with it, that the world wasn’t fair and her mother had died for no good reason. That someday, he too would die and then she would be abandoned.
He blinked, and in the prism of his still wet eye lashes the shimmering gleam of gold from the table top sparkled. Laura had truly believed. Laura had been utterly convinced she would spend eternity in heaven. She had dragged Jason to church every week, and insisted that Megan attend a Catholic grade school. She had praised God when good fortune came their way. And in the bad times, Laura had simply accepted whatever occurred, telling him that God had a plan, and that it wasn’t up to them to judge Him.
Jason wondered how he could ever accept this – how he could not blame God for taking away his wife and Megan’s mother.
Megan reached up, turned Jason’s chin until he met her gaze. “Doesn’t she, Daddy?”
He choked as tears filled his eyes. There was so much of Laura in their daughter. The same smile, the same brown eyes. The same love. Warmth rushed through him as he realized that he did believe – that he had to. He knew that Laura would live on through their daughter, as long as he raised her in the faith. And perhaps that was what faith was – believing in love.
“Mommy will always love us, Megan. She will always watch over you. But she’s in heaven now, with God.”
Megan smiled broadly, the clouds dispelled from her face. “I’m glad she’s with God.” She turned on his lap and reached out for the cross. “Can I wear this, Daddy? Mommy told me I could.”
Jason paused. When had Laura told her that? How had the cross come to rest on the table? He blinked his watery eyes again and grinned at Megan.
“Sure, baby,” Jason said. He took it from her and placed the chain around her neck. She hugged him and he felt a connection with Laura, with Megan, and yes, even with God.
He didn’t care how the cross had returned home, whether Megan had taken it or it had been delivered divinely. He would simply accept that it was all part of a greater plan. That there was a reason he had found it, and through it had found his way back to being the father his daughter needed. He touched her gently on her forehead, lower chest and either side and softly recited, “Father, Son and Holy Spirit.”
A Brief Visit
by
Jozefina Cutura
It was through a cloud of nostalgic longing that I always remembered the family vacations on the Adriatic, Grandma hurriedly braiding my hair for class, and my hikes through
It was during this visit that I came to fully appreciate Grandma’s marvelous ability to accumulate and retain seemingly mundane pieces of gossip. In the catalogue of her memory, there were many crucial facts about near and far cousins’ marriages, sicknesses, deaths, and births. She also retained inconsequential pieces of information, such as the exact kind of black leather jacket that my father wore when she and Grandpa ran into him once in our hometown of Jajce in 1978.
To deflect her constant stream of gossip, I pretended to read or write on my laptop. But she would not be deterred. In a whispery voice and ignoring the fact that I paid her little attention, she talked about how my half-aunt Mira had once gotten stuck in knee-deep mud in 1972 while trying to take the cows to pasture in her village; about the wedding of cousin Marija, who unlike me, had succeeded in snagging herself a husband; or about how bad of a cook Saka, the senile widow and her daily gossip companion back in Bosnia was.
Meanwhile, Grandpa, who inherited my old laptop, became addicted to online Solitaire. He played all day, leaving the computer only to eat. He also occasionally interrupted his game to correct something Grandma was saying or add a crucial fact to her story. On those days when Grandma forbid him from playing Solitaire, he could not be bothered to stay awake and took frequent multi-hour naps until it was time for him to go to bed.
Since Grandparents could not drive, they were mostly confined to the house. Grandma was always up for a trip to a grocery store, a coffee shop, or to visit one of our Bosnian family friends living in
To pass her idle hours in
Grandma also spent many hours trying to convince me of the need to get married, and I became the main target of her unfulfilled, urgent desires for a great-grandchild. When I took her shopping to Target and we passed by the children’s section, she stopped, picked up a pair of toddler pants and said, “Why aren’t you having any children, Nina? Why do you spend your time brooding over books? Focus instead on getting married and having a family.” Whenever we watched American movies in which babies featured, she would turn to me and say, “Isn’t that baby beautiful? You should hurry up and have one too.”
“But Grandma, my sister and cousin Sanja both have boyfriends. I don’t. Why don’t you bother them with this and leave me alone?”
“It’s because you are the oldest,” she’d say and let out a sad sigh and a muffled crying noise.
With no great-grandchildren around, Grandma channeled her nurturing instincts into the family dog, a poodle called Nabokov. She slipped Nabokov morsels of 
food despite our strict prohibition against feeding the dog, since he was overweight and was on a diet. Nabokov was also the lucky recipient of a hand-knitted woolen dog-sweater that Grandma made for him after she ran out of people to knit for.
Their visit culminated in and was timed to finish shortly after Eastern Orthodox Christmas in January. For the occasion, Mother always hosted a large party to which all the Bosnians we knew in
That year, Mother decided to go all out and ordered a large pig to be roasted on a spit. Stevo, the car mechanic who made the best roast in the Bay Area, volunteered to roast it for Mother in his backyard. On Christmas day, Grandpa supervised the pig roasting by warming his feet on a nearby chair and sipping a beer while Stevo sat next to him and talked about his past. Stevo told Grandpa about his birth in 1943 in
Stevo delivered the roasted pig and Grandpa at the house in the afternoon. Grandma had spent the previous three days baking cakes, making Russian salad, and cabbage leaves filled with meat. She was still cooking on Christmas day. The house was hot from the baking, and we had to open the windows to cool down.
After all the guests had squeezed themselves into Mother’s small house and we broke the traditional bread into small pieces, everyone raised their glasses for a toast. I thought someone would say something touching about the family reunion and how nice it was that we were all together again, but Grandma blurted out: “May Nina finally find a boyfriend and get married.”
“May she do that,” the guests said and toasted.
I was glad I had not invited to the party any of my single male friends, as it appeared quite likely that Grandma would have forced them to propose to me. She certainly seemed in high spirits that night. Except for the occasional cherry liquor with her girlfriends, Grandma did not drink. But that night she downed multiple shots of rakija, the local Bosnian brandy, and several glasses of wine. When someone said that she looked really good for her age, Grandma wondered, “You think I could get an American boyfriend?”
Grandpa ignored her question.
“Are you upset, Grandpa?” I asked.
“Haha,” he laughed. “Why should I be? She’s not going anywhere.”
As the party continued, Grandpa napped on the living room couch while children chased each other around the tables and women talked surrounded by clouds of their cigarette smoke. Grandma absorbed the gossip about fellow Bosnians from another old Bosnian woman who had come along with the Mikovic family. I caught her as she slipped the dog a piece of pork meat. “Don’t,” I screamed, but it was too late. Nabokov quickly grabbed the meat, hid underneath the table, and polished it off. That night, no one, not even the dog went to bed hungry.
The day of Grandparents’ departure arrived the following week. Uncle carried to the car their large suitcases stuffed with gifts for relatives and Grandma’s girlfriends, while Mother slipped hundred dollar bills into their pockets. On the drive to the airport, I worried about Grandparents’ transit in
After Grandparents checked in for their flight, we said our goodbyes. “Take care of yourself,” Grandpa said to me and patted my hair with his trembling hand. I slipped several $20 bills into his hand. “Your pocket money, to treat your chess friends to coffee,” I said.
His green eyes twinkled happily, and he quickly hid the money so Grandma would not see it and take it away from him.
Grandma sobbed loudly and gave me multiple wet kisses on the cheek. “Next time I see you, you better be married,” she said in parting.
I watched their frail backs as their walked to the security gate and their confusion when they had to take off their shoes and jackets. More confusion ensued when Grandpa refused to take off his new gold watch that I gave him, but Grandma resolutely took it off his hand, and he passed security without setting off any alarms.
When I could no longer see them, I remembered our goodbyes many years ago when I was first heading to
Image by: Pierre Amerlynck
ORIGINAL SIN By John Mark Green “Good-by, Good-by, world. Good-by, Grover’s Corners…Mama and Papa. Good-by to clocks ticking…and Mama’s sunflowers. And food and coffee. And new-ironed dresses and hot baths…and sleeping and waking up. Oh, earth, you’re too wonderful for anybody to realize you. Do any human beings ever realize life when they live it?—every, every minute?” As I looked at Miss Frobisher, I felt my eyebrows arching slightly into a question. This was my first time trying the speech without a script. Miss Frobisher’s nodded slightly, her smile like the Cheshire Cat’s. “Okay, Emily . . . Not bad. Remember, pathos is the effect you want. The speech is thematic—Our Town is about life, ordinary life in I thought, Then where’s the pathos? * * * Zack grinned at me. How dare he? . . . Well, why not? The other night was a feather in his cap, but what did it mean to me? At the bay, ten of us sat around in perfect peace. At leasst, that’s what I felt. I felt immersed in the pine woods, the mangrove, the vermilion clouds, the gently lapping lake water, the very spirit of the place. Beside me, untrammeled kudzu had its way with an oak tree. A number of trees were in the same plight. One attraction here, for me anyway, was the suplhurous stench of salt marsh. I love that smell. I love the water. It was at this party. He was going out for more beer. He said, Did I want to come? I said, hed better go alone, it’d be quicker. I don’t know why I said that. He looked at me and said “Why? Why would it be quicker?” “Oh, never mind!” And I ran out to the car. * * * “You lost your innocence? . . . You live in a Victorian melodrama, Emily.” Only gradually had Mr. Gehlen become my father-confessor. At first, it was a matter of paragraph structure. Then style. And when they got around to content, I had handed in a report on Since it was a senior honors seminar with only ten students, there was a paper, essay, or a story every week. Mr Gehlen was someone—someone cuddly yet acerbic—whom I felt I could confide in. There were things I told him I would never tell my parents. And I knew that he was someone who would never take advantage. He wasn’t the type. Ans so it was that Mr. Gehlen became my beloved bête noire. “Our Town is what you do when you can’t think of anything better. It’s’ the default high school production.” “That’s because it’s a great play.” “What’s great about it?” Okay, that gave me pause. In order tosay something, I said, “It’s about innocence.” He grinned evilly. “Like the innocence you lost?” I should have been mad, but I wasn’t. “Not only that, but all innocence.” “Innocence is egotism. It’s what makes you think you’re better than anyone else. “Me?” “Not you in particular. I mean one. Innocence makes one think one is better than others.” Gehlen lowered his head to peer at me with a slight grin. “The play . . . the play is drenched in nostalgia . . . and nostalgia is a sentimental feeling for a time that never really was, that exists only in imagination.” Inspiration struck. “When we did Blake, you said that innocence is never really lost, it’s only repressed.” “I didn’t say that. Blake did.” “Do you believe it?” I had him there. At least, I had given him pause. “Maybe,” was the best he could do. Then he dipped his head and looked at me over his glasses. “How was it?” It took me a moment, then I grinned. He said, “I see.” And smiled. No one has any right to talk about God. Ever. I sat in the convertible by the bay. I expected to feel remorse, if not guilt. What I felt was nothing of the kind. As the sunlight glistened on the wind-blown ripples, I felt a quiet exhilaration. I watched a loon dive into the water and come up with a raw-bellied fish. “I believe.” “Belief is wishful thinking.” “It is?” “I don’t expect you to see it now, but if you can distinguish between the two, please let me know.” *** “A while back, there were people who valued the ideal, who loved Nature, who saw themselves as innocent and good, and who reveled in a glorious past. The result was “The Germans.” “But not only the Germans. Even Zero Can Add Up To Something by Terry Ervin Zero. Nobody wanted to hang out with Zero. He just never added to anything. A conversation? Zilch. A group project? Nada. Bank accounts? Absolutely no interest at all. That was until the day a local dieter’s club befriended him, turning his perceived flaw into a ‘net gain.’ No matter what was consumed with Zero, he always added nothing to the scale. The Creation Story By Keisha Grant In the beginning there was God. Now I call this guy God but really he was just a guy sitting on a beach. But since he was the first guy and he created all that came after him let’s stick with calling him God. So God was sitting on a beach letting the grains of sand flow through his fingers wondering what he should create next. He had done the light thing; he’d done the earth, air and sea thing. He had a whole lot of fun imagining up all the different types of plants and animals that would inhabit the earth but now he was finished with all that and boredom was setting in. It was because few things get old as quickly as perfection does. The beings he had created did bring something new to the table but they each had their limitations. One group was simple and instinctive; their beauty lay in that simplicity. After bestowing too much power onto his first creations, the angels, he had decided to aim simpler the next time around and so animals were born onto the earth. They lived to produce more life, igniting the spark of creation he had stored within them whenever they could. His angels, on the other hand, had been made in the image of the universe. The energy a thousand of suns had been woven into the very fibre of their being. He had given them such power, beauty and grace that in the end he could not give them their freedom. He knew they would have to be kept in line and so they became powerful beauties kept on a leash for all time. What he needed was a new creature but what should it be? It should not be as plain as the animals nor should it be as formidable as the angels. God rose from his seat. The high tide had come in and water swirled at his feet. He glanced down and saw his reflection. It was the image of this weak glistening thing that gave him his idea. It was dim at first, this idea, but the more he thought about it made sense to create a being in his own image. This being, like his reflection, would resemble him but it would lack substance. It would lack power; by making it weak he could allow it to be free. He would give this creature the ability to reason, an intelligence nearing that of the angels, along with the baser drives of animals. With the freedom to do whatever it wanted such a creature could be ruled by instinct or use its mind to master itself. Yes, such a creature would defiantly be worth making, he thought. It would also be a hell of a lot more interesting to watch. He got the feeling that he’d never be bored again, not after he made the being that would come to be known as man.
Image by:Asif Akbar
When the wind blew in it rustled the leaves of the trees adding another sound to the natural rhythm of his peaceful world. This world was thriving with its crystal clear waters and pastel skies overhead, it wanted for nothing. Everything was beautiful. Everything was perfect but that also meant that nothing was really interesting anymore.
May
GOOD MEN DO NOTHING
by
Jon McRae
All that is necessary for the triumph of evil is that good men do nothing.
Edmund Burke
Sick. I’m sick. I felt it today, lying in the park. The sky was so blue and deep. Even the stain over the city didn’t look too bad, but it was what made me realize I’m sick. I’m just like that yellow stain, sulking at the edges of all that’s good and pure. The world is bright around me, and I have every comfort at my disposal. But I don’t feel comfort.
What is it about nature that lets us know we don’t quite belong? Just sky and trees and animals, no mind or anything, but it tells us. It’s some big paradox, I bet. Something Dr. Who would explain with big words the staff writers found in the manuals for the studio cameras. Or is it simple, but we just don’t speak the language anymore? Maybe we left it in the jungle with our tails and hairy knuckles. But then, maybe nature’s not telling us anything different than it was back then. Grow.
Poor nature. Here she sent us out, and we’ve come back to the jungle with pavement. Her fruits fed us, her caves and trees gave us shelter. Her horses bore us for centuries, and now we turn them into glue for our popsicle-stick houses. We dehydrate them to make hormones for post-menopausal madams who don’t want moustaches. Then we paint them, proud and noble, charging and raging, as they must in their unconscious hearts rage at us.
What if nature gave consciousness to someone else, like, Tigers? Wouldn’t the jungle come to drag us back, then. Imagine it, right now: a Tiger is in your room. A Tiger. No, not that little decal on your truck, not that silk-screened portrait on your thrift-store sweatshirt. A Tiger. It’s in your room. It’s in your room, and so is death. So is cold, dark, lonely fear. But only for a second, then you’re just something we’d laugh at on TV. We do so much to forget what’s animal about us. Especially fear. That, more than anything, we bury. We bury it deep by putting predators in cages for entertainment. We put metal bars around death because we think that makes it less real. Then it gets out. And of course it gets out—it’s death. Some kid makes the headlines in pieces, and don’t we just blame the animal. And for what? Being an animal.
We’ve failed the test. We’re more animal now than ever. We the experiment—the scout into intelligent regions, whose Adam and Eve were sent ahead to test the waters of knowledge—what did we do? We drowned. No, we didn’t just drowned: we drowned each other.
Look at that sky. What’s it saying? Nothing. What’s it asking? Nothing. What’s it worth? Nothing. Why can’t that be me? Why can’t I be so perfect and clear and open and beautiful? Why is everything beautiful except us? I thought nature was saying, grow, go ahead my love, my child. But no, not ahead. She was saying, grow, come along my love, my child. Catch up. Catch up!
I am not sick, I am sick. We are the disease. On the scale of evolution that leaves us a lot of catching up to do. But will we do it? Can we?
All this I thought in the park, stretched out on broad, brown, perfect dead leaves. Now I’m home. Sara’s coming over soon. I’ll tell her what I thought in the park. We might talk about it for a while, but that’s all. Then we’ll watch TV to sharpen our sarcasm, which we’ll then use to make fun of more TV. By the time we eat lunch I’ll be back to throwing out my unused napkin.
You won’t die, I’ll be protecting you, she says. Nature. She won’t let me forget, now that I’ve heard her. I think she screamed so loud in the sky today that the language didn’t matter. I am the flu in a perfect body, the pea beneath a humble princess.
I have to listen. If I don’t listen she’ll remind me. She spoke to me with this sickness, maybe she’ll remind me with death. I have to die sometime; I don’t have to forget.
The Tiger comes to every room. Mom told me just last week that Sara’s dad has cancer, though it’s her mom who smokes. Mr. McCulloch next door went from a stroke just last year. Then there was that kid a few months ago who fell off a tire-swing and broke his neck, died in the ambulance. I know a guy whose great-grandpa got shot in the War and lived, but then the plate in his head got bumped and he died before he even got out of the hospital. Some people it stalks and takes without a whisker of warning. Other people it moseys right up to, sniffing here and there like cats do. It takes them so slow you’d think it was a chore.
I thought a long time about this in the park. It sounds funny, I know. A Tiger. It’s only funny because we see Tigers in cages and on TV, where we keep death to make it less real. We think: what’s real if it’s in a cage or on TV? But think about it again, carefully. No cage, no TV. A Tiger is in the room with you now. Growl, pace, stalk right up, all in the few seconds it takes you to piss yourself and blurt “Oh God please don’t hurt me.” It would be like a dream, where you can’t understand what’s happening, so you just watch. Maybe you punch it when it comes to sniff you, and it does that cat thing where it looks like it’s sneezing, with the turned back ears and the wrinkled nose. Then your head and neck hurt like from whiplash and your eyes won’t open, and your
Ok, so it wasn’t the sky that made me feel sick. It wasn’t even death. It was catching up. How do we catch up? What can we do so that when the Tiger comes, we may stand proudly, not plead and whimper because we know we’ve wasted our time?
Do something is what. Don’t just give the cost of a cup of coffee a day to someone on TV who says he’s doing what Jesus would do. Jesus wouldn’t ask for money on TV. Do something hard, that frightens you, or that you’d snicker at if someone did on TV. Something that would make your idiot friends say “Think you’re Gandhi or what?” or your stuck up friends say “Well we can’t all give up our cup of coffee a day,” or your sarcastic friends say “Good job Captain Planet, I’d have helped but my care-mobile broke down at Shining Time Station.” Those people are like Tigers for your heart, gnawing and stripping until nothing real is left. Just like everything else we’ve built, every other lie we tell to convince ourselves it’s okay to pave another tract of jungle.
Do something. Let the Tiger scare you out of bed, let the sky call you outside. Pick up garbage in the park. Ask your grandparents how they feel about dying, because everyone else is afraid to. To ask and to die, both. Don’t say you’re doing fine if you aren’t. Take a hobo to lunch to remind him that some people care, and to remind yourself that most people don’t. Do you care?
Now I’m really feeling sick. Sara’s going to think she made me angry. No Sara, it’s not you. It’s being back here, in this house, away from the park and sky—away from all that’s good and pure, as we’ve all been for so long. No Sara, it’s not you. It’s all of us.
Planted in Gray
By
Karen O’Leary
Tulips in full bloom waved in the gentle breeze on a sunny May afternoon. Like a wooden soldier, Sarah McCloskey toiled at her weeding in silence. Though immersed in multicolored blossoms, her world was gray.
An artist’s dream, her vintage beds featured in “Better Homes and Gardens” once attracted people from all over the country. After her husband’s death the previous year, she closed the gates to the outside world.
Sarah straightened her aching back and wiped away a tear that trickled down her cheek. “Get it together”, she chided herself, stripping off her garden gloves.
She plopped onto a weather worn bench and cradled her head in her hands. “Jerry, how do I go on without you?” Shivering in the warm sun, Sarah hugged her torso. It did nothing to quell the iciness that welled from within.
Bolting from the bench, she grabbed a hoe. Neighbors would not hear McCloskey’s wife bawling in the yard. Several flats of petunias waited to be planted. Labor would stave off the flood.
The seasoned gardener had the first plot tilled a half-hour later. She stood mentally reviewing her plans for this year’s panorama. A hint of a smile crossed her face. The color combinations would be stunning.
After tucking the last plant in the soil, Sarah sat back on her heels and wiped her brow.
Jerry would have loved this arrangement. Sadness seeped from her soul and loneliness left her empty. She hung her head, exhausted.
Warbling wakened her from her trance. A regal-looking bluebird pranced along the seat of her lawn swing. He stopped, tilting his head to the right much like her husband used to. Their eyes locked.
He resumed his serenade. The music wrapped around her in a blanket of warmth. The tension in her shoulders eased.
“Looks like you could use a break.” Angie Kiser strolled across the yard. “It’s been awhile. Can I bribe you to come over with lemonade and those apple bars you love?”
Sarah used the hoe to hoist herself off the ground. “Thanks for not giving up on me. Things have been a little tough since…you know.”
Angie raised her hand. “No need for apologies. Jerry was a wonderful guy. Ben and I miss him too.”
“Life feels so empty without him.”
Chirping halted further discussion. The women riveted their attention to the bluebird. Sarah managed to chuckle. “I think he’s scolding me for heading down pity road.”
“He certainly is adamant,” Angie said, giggling. “If you come over, it’ll save you from getting your eyes plucked out.”
An hour later, the two friends sat in lounge chairs on the Kisers’ deck enjoying Angie’s dessert. Conversation flowed easily.
The women failed to notice the bluebird perched near the edge of the garage roof. When laughter erupted, he nodded then flew away.
Work Force
by
Charles McKelvy
Jennifer Jones stood in the front window and watched her elderly neighbor, Albert Curtis, attempt to walk her other elderly neighbor, Shirley Hansen, into the Hansen house.
Alarmed by what she was seeing, the 12-year-old turned and called: “Mom!!”
Susie Jones was in her home office writing a story for the weekly newspaper she wrote for in
“Come out here and look at this!”
“Jennifer, I’m on deadline! Look at what?!?”
“Mom, Mr. Curtis is helping Mrs. Hansen into her house! You’ve got to see this!”
Susie Jones hit the “save” keys on her keyboard and walked away from her computer mad. Didn’t that daughter of hers realize that she was their sole source of income? And that her newspaper work was . . .
“Mom!”
“I’m coming!”
Susie Jones went to the window, took one look and gasped so audibly that Jennifer’s fine mane of auburn hair rustled.
Then Susie Jones turned and walked resolutely back to her computer to finish her story.
Jennifer followed her and said: “Mom!”
“What?!?”
“Aren’t you going to do something?!?”
“Yes, I’m going to finish this story so I can put food on our table. Now would you please leave me in peace so I can think?”
Jennifer sighed, turned on her heel and was out the front door before her mother could blink again.
Susie Jones sat there at her computer with a case of terminal writer’s block. So she hit the “save” keys again, sighed, and followed her do-gooder daughter over to Shirley Hansen’s house across the street to see what was what.
And what was happening at the Hansen house on the sylvan section of
Oh yes, Albert Curtis, who had just celebrated his 78th birthday,
was helping Shirley Hansen into her living room, but he was fixing to skedaddle just as soon as she settled into the first available “easy” chair.
There was nothing easy about the poor woman’s attempt to sit in the low-slung chair, and she was literally crying in pain when Susie Jones burst into the Hansen living room to assess the situation.
Jennifer turned to her Mom and gave her THE LOOK.
Meaning they were going to get involved whether or not they wanted to and whether or not Mom had a story to finish and whether or not they were going to go the movies that afternoon and whether or not they were going to go on with their own tidy little lives.
And then Albert Curtis greeted his neighbors, went to the door, and said: “Call me if you need anything, Shirley, but I’ll be out for the rest of the day. See you.”
And with that good old Mr. Curtis was gone to live his own life.
Susie Jones went right to Shirley Hansen’s side and asked the obvious question: “Are you in pain?”
Shirley was in so much pain she could barely squeak out a: “Albert’s car was so tiny, I was miserable the whole way home from the hospital.”
Susie looked around and asked: “Where is your pain medication?”
“They sent me home with a prescription and said I had to take care of myself from now on. The insurance company called this morning and said they would no longer cover my stay in the hospital, because it was custodial care, not therapy, and . . .”
“Do you have the prescription?”
Shirley Hansen pointed at a plastic bag that Albert Curtis had left on the floor by her chair. “It’s all in there. Along with information on how I can get home care and a hospital bed and . . .”
“All right,” Susie said. “I’m going to the drug store and get your prescription filled and . . .”
“Prescriptions. I have nine all together.”
“Right,” Susie said. “I’ll get your prescriptions filled, and Jennifer is going to do whatever it takes to make you comfortable while I’m gone. And then we’re going to make things right for you, all right?”
Shirley Hansen looked through tear-filled eyes at the neighbor she hardly knew and just nodded. And then her cat Kitty Cat appeared and meowed a loud complaint. “Oh,” Shirley said, “do you think you could clean her litter box. It’s been a week and . . .”
Susie Jones gave her daughter THE LOOK, and Jennifer got right on it.
And, in no time flat, the indomitable mother/daughter team got Shirley Hansen on the road to recovery right in her own home by:
Getting her prescriptions filled;
Cleaning Kitty Cat’s litter box and filling her food and water bowls;
Contacting the home health care company and arranging for the delivery and installation of a hospital bed in Shirley Hansen’s living room;
Filling her refrigerator with food and cooking her hearty, restorative meals;
And just basically being with their neighbor and friend in her time of need.
And, do you know, Susie Jones finished her story for the weekly newspaper in plenty of time for the deadline, and, in the course of conversation with Shirley Hansen, discovered her neighbor’s love of books and arranged for her to write occasional book reviews for the newspapers, when, as she said: “The spirit moves you.”
Shirley Hansen’s spirits were lifted into the highest clouds, and her recovery from some very serious surgery began in earnest.
And all because a 12-year-old with a heart of gold had given her mother THE LOOK.
Blue and White Striped Curtains
By
Heidi Cook
It was the blue and white curtains that Beth remembered the most. As they drove up to the small white beach house she wound down the front window. A warm sea breeze drifted in, evoking memories of her past. She was nine years old and playing on the soft golden sands in front of the beach house. Shells lined the steps, the result of an earlier artistic attempt. The sea was out and the world Beth could see was transformed into rocks covered in seaweed and muscles. Beth didn’t go and explore the undersea world now so accessible. Instead, she stayed near the house, listening to the ever-increasing noises deep within the whitewashed, wooden walls.
The car stopped just outside the beach-house, suddenly enough to make Beth jump and pull her out of her reminiscing. She turned to look at Richard who sat, hands still on the steering wheel, looking quizzically at her.
“Are you all right? We don’t have to stay you know, I saw a Bed and Breakfast not far back we could stay there?”
Beth laughed nervously, her stomach a knot of butterflies.
“No, it’s ok. Like they keep telling me it’s just something I need to do and I’m sure once I do this I will be fine. Besides, once the kids come down I just know they’ll love it.”
Beth smiled at him and opened the car door. Undoing her seatbelt she sat for a moment, feeling the warming heat of the sun and listening to the sea gently lapping at the shore. Unseen seagulls called out to one another, and Beth was once more back to the days spent at the beach house, running down the long stretch of sand into the middle of the seagulls causing them all to fly upwards in unison. Smiling at the memory, Beth got out of the car. Everything seemed smaller, and Beth felt a slight flash of disappointment. She had known it would be different. She wasn’t that carefree young girl anymore, too much water had gone under the bridge and she had grown up, but she still felt a little sad.
Beth walked in a daze, half seeing the beach house as it was in the past and half seeing it as it was now. Close up she could see the paint was cracked and peeling, sand had crept up the sides. The blue and white stripped curtains now looked faded, and mildew covered the windows. Light dimly flittered into the rooms. Nothing much had changed since the last time Beth had seen the inside, but then, she hadn’t expected anything to have. With the key held tightly in her hand she walked up the sand covered steps. Moving the fly screen away she paused and took in the view. Waves lazily lapped at the shore, the white foam caressing the golden sands. The sky was as blue as the last time she had stood looking out. She had fidgeted with the too tight bow around her waist on her new dress, but standing outside in the heat was preferable to being in the cool, dark house, filled as it was with sobbing relatives most of whom she didn’t know or who had just ignored her completely.
Her mother had found him seemingly asleep in their bed. In almost no time at all it was the funeral, and then Beth watched her mother sprinkle the ashes into the sea. That had been the last summer they had spent there. Afterwards, her mother refused to come back, although she could never bear to sell it no matter how big the offers. Now Beth stood in the same spot she had done that day, this time to spread her mother’s ashes.
Opening the door, Beth let the light rush in. As it did the familiar joy and excitement of long lazy summer holidays flooded through her. It had been too long since she had been here and once everything was cleaned up, the memories dusted off and the cobwebs removed. She was glad that it was here she had decided to come, and knew that like she had done her girls would enjoy both the house and the freedom of the small, private beach.
Once she had wandered around the beach house and soaked in the different memories and faded photographs, Beth walked back to the door. A shadow fell across the door and she looked up to see Richard, stood holding the golden coloured urn in his hands.
“Are you ready?”
Beth nodded and together they walked down to the waters edge. After a silent moment together Beth opened up the urn and watched as the ashes drifted out into the sea. The sadness of years flooded through Beth, and she openly grieved. As she cried the grief slowly became replaced by a strength, and hope washed over her. Once again she was that carefree young girl, trying to race the wind along the golden sands.
April
Catburglar
by
Alice Sabo
The morning was summery, but the old, stone house still held the chill of winter. Olivia went out into the yard to warm herself in the sunshine. After checking that the door was firmly closed behind her, to keep the cat in, she strolled down the path to inspect her meticulously groomed yard. Within minutes, she felt an off note.
Her eyes roved the neatly cut lawn, the tidy flower beds and freshly mulched trees. There, on the clean white cement of her sidewalk was a muddy smear. She looked through the flowerbed bordering the path and discovered a flattened begonia. Following the line from mud to 
begonia, deeper in, she found a scattering of rhododendron leaves. She hurried across the yard to where the thick-leaved shrubs surrounded the screened porch and slipped behind them into the narrow aisle that the gardeners fought to maintain between the encroaching branches and the house. It was a shadowy, secret passageway. The air was cooler, scented with the earthy aroma of loam. Goosebumps rose on Olivia’s arms.
She looked up at the porch with that same sense of something awry. The wind ruffled the rhododendrons sending mottled sunlight to dance at her feet. The warm breeze blew away the chill and brought fragrances from the garden. She began to feel silly. But then she saw something hanging from the corner of the screen on the far end. A chill ran up her back as she stared at the slender rubber tube. The spline had been pulled free and the screen sagged open. Her eyes darted to the door into the house from the porch. She’d left it open this morning, hoping to coax in some warmth.
the intruder. Prudence prevailed. She ran to the neighbor’s and called the police.
She didn’t want them to leave. The old house unnerved her today. She didn’t want to be alone. She made them look in the basement and check the undisturbed dust on the attic stairs. The noon sun was streaming through the windows when they finally departed. She felt foolish for getting so frightened. Pushing the incident out of her mind, she fell back into her daily routine.
Once a Class Clown
By
Lyn Michaud
Daniela Picolo let her daughter talk her into attending the casting call for Gramercy's Bridal Expo because those chosen to model received a gift certificate for a gown and Angela’s wedding was planned for June. Surrounded by women in late teens and early twenties, Daniela was the only woman who fit the mother-of-the-bride category.
She attributed the butterflies dancing to swing music in her stomach to making the mistake of comparing herself to the women who looked like models. She didn’t mind the audience or being judged. As a defense attorney she knew how to perform for a crowd, play on people’s emotions, but taking a turn on the runway was something she’d never before dared to do.
The DJ spoke into a microphone over the pounding dance beat to announce each contestant. "Daniela Picolo."
She faced the spotlights and the faces with expressions wishing for her to fail. In less than three minutes, she walked, turned, walked, turned and was off the stage. She joined her daughter to watch the rest of the models. "That wasn't as bad as I thought it would be." She murmured the words to Angela.
“You were great Mom, and I saw that guy watching you.” Angela pointed to an older man on the runway. "He's cute." She nudged her mother's arm. "And you haven't been on a date since Dad died." Tears welled in Daniela's eyes. Angela hugged her. "Oh Mom, Dad would want you to enjoy life."
Daniela dabbed the tears away. Angela might think she hadn’t been on a date, but she had desires too. The problem was she always chose safe, men who needed her rather than someone who wanted to have fun. "You don’t need to hang around with your mother, go look at wedding gowns so you’ll know which one you want when you win." Angela wandered among the racks with her friends.
The judges disappeared to make their decision and the DJ kept playing dance music.
The man Angela had pointed out strutting his stuff on the runway caught Daniela's attention when he gyrated to the music. Angela was right the blonde wavy hair, sincere blue eyes and gym muscles made quite a package. His friends gathered around him, one of them holding up his phone to record a video of him dancing.
The man caught her eye and winked at her before he turned to the elegantly gowned mannequin behind him. One hand slid around the mannequin's waist and the other hand slipped into the mannequin's hand; he snuggled close. Daniela gulped, oh to be that lucky mannequin.
Moments like this were meant to be experienced. Daniela slid between racks and the wall to get to the other side of the runway in the space behind the mannequin. She tilted the mannequin toward him and moved the free plastic hand onto the man's shoulder. Even with the high impact beat, they slow-danced with the mannequin between them and without touching each other.
The four judges returned to their seats at the foot of the runway. The DJ stopped playing. The moment was over. The man touched Daniela's arm. "Hi, I'm Todd Manning."
"Daniela." She didn't turn away. "Have you been modeling long?"
" I'm a high school teacher." He laughed. "Seemed to be the logical choice if I wanted to stay the class clown for life. My subject is history; you should see my Mummy dance, every autumn the kid's beg me to perform even before we finish the
Daniela giggled. "Your wife must laugh all the time." She turned to walk away.
"I'm not married, dating or otherwise taken. Women take one look and feel an initial attraction; they don't stick around very long once they experience my antics." He glanced at the bare finger on her left hand. "Can I assume you're available too?"
She only nodded because a Gramercy's representative took the microphone. "Thank you all for coming. I can't tell you how hard this decision was to make. You're all beautiful. When I call your name please come onstage and stay there. "Todd Manning!"
Todd gyrated in a little dance on the stage. He celebrated each model's success, giving high-fives and congratulating; Daniela decided if this modeling call had been a beauty pageant he would be Miss Congeniality.
"And our final model participant, Daniela Picolo."
Angela squealed. "Go Mom!" She pushed Daniela toward the runway. Todd jostled people out of the way and held out his hand to help Daniela up the steps.
The Gramercy's representative continued with a prepared speech. "We need the men to stay for tux fitting tonight. Ladies, you'll return tomorrow for gown fittings. Thank you all for coming. Remember whoever is the best model on Saturday will win a one-year modeling contract with the Winston Marble Talent Agency."
Todd shook Daniela's hand. "Congratulations. I guess I'll see you Saturday?" His eyes sent the real message; he wanted a date. "The fitting shouldn't take long. Maybe you'd like to wait and we could get a cup of coffee or something."
"I can't." She noticed the resignation in his eyes. "I'm not turning you down. Just for tonight, girls’ night out. How about after the Bridal Expo?"
“I have the next thirty years or so.”
Angela pulled Daniela away and whispered in her ear. “That’s an offer I’d hold him to."
Daniela looked at Todd over her shoulder.
He blew her a kiss. "Thanks for the dance. Nobody's ever had the guts to join me, mostly women prefer to watch and laugh."
The four days without seeing Todd, allowed Daniela to think of every reason they weren’t compatible and she should not form expectations. He was different from any man she’d ever known; the way he played to an audience was out of her comfort zone. Emotions overruled logic, even before Saturday she was falling in love.
Gramercy's played cupid and partnered her with Todd. At the end of the runway, he kissed her lips in a gentle brush and she sure didn't feel like a mother-of-the-bride.
Daniela hadn't thought about the grand prize and was surprised when they called her on stage at the end and presented her with the one-year modeling contract. "But I'm a lawyer."
The representative laughed. "You're the first model we've had hesitate about changing careers." She glanced at Todd and turned back to Daniela. "Would you feel better if I told you we can arrange modeling around your professional and private lives?"
Daniela shrugged. "Thank you."
She rushed through changing into pants and a sweater to meet Todd after the show.
"I'll understand if you want to go celebrate with your daughter." He didn't wait for her response and turned away.
"I'd rather celebrate with you." She threw her arms around him and kissed him, right there in front of her daughter and her new would-be employers.
He punched one hand in the air and whooped. “I’d like to thank the mannequin for the dance, without her this lovely lady would never have approached me.”
This class clown gave Daniela a reason to laugh. She took his hand and curtsied blowing air-kisses to Angela and the others who had been standing outside the dressing rooms. She squeezed his hand and murmured. “For our next dance I’d rather not have a mannequin between us.”
BELOW THE DAM
by
Don E. Perkins
I remember a few things about my wife Beth’s battle with cancer. She was wrestling with adversaries I knew little about. And most of her battles were lonely affairs. I often found her standing looking out the living room window as though memorizing everything she saw so she could hold onto it. Although I told her I was by her side to help ease her pain, I doubt I really helped much. My hugs and words seemed so impotent against her opponent.
One day Beth asks, “Why don’t we ever go fishing below the dam anymore?”
I was thrilled that she remembered one of our old pleasures. Those last few months we go fishing as often as possible. Toward the end she is extremely weak and I must carry her from the car to the sandbar. I sit her in a lawn chair, bait her hook, and cast out her line. If she gets a bite she giggles all over while I help her reel it in.
It is late October the last time. The nights have turned cold and ice has started forming in the slack water. The river, now free of its summer turbulence, 
makes contented gurgling sounds as it flows under the brittle ice shelves along the shore. My driftwood fire illuminates the sandbar and radiates soothing heat into the frosty night. Sparks snap and burst upward like explosions of orange fireflies. We soak up the fire’s warmth and savor the smell of its tangy wood smoke. I am glad we both carry home the outdoorsy smell of the wood smoke in our clothes.
Beth says, “Next time we must bring hot dogs to roast, and marshmallows, too.” But there is no next time. When the ice goes out in April, Beth has been gone two months.
After examining me today Dr. Schneider tells me, “The biopsy shows your tumor is malignant.”
I’d like to talk with Beth now about his verdict. Beth knows insidious pain. She would understand my anger and despair. She would not think it strange to find me standing memorizing the scene outside our front window. She knows how it feels to live each day knowing you might not have another. I wish I could have understood that back when our clothes smelled of wood smoke.
If Beth were here now I’m sure she would hug me and say something to help me stand and do battle. Most of all it would comfort me just to have her beside me on the sandbar below the dam holding a fishing rod and giggling with her whole body when she gets a bite.
Photo by: Dani Simmonds
March
The Eternal Question
by
Boris Glikman
Alexander was in his late twenties at the time of the conversation, more an acquaintance than a friend, and a distant relative. Our remote consanguinity produced a certain awkwardness in our relations. I was never quite certain whether I could be open with him, as one usually is with kinsmen.
Our previous meetings were too fleeting, too fragmentary. A christening here, a wedding there. Certainly not the right place to strike a friendship.
Only one salient impression from our prior meetings remains in my mind. It was a wedding, if I remember correctly. I chanced to direct my gaze at the opposite table, and just at that moment, a certain uneasiness or perhaps rather a vague anxiety crossed Alexander's face, like a shadow, and was gone in an instant. Such a mien stood out like a dark rock amongst the sea of bland, drunken faces.
The Fates, whose ways are unknown to the common man, noticed our separate paths. And so it came to be that on the last weekend of September 19-- an invitation was extended for me to attend a gathering at the country estate of my maternal grandaunt. It was unclear to me of what relation she was to Alexander. Nonetheless Alexander too received an invitation.
I gladly accepted the invitation, being only too happy to leave the metropolis where I had spent the last ten years working for the local mining company.
As I remember, we had a long happy day of outdoor activities. We were carefree and acted almost like children in our innocent happiness. The fresh country air was a welcome change and we savoured it like a delicacy. Our dogs took eagerly to the great open spaces of which they had no prior inkling, having been brought up in the crowded city.
It was nearing the eleventh hour. The wonderful day was coming to an end. Our companions had long retired to bed, sleeping the sleep of the saints. Such a sleep only comes when one knows that all that possibly could have been done in a day has been done. Too often sleep is an interruption, an annoyance that prevents us from engaging in our favourite activities. And so we retire to sleep in frustration and have dreams for consolation. The sleep of the saints is without dreams, for dreams are for those who do not live their lives to the full.
I, too, longed for the saints' sleep. But Alexander was in the study room with me. A fire, the only illumination in the room, was greedily devouring its offerings. Now and then I could see Alexander's face lit up by the last flicker of a dying ember. Deep thought was etched into every line of his face, ageing him indefinably.
It occurred to me that I have waited long for this moment, to be close to Alexander, to glimpse into his unfathomable soul.
I believe it was the combination of the lateness of the hour, our seclusion and the wonderfulness of the day that had passed that allowed him to open up to me, as he had never done before.
He started speaking, his voice detached and hoarse, his speech directed more at fire than at me. But I listened, avariciously catching every word that passed from his lips, my yearning for bed long gone.
"Every word is a bloodless being, its life-force sucked out from it a long, long time ago. An insurmountable mount exists between the sublimeness of the feelings that filled my inner being as I gazed into the infinitude of the heavens tonight and the utter mediocrity of the words that we use to describe our precious inner possessions. These thoughts, these sensations are the very essence of my identity and to equate them with some words is to deny the very uniqueness of my experience. Yet tonight I feel an inexplicable desire to communicate.
Throughout my life a certain question has held a pincers-like grip on my mind, refusing to vacate its dwellings, until it has been demolished by the indubitable answer, a proof. To quench that insatiable doubt became of paramount significance and overshadowed all other interests that a normal, balanced young man would possess. I often wondered if I was the only one affected by this damned malaise. A thought terrorized me: was this question, this doubt a valid concern or was it due to the wanderings of a spoilt mind, the product of an undisciplined and self-absorbed character.
If the question could be given a crude physical form, then it roughly translates into something like: why am I here on this Earth? Who is responsible for my existence? My parents, that is obvious, are directly responsible. But I wanted to search out the fundamental raison d'être. I believe I have finally found it. History holds the ultimate responsibility. My chronic doubts were soothed by the indubitable facts of the past.
So often people scorn history. But history is people acting in unison, people being more than just independent units. The whole becomes greater than the sum of the parts. The depth and ferocity of pent-up frustration, aggression and idealism that is liberated by the great historical events is unparalleled in any other human endeavour. People become prey to rabble-rousers, willing to sacrifice all that is precious to them for the Great Cause.
My very existence is directly and intimately caused by one such cataclysmic historical event. My genesis was a catastrophe, war was the seed from which my existence germinated. A chain of cause and effect links connect my life to that of my ancestors in those momentous times. Somehow I feel that time to be an integral part of my very being.
The turning point in the life of my forebears was the Revolution. The Revolution facilitated the union of the maternal and paternal branches of my family tree. It would not be inaccurate to say that the maternal branch was grafted onto the paternal tree trunk. Only the Revolution could make this kind of intermixing possible.
The paternal side was always a seemingly incongruous mixture of lofty idealism and urbane sophistication. If one word could characterise it, it would be the word "intelligentsia".
Before the Revolution the paternal side threw itself into a wide range of intellectual enterprises and philanthropic activities. When the Revolution made its fiery entry, the forebears on my father's side unhesitatingly accepted its demanding principles.
All over the country at that time intellectuals who previously fought only with words and ideas were asked to defend the aims of the Revolution with arms. My paternal side did so outstandingly, volunteering for the local revolutionary brigade. I believe some of them were machine-gunners on an armoured train.
While these momentous historical events were taking place, the maternal side of my family was busy looking after their old decrepit grocery store in a sleepy provincial town. They came from a long line of small traders, and had a decidedly narrow outlook on life and its possibilities.
They welcomed the Revolution for pragmatic reasons. It was their hope that the new regime would help them solve the problem that the old regime was never able to solve. For years the family had been trying to obtain the shop next door as they wanted to expand their business. Year after year the case went in and out of court. The family had to endure the legendary inefficiency and ineptitude of a bureaucracy in its waning years. Those were the nadir years of the monarchy. I will not bore you at this hour with the petty case details."
The last ember died away, giving up the vain fight against the primordial all-consuming blackness. I did not stir for the fear of interrupting Alexander's story. He continued, his inner truth providing the illumination that was lacking without.
"One fine September day, as the summer was bidding its adieu, the Great War arrived, unwelcome and unheralded. It brought with it suffering on an unprecedented scale. No longer was there time to deal with cases not vital to the security and well-being of the country. The family's hopes of settling the case collapsed.
With the Revolution came the heartfelt belief that all the wrongs would be righted and true justice would prevail. It would not be inaccurate to say that the grocer's family were not interested in the new social order nor in fighting for the principles of the Revolution. They were the quintessential opportunists and looked excitedly to the day when the new rulers would cut the Gordian knot and enable them to obtain the shop next door.
Little did they know that the new regime had its own ideas on the concept of private ownership; ideas which, unheard of at the time, were justified by the abstruse field of philosophy.
The family, of course, was unable to obtain the shop next door. The real tragedy befell the hapless family soon after the take over of the town by the insurgents. Their own shop was confiscated by the revolutionaries and became the national property of the Greater Socialist Collective - a dubious honour.
One of my ancestors on the father's side was a rising star in the revolutionary battalion, which was stationed for a time in the grocer family's town. He cut a striking figure: fiery black eyes, a great moustache that was curled up according to the fashion of the day, splendid insignia and uniform as befitting his high rank.
The duty of justifying the actions of the revolutionaries to the local populace fell on his shoulders. It was no easy task under any circumstances. The heads of the families of the town were asked to attend a meeting at the local public hall. To say that the atmosphere of the meeting was charged would be a great understatement. Amongst the audience was the grocer still hoping that somehow, in some way, the flow of the events could be reversed. But the tide of history is irreversible.
Always a man of action and never lost for words, the enterprising grocer managed to persuade the revolutionary to come to his home by the promises of delicacies and a comforting drink. The revolutionary, having endured the hell of soldier life, was an easy target for the grocer's bribes.
The grocer had a young daughter, barely out of adolescence, shy and always quick to blush, and possessing a certain homespun charm.
An unlikely match they were! He, a revolutionary commissar, imbued with the fresh principles of Justice, Equality and Freedom. She, a mousy daughter of a provincial grocery store owner.
He needed the comfort of a family that was sadly missing from his hectic life, she wanted to break out from the claustrophobic, stifling atmosphere of her home. They fulfilled each other's needs to perfection.
Their fates became intertwined during those heady days, months and years of the post-revolutionary society. As events rolled inexorably towards their climax, a child was born, a child of the Revolution."
Alexander fell silent for what seemed to be an unbearable duration. I was not sure which would cause the greater offence: my staying or my leaving, and I let my mind wander over the fine points of etiquette. My restless ruminations were cut short by his words, spoken slowly and decisively, without the shadow of the inner torment that darkened his earlier speech.
"When the winds of change blow, we are merely leaves, picked up, carried by the current and arbitrarily rearranged.
But I have said enough for tonight. It is time that we retire to beds."
On waking up the following morning the memory of the late night conversation immediately came to my mind. After attending to the morning toilet, I almost ran out of the room so eager was I to see Alexander again. But, alas, he was nowhere to be found. The hostess was in the dining room. I enquired of his whereabouts only to be informed that he left early in the morning without leaving any message or even saying adieu. The groundsman who saw him leave said that he looked rather distressed and seemed to be in much hurry to get out of the estate.
I have never seen Alexander since. His closest relatives have given me only vague answers to my persistent enquiries as to where I could locate him. Even if he does not want to see me again, his words will be with me forever.
Frank’s Tale
by
Darell M. Diedrich
Frank awoke and quickly dressed himself. He brushed his gray hair and, after putting on his shoes, he raced down the hallway. Frank wasn’t fast by any means, but at seventy-one years old 
he was the fastest resident in the nursing home. Today frank was in a hurry. He was in such a hurry he didn’t see the notices on the bulletin board. The dinner menu was on it; ham sandwiches and potato chips, Miss Melody’s brown hamster was still missing, and exercise class had been canceled for the day. Frank didn’t pay attention to any of those. It was Wednesday and every Wednesday he would meet some of the other residents in the lounge to tell them stories.
Margaret was already there, crocheting a blanket for her grandson. Her grand kids would visit about once a month. They always brought cookies and Margaret would share them with the other residents.
“Good morning, Frank,” said Margaret as he sat down.
Phil and Phyllis were there too.
“Frank is here,” said Phyllis with a smile, nudging Phil with her elbow. Phil just grumbled and kept watching the television.
Phyllis continued, “Hi, Frank, do you have a story for us?”
“Oh, yes I do,” said Frank. He rubbed his hands together in excitement.
Bill walked up, his dark fingers wrapped tightly around his cane as it tapped the floor with every other step. He sat down next to Margaret and smiled a toothless grin.
“Bill, you forgot your teeth again,” whispered Margaret.
“I don’t need teeth to hear.” Bill was always sharing his wise philosophy with others.
“Where is Judith?” asked Frank.
“She is not coming today,” said Phil. “She’s not feeling well. She’ll be here next week, Frank.”
“Tell us a story, Frank,” said Bill.
“Yea, Frank, were all here now. Go ahead.” Phyllis was impatient—like usual.
“All right,” said Frank, scooting his chair a little so he was facing the others. “A few nights ago, Monday I think, the night we had spaghetti, I dropped a pi—“
“I think that was Sunday we had spaghetti.” Interrupted Margaret
“I thought it was Saturday,” said Bill.
“No, we had meat loaf on Saturday, spaghetti on Sunday,” said Phil.
Phyllis started to say something but Frank interrupted, “Which ever day it was…” he said, shaking his head in frustration. He was always interrupted when he first started. “…It doesn’t matter. The night we had spaghetti I drop—“
“Don’t start without me, Frank.” Came a voice from the hallway.
Judith emerged, pushing her walker. She had a magazine tucked into her robe pocket. Judith always had a fashion magazine with her. She used to be a model in her younger years and liked to keep up with the latest trends. Her magazines were always precious to her—except today. When she walked by Phil she unsheathed the magazine and smacked him with it. Phil jumped in his seat. He looked at Judith, surprised at being accosted by such an old woman.
“I know you told him I was sick again,” said Judith.
Bill laughed at Phil, “Ha, ha. You should see the look on your face.” Bill nearly fell out of his chair.
“Hit him again, Judith, he’ll deserve it sooner or later,” said Phyllis.
Phil turned to look at Phyllis, surprised at being ganged up on, just before being smacked a final time in the back of the head by Judith’s makeshift weapon.
Frank waited patiently for the drama to end. Once Judith took her seat he started again, “The night we had spaghetti I took a bite out of my garlic bread. It was dry and crunchy like usual and a piece broke off and fell on the floor. I looked for it, but couldn’t find it. When Nurse Betty came in to take my tray I forgot to tell her I had dropped it. You know how they feel about food on the floor.” Frank’s audience nodded in agreement. “I was wondering what I was going to do, then I saw him.”
His audience was paying attention now, no more interruptions from here on out. “A little man, about three—four inches tall stood looking at me. He was thin with lots of brown hair all over and little black eyes. He was a mythical creature called a Brownie. He had come out of the vent near the floor. He turned his head to look at something. I looked to see what he was looking at and there, just next to my night stand, was the missing piece of garlic bread. He looked back at me. I looked at him. I knew if he got that bread and left it somewhere, Nurse Betty would know it was mine. I couldn’t let him have it. It was a stand off. Who was going to get it, him, or me?” the other residents were nearly sitting on the edge of their seats.
Frank paused a moment to let the image sink into their heads, then continued, “He looked back at the bread, I looked at the bread. He licked his lips. I clenched my teeth. I looked at him. He looked at me. Then he made his move, he ran towards the morsel and I dove off my bed. He proved to be the quicker, grabbing the bread and running back to the vent before I even hit the floor. He stopped to look back at me, stuffing his cheeks in victory, and then slipped through the vent.”
Frank leaned back in his chair to show he was finished. Everyone sat in silence for a long moment. Phil spoke first.
“Oh, come-on, Frank, a Brownie?” said Phil. “You made that up.” He swung his hands at Frank as if he were swatting a fly. The others began to stir as if they had just been released from hypnosis.
“I think you are losing it, Frank,” said Margaret.
“Margaret’s right, Frank,” said Bill. “You better double-check your meds. Ha, ha, ha.” Bill was so excited he even slapped his knee. Phil and Phyllis joined in too.
Maybe you should get your eyes checked too,” said Phil, laughing.
Judith was the only one not laughing.
“That was nice, Frank,” she said. She opened her magazine onto her lap.
Frank, a little embarrassed at being laughed at, quickly walked to his room, almost bumping into Miss Melody, who was still looking for her pet hamster.
“Have you seen Edward, Frank?” She could see Frank didn’t understand who Edward was. “He’s my hamster.”
“No, no. I haven’t seen him.”
That evening, at supper, Frank ate at the table. A piece of bread from his sandwich fell to the floor. He started to bend down to pick it up but stopped when he noticed a brown-hared Brownie standing next to the vent. Smiling, Frank kicked the morsel over towards the little creature. The Brownie greedily grabbed it and ran back towards its escape route. The last thing Frank saw was its little tail slipping through the vent.
Sunbird
by
They went up the mountain in the morning, while bright sun still sparkled on the dewy twigs, the leaf tips and spider webs, and mist rose from the grass and rested in the hollows. They were three together, barefoot boys. They slipped through the seaside bungalows and white fenced gardens to the wild slopes beyond.
There was a rough dirt track that led up halfway, and then a footpath through the rocks and heath, the scent of wild geraniums strong as they brushed by. They had sticks in case of snakes and a bottle of tap water and three oranges, some marbles and a catapult, slingshot to you, made with carefully cut rubber from an old car inner tube.
They took turns to carry the provisions, which they were all going to eat later, but only the two older ones carried the catapult in turn, because Rich couldn’t shoot properly with it, and what good would it do if he was carrying it and they met a leopard, say, in the middle of the path? Of course nobody had actually seen a leopard around here for a couple of hundred years, but you never knew.
When they got to the branch in the path, after the zig zag climb through the rock bluffs, they turned left, along the more used trail. They would take the fainter right branch on another longer day when they didn’t have to be back by lunchtime. They ate the oranges quite soon after they were up onto the different terrain above the steepest slopes. Here the bushes were mostly heath, flowering pink and white, and proteas, with their big stiff blossoms.
There were insects and birds busy all around. They harvested pollen and nectar, and of course others were after the harvesters, spiders and lizards and a hawk who wheeled high above, against the sky. They watched him watch. Probably hopes we will scare something into the open that he can swoop down and grab, they decided. The lizards just duck into cracks in the rocks, and the small birds stay low among the bushes, so it must be difficult to get hold of something, even when you can see so much busy life all around.
They trotted and walked, stopped and watched, made their way towards the lookout station with the flagpole, where the watcher signalled to the fishing boats in the bay when shoals of fish came into view. There was only a bare pole today, the rope slapped in the wind, and the dark green door was padlocked. Blank windows in the whitewashed walls of the square concrete building overlooked the steep slope down to the sea.
You could see the mountains on the far side, blue in the distance across the bay. Cloud shadows, sunlight, and wind squalls shaded the water in shifting patterns, all shades of blue from almost black to the light blue-green along the beaches, where the surf showed as white lacy lines.
“Must have carried stuff here with a donkey,” Pete speculated, more interested in the building than the view.
"Maybe a whole lot of donkeys,” chimed in Rich, “then they wouldn’t have to stop building to go down and get more stuff, they could have just brought everything at once.”
After contemplating this image, of a whole train of donkeys strung along the rocky path, Pete objected, “But the fishermen don’t have lots of donkeys, they only have rowing boats and maybe a couple of donkeys. So they probably did it a bit at a time. Every time they came up to watch for the fish they would bring some stuff and build a bit.”
This seemed to be older brother John’s opinion too, because all he said was, “Probably they put a roof up first, after they put up the flagpole, so they could shelter from the rain.”
Although of course both the younger ones immediately thought that it would have been difficult to have a roof with no supporting walls, they left it at that.
They tried to spot a fish shoal, but couldn’t see anything that looked like a fish, or a whole lot of fish, so turned back to the mountain to look for other interesting stuff around.
Bright birds zipped through the bushes, hovered by flowers and darted off again. Iridescent blues and greens shimmered on their heads and backs, bright orange flamed below.
“Those are sunbirds,” said eldest brother authoritatively.
There were brown little birds with them, which were the females, but at the time the boys didn’t realise they were a single species. Other brown and yellow birds trailed long tail feathers. These John confidently identified as sugarbirds. They tried a few flowers to see if you could get any of the nectar that the birds fed on, but the most they could do was to get their noses dusted with yellow pollen, which tasted faintly bitter if anything.
“What about if we find a bee’s nest, a hive ? There should be lots of honey.” Pete suggested.