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Contributors:
Chris Fulbright chfulbright
Tim Bruderek willymiller02
Dan Lukiv lukivdan
Echo T. DellaFranzia sgtpprsgrl
Rob Reath r1rr7
Bryant Luba bryantluba
Jes Ter erectt
Matthew S. matius4
Skeeze Whitlow The21writer
Corey Mesler resolemcrey
Michael Wiles mjw003
Marie Sexton mthebron
Sara V. saraandzorak
without an e withoutane
One for Beauty, Two for Betrayal
a poem
by Chris Fulbright
She looked like poetry in stasis
when she bent slightly at the knees
poised to deliver the cue
and I admired her from the booth where I was seated
her short green dress just a little too snug
Nice legs though
and despite her obvious effort
to keep the dress
from showing more than we'd paid for
she was darkly statuesque, even elegant
She danced like a spellbound cobra
when she wasn't shooting
a warm bottle of Corona in one hand
her fanciful dreams in the other
her golden anklet flashing like forgotten X-Mas tinsel
Hooded eyes reached for mine
and despite my efforts to seem uninterested
I sought to meet them
and caressed her curves
in some extradimensional place
within the drifting phantoms of smoke between us
She comes back to me between games
a laugh quick to lighten my spirits
a glimmering promise in her eye
before touching my shoulder
and then whirling back onto the floor
A lovely whirlwind dervish
I watch her with indifference
a deeply buried longing
for something I know we'd both hoped for
dug deep into our imaginations to discover
those superficially impenetrable depths ....
Out the door
on my arm,
like an escort
or a bride
but we can't quite break through.
It's our carefully constructed public reputations
our near familial broken and past relations,
but the memory of former flirtatiousness
sunken expectations
and ongoing sexual innuendos
drives this uncertain desire.
We walk out in darker shadows
past the truck and to the car
and lean close in the chill October night
smelling like vanilla mints and Jack Daniels
and we tested then tasted.
I'd expected her lips to be tender
Hoping our mouths would water
and our tongues would compatibly twist
-- not quite though, for all the dreams that I'd dreamed;
I could tell she'd expected the same.
Anyway, the dress was too tight
the dance too rehearsed,
and the promise of winter wasn't enough.
Acres of Glass
a poem
by Tim Bruderek
I see you dance and twirl and shine
In some turquoise paradise
That I will never be a part of
Seldom leaves and dragon breath fire
Entrance you and leave my left eye to burn away
Your body looks more slender under a plastic finish
Not a marble ledge can cradle an edge
You can always peek over and contemplate the plunge
Your memory will not keep you afloat
Just buttons and foot tracks will be there for
interpretation
Or short love letters that sank with the bubbles
Tiles like patchwork will feed your independence
So bits of paper with caricatures imprinted lay astray
While veined skin covers my shape
Only through acres of glass will you return to me
The Winter Coat
a poem
by Dan Lukiv
*resume*
Friday afternoon, 3:00:
She says, "I’m gonna take my coat
To the pawn shop."
"The pawn shop?" her teacher says,
Gazing up from her pen.
"Ya. It’s still warm out.
I’m gonna use the money
To buy beer." Her face is soft;
She looks happy.
Her teacher her mouth,
Then closes it as the student
Leaves.
The Ears
an elf-poem of high fantasy
by Echo T. DellaFranzia
All that comes with the ears I had to hide
Hid itself, in the woods
As I hid under the horse’s blanket
Painted with Stars
(and embroidered in silver)
All that comes with the bow I had to carry
Never used itself on me
As I never learned to use the bow
Painted with words
(decorated in gold)
All that comes with the asking of Nature
Tired me more than threefold
As I asked to bury the evil
In the Earth
(now tainted with goblins)
Elusion
a poem
by Rob Reath
Although, she was silent,
She gave the birth of color
To all that was grey
Her soul was an island
Like a single drop of rain on a
sunny day
Yet, her spirit seemed free of
Anguish;
A light and elusive breeze in a
Summer's field
Her body spoke a humble language
The image was frozen in my memory
And forever sealed
Then she danced through the
fields
Without a care
A child of the sun;
With youth granted forever
As a slow realization made me
Aware
The girl was no one
And her name was never
A Moment at Work
a reflection
by Bryant Luba
I currently work as a Special Education Assistant for the School District and within its Special Education Department. My current assignment is to work with a ten year old boy in the fith grade at an elemenatary school. The boy has difficulty staying focused or staying on a given task. Sometimes he spaces out so much that I wonder if it's contagious since I soon found myself drifting and forgetting my own need to get myself focused on getting him focused.
Just a few days ago the teacher had been working with the class on percentages and decimals. I had to tell the student sevaral times what the teacher had stated only moments ago. At times he would be so caught up in his other world that I would have to nudge his arm as if waking someone from sleep. When the teacher ended the classroom assignment and was preparing for the next subject I took a moment to find out what the student had been thinking about.
"You space out too much," I said. " I wish I could see what you're seeing. It must be cool. Where ever you are it must be cool." We were then transitioning from math to reading. I had prompted him several more times to take out his book. After a few moments he removed it from his desk.
"What are you thinking? It would be neat to see whatever it is you're doing when you're spacing out. Are you flying around with a cape on rescuing people or something?
He smiled sheepishly and said, "No."
"Are you thinking about games? Oh that's probably it. Your trying to figure out how to pass a level in your game."
"No," he said. " I have games at home. But that's not what I'm thinking about."
"So then what are you thinking about, Kissing girls?"
He smiled again. "Nothing."
"Well you're obviously imagining something. So what are you imagining?"
The fifth grade student looked up at me and grinned. "I'm imagining kicking your ass."
I laughed and joked with him back. "Then only in your imagination pal. And even in then you're probably only half successful at it."
In the Past, When it Reigned
by Jes Ter
Looking at or perhaps not looking, but dreaming, staring. Her eyes facing
the multitude of beads, sticking to the window reflecting
grass and grey sky. The carpet swallowed her feet and it’s thick maroon
color crept up her legs. She rubbed her thighs together.
The intensity of the heat flushed her face.
“Who’s there?” She asked, blindly still staring through the window.
“Rain,” replied a voice behind her. The voice broke inside her head
pouring down a thousand rabid thoughts of the storm. The clouds
who hounded her days, forever hanging in the sky seemed to question whose sky. Clouded condemtions, "Who created this wetness?" She rubbed her thighs together again.
"What attachment is this?"
"From the weather to my mood.." She grabbed her breasts. Lightning flashed and crashed to the earth.
“Please, who ever it is.. Rain.. come here.”
“I am already here. You have brought me here, and here I've been since the first clouds took over the blue sky.” Again the voice burst inside her mind,
winds howled down the tunnel of her sight, “Why are we here?” The winds
screamed, “Why are we here? Here, why?”
The girl and her echoing mind summoned protections, but other thoughts
took over, "I created? I created nothing, I am a slave to weather, I cannot
escape it! Please, touch me..."
The ceilingd up, down pour crashed and soaked the girl
“Why are we here?” The wind howled, “Release us!” Rain cried.
“I can’t swim," She pleaded. “Let off, just a little.” The room filled
quickly. The girl gulped in bitter water.
“Stop!” She screamed.
“Let us go!” The thunder roared!
“Who?” She slurped in more water, head bobbed under, gasping, she was
filled, completely filled.
And the struggle stopped. The girld her eyes and looked to the
surface. The sun shone, glowing through the water, water, water around her, in her. Beautiful light had come again. Her eyes closed then, but the
light did not dissipate as she sunk to the floor.
Hard Labour
a story
by Matthew S.
James' ordinary start to the day was just about to begin. James wasn’t the greatest wolf you’d ever come across but he got by very well. He’d all the things he’d ever wanted and was the nicest wolf you had ever met (and were going to meet). He was literally the only wolf that wouldn’t bite your head off if you talked to him. James lived alone, although he was friendly, most people were scared away at the sight of him being a wolf. They didn’t seem to know the meaning of the phrase “don’t judge a book by its cover.” But for all the people who knew him they got on very well with him.
James didn’t have a mum or a dad, as they were involved in a pig joyride, who was driving like a maniac. Trouble was he was too pig headed to realise he was in the wrong! This had hurt James very much. Although his parents’ death had been a big shock to James he didn’t take his anger out on anyone else and was still very kind and helpful to anyone who may need it.
It was Tuesday morning; the day James went to play golf with his friends. This was really the only day James got out of his house. The rest of the week he was cooped up in his cosy but rather small house. James switched on the T.V. It was the week of the general elections. All the candidates were on, and they were all being very nice - hoping they would gain power! He saw the Hard-Labour party – they were all pigs that made up this party. From what James had heard they were trying to fix the election. James hoped the rumours were false, as the Hard-Labour party had lots of ideas that James didn’t like. Including the eviction of wolves from the country. (The Hard-Labour party wanted the wolves evicted out of the country because they thought they where a threat to their party). What made the problem even worse was the public believed what the Hard-Labour party had to say. The Hard-Labour party made up lots of stories, which the public believed, but they couldn’t fool the wolves and get them to be on their side.
Most of the wolves questioned the stories, which the Hard-Labour party didn’t like as they just wanted it to happen with no fuss but with the wolves around they just couldn’t do it! James kept out of this; he wasn’t the type to get involved in squabbles like this one. To get the wolves out of their way the Hard-Labour party had come up with a plan. They had come up with a story about the wolves saying, “it is scientifically proven that wolves carry disease.” Which of course wasn’t true, and the Hard-Labour party knew this, but unfortunately for the wolves the public believed them. If the Hard-Labour party did gain power James knew the Hard-Labour party would get away with murder because no-one would question them as they would be too scared to! Only the wolves questioned them, as they were the only people who weren’t scared by the Hard-Labour party. This though was really, really worrying James and what was worse; there wasn’t really anything he could do about it!
James looked at the clock; it was time he went to play Golf, he would have to see the results of the election when he got back home.
So James went to play Golf, and had a very good round (he only lost 5 balls to the usual 10!) It took his mind of the Hard-Labour party – until he got back home and turned on the T.V.
The results had been drawn in and the Hard-Labour party had gained power (probably not within the rules.) Either way though, the Hard-Labour party were in control and James could do NOTHING about it! James was in a state of panic, he hoped the Hard-Labour party would abolish the talk of evicting wolves from the country and for some time they did, until a few months later…
There was a knock on the door. James went to answer it. Hed the creaking door very slowly as he didn’t know who it could be, he didn’t normally get visits? Outside there were to very hard looking men with badges reading “Hard-Labour” James heart started to beat faster – they hardly wanted to come in for a cup of tea he thought! “H.H…Hello” he said very nervously. The two men just looked at him. The man to his left said “Haven’t you seen the news, we want all wolves out - and fast!"
James started to panic as these men meant business. “H.H… How long have I got?” said James, his voice starting to crack. “Till the end of the week,” the man said to his right. “You pack your bags and get out of the country, or we kill you, simple as that!” James closed the door and slid down it holding his head in his hands, this is it he thought, I have to leave. James packed his bags, he was going to stay as long as he could, but not too long as he was scared the men would be back. He rang all the people he knew to tell them what had happened, they were all very worried about James, but James said he would not lose touch with them. If he could help it.
A few days past and James was working out what he was going to do when he had to leave his home and country. He’d always been in his lovely home but times change James thought. Although maybe not always for the better James was just going to have to live with it, he had no choice he wanted to live. Or what he would have left of his life, he thought.
The day when James had to leave his lovely home and country was soon upon him. He’d decided to move to America as he wouldn’t have to adapt as much to any other country and it wasn’t too far away from his friends. It was lucky for them; they didn’t have to move as well. James had always felt a little vulnerable in his life but now he was feeling it even more than in any other time in his life. James had to look to the future though. It didn’t look very bright for him, but he had to stay optimistic.
James left the house and turned his head around to look at his house for the very last time. A tear came down his long nose and he walked slowly down the road. America was going to be his home now. He turned down the next street feeling very lost. At that moment the two men were coming back James saw them and began to walk faster. He went to the nearest taxi firm and asked to go to Heathrow Airport. The taxi driver said “We don’t want you wolves around here anymore, I don’t want any kind of diseases from you!” James had to say something “But we don’t carry diseases the Hard-Labour party made it up!” The taxi driver replied, “Well you would say that. You want to stay in your cosy little home…” On that note James left the taxi firm, he didn’t want to be talked to like that from anyone.
James found another taxi firm. This time he didn’t get the third degree he just got a taxi. At the airport, it was havoc! As you would expect, it wasn’t only James that had to leave the country. It made him feel better to see other wolves in the same situation; in some cases James’s scenario was better than the other fellow wolves.
James dragged his suitcase along the floor and went to find the check in. He checked in and everything seemed to be going okay. He went to sit down and rested his eyes; he was going to have a long wait even if the plane wasn’t delayed.
“The flight to America is now departing would all passengers please go to terminal three, have your passports ready and have a nice flight – thank you.” James woke he had been asleep for quite sometime. He stood, had a big stretch and got hold of his suitcase. As James was walking down the tunnel of the terminal he could see America becoming closer to him. He got on the plane and put his suitcase in the cupboard above him and sat down in his seat, trying to relax he didn’t really like flying – he didn’t really like any form of transport since his Mum and Dad had died, but he had no choice. He hoped his Mum and Dad were looking down on him and they would help him get through this. James had quite a long trip ahead of him; it was an eight-hour journey ahead.
James had fallen asleep yet again! He did a big yawn and looked around nobody was on the plane! Except for a lady with a mop a duster and a pile of rubbish. James said “Hello are we in America?” “Yes you are,” the lady said in an American accent. James long sleep had left him feeling a bit disorientated, which is the last thing he wanted because he was in a country, which was basically quite alien to him.
James stepped of the plane and left the airport. “Now all I have to do is find somewhere to stay,” James said to himself.
James kept on walking around for what seemed like hours, until he finally stopped and saw a lovely B&B. James walked in and went to the reception. “I’m sorry we don’t allow pets in our hotel,” the receptionist said. James was very insulted; he stormed out in a huff.
It was getting dark and James was getting very tired. He kept on walking until he finally reached a hotel, not the best one James had ever stayed in but it had to do - there wasn’t anywhere else.
The next day James got up and was feeling better. He turned on the T.V. in his room; there wasn’t much on - just the usual rubbish. It wasn’t like it was in his day James thought. He turned off the T.V. and went downstairs, he’d missed breakfast but he was just in time for dinner. He tucked into his frog in the hole and decided what he was going to do. He didn’t have to worry about money because he was quite wealthy, as his parents had left him a nice amount in their will. But he couldn’t stay in a B&B all his life he had to find somewhere more permanent. He’d get very bored anyway!
As soon as he’d finished his dinner he went to the nearest Estate Agents to see if he could find somewhere to live. They were all very helpful – but very pushy. He couldn’t find anything really that suited him so he thought he would call back another day. There was one house he liked which had a river next to it, although he found out later it flooded every winter, which put a dampener on things.
A few days later and James went back to the Estate Agents and to his greatest delight there was a house that seemed just right. He booked a date to have a look around the house. James was pleased because it looked perfect for him and was much bigger than his house in the U.K.
James sat up at breakfast, very excited because today he was going to have a look at the house, he seemed to think looked perfect. James had breakfast quite quickly as he couldn’t eat much as he was too excited about the house.
Once James had finished breakfast he went to catch the bus, which was half an hour late! Which put James in a bit of a grumpy mood, I’d have been quicker walking he thought. Luckily things could only get better and he was soon at the house. “A hundred and eleven Wolf and Ready Street” he said, “ahh here’s the place.” He had a look around and it looked just as good as it did in the Estate Agents – only better. He knew this was the house he wanted. He put the asking price in at $160,000, which James thought was quite reasonable.
Three days passed and James was getting anxious about the house he really wanted. An hour later and he got a phone call to confirm that the house was his – James was very pleased, he just couldn’t wait to move in!
Over the next few months James settled in to his new home and he even made some new friends – but he still missed his home back in the UK.
James got out of bed and turned on the T.V. There was a documentary on how the Hard-Labour party had won the election. “They cheated!” James shouted at the T.V. screen. He was just about to turn it off when there was a newsflash. “Hard luck for Hard-Labour.” James turned the T.V. up and watched very eagerly. “Today evidence has been obtained that the Hard-Labour party fixed the elections that took place just a few months ago. “I KNEW IT WAS TRUE – NOBODY WOULD BELIEVE US!” James screamed. “It was discovered that a suitcase had been left in the middle of London which was led to believe that in the case was a bomb but when carefully examined, Police discovered documents sent to and from the Hard-Labour party. But these were no ordinary documents.” James pushed his nose onto the T.V. screen.
“The documents described how the Hard-Labour party would fix the election and that they would make up the story of the wolves carrying diseases to get them out of their way,” said the news reporter. James was so pleased that the Police, the public and the other parties had found out the truth, maybe he could go back home! “The Hard-Labour party have said they are sorry they cheated and lied but it was for the countries sake,” continued the news reporter. “RUBBISH!” James shouted. “The Hungry Democrats have now been given power and all wolves are allowed to return to the U.K. if they wish, and to all wolves out there, we are very sorry for all the trouble we have caused you.” James switched the T.V. off, -looks like I’m off back home,- James thought. James wanted to keep his home in America so he thought he would put an advert in a shop window to say someone could rent it.
A few days passed, James got a phone call from a couple that said they wanted to be his lodger. He arranged a date with them so they could take a look around the house.
The couple came to visit and they seemed very happy with the house and James was happy as the couple seemed sensible and clean and wouldn’t mess the house up. Now James could think about going back to his home in the U.K. He told everyone he knew in America that he was leaving – they were quite upset. He then rang his friends in the U.K. they were all very happy that he was coming home – they’d missed him. James booked a flight to Heathrow and then started to pack his bags.
He left his house at a hundred and eleven Wolf and Ready Street and went to get a taxi to take him to the airport. He checked in and sat down in the departure lounge. He didn’t fall asleep this time he was very excited about going home. He stepped onto the plane put his bag in the cupboard and sat back and relaxed – still a little nervous of the trip ahead.
Eight hours later and he was standing in Heathrow Airport. He got a taxi back to his house and had quite a conversation with the taxi driver on the way about what the Hard-Labour party had done and why.
He got out of the taxi and looked at his home. It was in a bit of a state but with a bit of work it would soon be back to normal. Just then James saw the two men from Hard-Labour walk down the street they didn’t look best of pleased – they were out of a job and they were after James (probably because he was the most venerable wolf they could find). James walked quickly into the house with the men not far behind. James closed the door but the men just barged it down knocking James to the ground. They were just about to beat him up when a fifty-year-old chandelier from the ceiling came crashing down on the two men knocking them both out. James stood up and thought…I must get that chandelier fixed.
Over the next few years James lived very happily. He met a lady wolf and they got married (the first ever wolves ever to get married). They had cubs and for once in his life James felt safe and most of all, extremely HAPPY.
The End
Author's Additional Copyright Disclaimer:
Copyright 2002
NO PART of this piece may be reproduced in ANY way including on the Internet without the prior written consent of the author. Legal action will be taken if this is not abided.
The Bouquet
a poem
by Dan Lukiv
*resume*
Three hours this side of the prom
And still before the
Tall mirror,
She, tucked into silk and bobby pins,d the front door to a human body
With a bouquet head and card:
"Our deepest sympathy."
Amidst incredulity and an
"Outer Limits" fear of
"Who on earth could have done this?"
Her mother, practical, telephoned the florist shop.
"Gerbois Brothers’ Construction?
Who the blazes are they?"
She telephoned the head Gerbois, who croaked:
"What? What do you mean nobody died? Your husband--"
"My ex-husband."
"Your ex-husband said
The reason he was so hungover at work was because
His daughter’s funeral was in two days.
So I didn’t fire the idiot.
We sent those flowers!"
She, in her silk and bobby pins,
And her mother-the-ex-wife chewed their
Incredulity until their
Teeth gnashed.
Then her mother agreed with her
That her father was a "horrible idiot"
As she tried to get back to herself
In that mirror.
Will
a short story
by Skeeze Whitlow
Larissa weeps tears of rage. Regularly. Her secret prompts it. Why had life done this to her? Why did she deserve this? She'd always attempted to love life. She would always try. Ever harder. She loved her boy. She inches herself up and kisses
his fingertips. Inching up even further, she kisses arms, shoulders, neck and face. Stroking the back of his head, she kisses his cheek, eyelids and forehead. After all she loves him so.
Will, is autistic. Spectrally. Everything is closed-up and jumbled. Seen as from within. He's handsome, well groomed, has a wonderful temperment and an infectious smile. People immediately like Will - his friendly demeanor hooks even those with poor attitudes. While he doesn't talk, his laughter speaks volumes. His prism-like perspective causes him to stop and check-out even the most commonplace things. Very inquisitive.
Will came to school wearing welts and bruises on the backs of his legs and his lower buttocks. His mother blamed Will's teacher. His mother is frantic over the boy's state. The teacher, Jane, is afraid for her job. This is not the first time Child Protection Services had to involve itself in her classroom. Charges of abuse leveled from the parent of a developmentally disabled student can spell doom for any teacher.
Doom is what Will's mom, Larissa, came to know when Will was diagnosed. Larissa had so entertained the notion of a child with every possible facility and every feasible opportunity. When amniocentisis foretold of a son, Larissa expected a boy who'd become the hero of her life. Medical procedures then hinted of possible complications. Larissa refused to hear of it.
The fields of child development and early education have seen great strides made in the area of autism. For so long, it had been misunderstood. For so long, mothers had actually been blamed for some mysterious wrong-doing during early childhood. Larissa is all frought-up at the idea of being responsible for her son's state of mind. Larissa often blames her husband, Clement.
Although she knows she is very fortunate to have married a man with Clement's qualities. He is very patient with her and forgives her for leveling blame. You have to take the good with the bad. Consoling her with talk of faith and God and Fate and acceptance, he promises to always love them both. They are his family; what life has given him. How could he not be grateful. For what life has allowed him. What life has seen fit to entrust him with.
Clement has a career position with the French Embassy. Since well before Will's birth, he and his wife have had the pleasure of traveling the world. Serving as French attache` in Greece, Russia, Japan, Brazil, and now, the United States. Will has seen more of this world than most children who can comprehend it in perfection. Will comprehends things - just a little differently than most. Even the simplest things take Will's mind a good long tome to absorb. Things need time to filter through into Will's awareness. From colors to shapes to smells to sounds, things compete for his undivided attention. Compete feircely. Often, it's just too much stuff. His mind has to shut it all out.
Although there is one area in which his talents are savant: Will can remember a tune. It's almost eerie. Will has an electric piano. A Yamaha. A child who doesn't know when to stand up or sit down can perform the most complicated symphonic movements known to man. The only time Will finds peace is when he sits at his keyboard. Will's Yamaha is shipped everywhere his father is stationed in the foreign service. Will doesn't understand what a big deal it is to have the piano moved from place to place. The whole place-to-place thing plays tricks with Will's mind.
All he understands is that sections of Beethoven's Ninth tumble around within his mind and he instinctively needs to play out this progression of notes. It is a daily need and when he cannot play his piano he goes into a fit. Call it spoiled, if you must, but Will cannot deal without the Yamaha.
While playing, he gets out that pent-up feeling in the upper chest and shoulders. All the stuffed energy and stifled emotion is given a chance to flow through his fingertips and into the sound chamber of his Yamaha. And it soothes his mind. The furrows of his brow unfurl and joy spreads across his face like a masque.
Clement wells up with tears whenever Will sits to play. Clement thanks the Higher Power channeled through Will's talent. Born into such emotional pain that the only time his frown dissipates is the time he spends on the keyboard. They encourage Will to play as much as possible.
Larissa's angst is soothed by the sweet music. Her confidence circles 180 degrees To momentarily believe that her boy is a genius gives a gigantic boost to her own self esteem. A musical genius! Her confidence circles 180 degrees, full steam ahead. Will touches upon something which brings the family peace. Beethoven's Nineth! In this family the fact that Beethoven lost his most prized sensibility while writing it incurs no irony. The sound and the power of the Nineth vibrates through; this musical extravaganza is living proof of what a human being can do. The human spirit unstoppable. Clement and Larissa hold Beethoven higher on life's scale than anybody else.
When they first arrived in Washington, a small apartment was provided on Embassy Row. It was a very safe neighborhood, a very pricey neighborhood. Spring had just sprung. The area, for miles around abounded in hyacinths, azalea, iris, tulips. The city seemed to float amidst cherry blossoms. Clement had written an award-winning article on international economics; his career in foreign service was reaching its peak - this was the best assignment he'd ever been given. Invitations to functions abounded. Everybody wished to be seen with Clement, to have their picture taken beside him. Clement and Larissa attended function after function; he sported a tux, she a sequin gown. Will dressed in a navy blazer, gray slacks and oxfords. The Beethoven-playing boy wonder was suddenly the smash of the formal circuit. Everyone who was anyone wanted their picture taken on the piano bench beside Will. Will loved the attention. A star in his own right, Will was unaware that he was performing, nightly, in the capitol of the free world. He only knew that he was doing what comes natural, that everybody loved him and that this was the way it was supposed to be.
He played on uprights, portables, on Baby Grandes. And he was able to exorcise the nervous rapture of his upper torso. His chest lost that tightness; shoulders relaxed. The demons of his soul calmed down. Bliss ruled supreme.
Then one day the family left the cozy apartment on Embassy Row. They moved to more realistic quarters in some distant suburb with a more spacious setting and a school system able to provide Will with the care and attention he needs. Alas, there were no more evening dates at internationally sponsored shindigs. The embassies were now too far to attend.
On a typical day, Larissa would wake Will before sunrise, bathe, groom, feed him, and pack him off to the shortened schoolbus - where he rode for almost ninety minutes, darting in and out of secluded neighborhoods picking up other kids with similar learning disabilities. Will had a long and very trying day attemting to process all the colors, shapes, smells and sounds, not to mention the strange customs and language. Larissa had written Will's teacher explaining about Beethoven's Ninth and the boy's unadulterated pleasure at being privileged to play. But Jane didn't have access to a portable piano. The only piano the school had was an old honkey-tonk located in the lunch room and Will could only play that at select hours of the day. Larissa did not make it clear to Jane just how imperative Will's piano playing was, and how access to a piano determined the gentleness or violence of his day-to-day behavior. So enthralled and so busy was Larissa with her new place in life, memory of Will's last episode failed her. The commotion caused by the lack of creative outlet astounded. It'd been so long since Will had been without a piano that she almost forgot her boy's destructive reaction.
Larissa and Jane had more than enough time to confer over Will's day-to-day regimen. They simply skipped over the notion that his time left him without time to play. Jane was trying to structure his time so that he wouldn't have time to act out. She wanted to avoid all triggers which might cause poor behavior. And since he wasn't exhibiting those behaviors, there didn't seem to be a problem. Jane didm't notice that Will was becoming more tense - she couldn't measure that. Will grew dissatisfied. The old demons in his chest, shoulders and soul grew.
The bus brought Will home from school yelling and screaming. His racket soon provoked Larissa to grow indignant. She told him to calm down - right now. But the boy could make no sense of her. He grew louder. Her rantings and ravings escalated. For Will to be upset was as natural as the leaves on the trees. Anger and outrage coming from her, though, didn't fit into the puzzle of his life.
When he began tipping over the furniture and knocking things off the bookcases, Larissa tried using a pulled-down curtain rod to corral him into his room. Only he pushed her. She pushed him back. She grabbed his hand, trying to lead him. He wouldn't go. Not without a fight. She tried to overcome his resistance. His arm pulled back. She tried to reach it. He hit her.
She got hold of his wrist; twisted his arm. He spun around, enfolded her in his arms, established control. She bolted. He bit her. Hard. She knocked him down. Tried to run. But he was quick. He tackled her, pulling her to the carpeted floor before the fireplace. She tried to scramble up and out but he pounced on her. Again and again. Flailing at her, he landed one whack after another. She felt her lip crack. Dizziness pulled her into vertigo. A punch in the eye. Instinctively, her fingers touched the skin below the lip. Again, another hit. Raising the finger to eye level, she saw a smear of crimson. Unable to defend her face, his fist came down like a mallot.
He was just too strong. Too angry. He pounded her like a steam hammer. Time after time. Surrender wasn't a conscious decision. All she could do was lay there and take it. She wanted only for him to be her hero. Wanted only for him to show his good natured, lovable side. But he was beating the hell out of her and she couldn't stop it.
Larissa reached out, grabbed the brass fire poker and smashed him across the lower calf. He slowed. Then she cracked him one on the left ankle. A wonder she didn't find his Achilles' tendon. But Will was fast. He rose, gave her a shot in the head, turned and ran into his room. Larissa following, her adrenaline pumped.
In the bedroom Larissa weilded the brass poker. Underhanded, she tapped him in the knees until she had him cornered. The heavy implement kept him in line. She gave him a couple good swats. Stunned, the corner was as far as he could get. He capitulated. His mother had lost control. How could he refuse to do what she wanted?
She couldn't help herself. She wanted a hero for her life! He denied her. Unmerciful, relentless, she laid into him. He refused. Slinking down in the corner, her ruthlessness lacerated. He tried to crawl beneath the bed; got stuck between the bedstead and nightstand. Larissa pumelled. He yelled, cried, wailed and screeched. And she wept.
She wept tears of rage. Each time she swung the brass poker down upon his bloodied legs Larissa bawled louder and louder. Swinging harder and harder till she exhausted. Till she fell unconscious at his feet. Hugging his bloodied pant legs.
Upon coming to, Larissa and her son held to each other like errant lovers.
Recollection was somewhat blurred. Still, there was no denying it. She'd done the unspeakable. Unthinkable. Yet, it was done.
She inched herself up and kissed his fingertips. Inching up even further, she kissed his arms, shoulders, neck and face. Stroking the back of his head, she kissed his cheek. So delirious was her love for him. If only her love was better. More affective. Easier for him to accept…
She knelt on the floor, lifted his torso. Stood, pulled his legs up onto the bed. Straightened him out. Changed his pants, wiping the wounds with a towel, she admired him. Her unwitting hero.
Larissa then stepped into the living room and called Child Protection Services to report the suspicion that Will's teacher, at school, had been physically abusing her boy. She was connected with the executive director. They had a long talk. Larissa was instructed to write down everything which had occurred; the times, places and circumstances. Larissa agreed. The executive ended the call saying that this kind of abuse should not be allowed. Larissa smiled, put her phone down and straightened the living room.
First thing the following day, Jane received a call asking her exactly what had transpired between herself and Will. She was dumbfounded. Charges of abuse leveled from the parent of a developmentally disabled student can spell doom for any teacher.
A Party and Later
a poem
by Corey Mesler
A group of lions came to the party
we held. Our neighbors, the
Grimaldis were the first to leave.
“I’m not staying here with those lions,”
Mr. Grimaldi said. There followed,
desultorily, most of the other guests,
and soon, as you might have imagined,
it was just my wife, myself and the lions.
“This party didn’t turn out so well,”
my wife said, behind her hand. The lions
looked around, sheepishly, taking
the occasional hazel nut from a bowl.
After they had gone, finally, whispering
their goodbyes as if somewhat mortified,
my wife and I made our way to bed.
That night when she reached under
the covers for my always erect pizzle
it was with a new-found ferocity.
I can’t even talk about what we did together.
And the whole next day we avoided each other’s eyes.
Teach Your Children, Teach Your Parents
an editorial
by Echo T. DellaFranzia
Parents want their children to have better versions of the things and experiences that they once enjoyed. For me, this consists of a better education, better job opportunities, a better country in general, and hopefully a much better marriage. So naturally, I stand to inherit a much cleaner war than the one they had to deal with.
I can remember my American History teacher discussing Vietnam almost as well as I remember my parents talking about it. My history teacher was afraid. He protested, he cried, and he wondered if he would be drafted next for a war that was to him immoral.
When he was in college, he heard girlfriends screaming and crying down the hall because their boyfriends had been drafted. Monthly, then weekly, then every few days.
The screaming in the dormitories persisted.
He always told us how lucky we were not to have to worry about nukes being pointed directly at our country every day. He said we were lucky that we could say goodbye to our families each morning without wondering whether we’d see them at the end of the day. I miss that year, 1998. I didn’t have to worry about that type of thing then, and he was right.
Today is very different, though. If I complain about the economy, everyone my parents’ age says I am too lazy to find a job. I voted, and I’m American, so that gives me the right to complain about whatever I want. Furthermore, it is my duty to insist upon change when I see injustice being done in my own country, but when my opinion differs from the majority, I am told to move to Iraq.
I see wistful and forlorn looks appear on my mother’s face when I tell her that I am against this war and the way it is being waged; even though the gunfire hasn’t started and the chemicals haven’t been released, there are thousands of American troops over in the Middle East now. I wonder if she is too brave or too cowardly to tell me that a peaceful protest doesn’t make a difference in the long run of history. Is she saddened by that, which she believes to be fact, or is she saddened because I believe a difference can be made?
So how are our parents doing as parents? How do they see us? I think that many of us really have better opportunities because of our parents and to their credit. And yes, that may make many of us spoiled. However, do we deserve the barrage of insults that our parents’ generation has placed upon us in the media? We are lazy, jobless, anorexic drug users with severe pornography addictions. We are reckless drivers, apathetic voters, and generally ungrateful. And we most definitely spend far too much time on the internet.
Who handed us this economy, the leftover 60’s drugs? Who published the porn, and taught us how to drive and be indifferent to politics despite their former selves? Who invented the internet? No, it wasn’t Al Gore, it was our parents.
In 21 years, I have been taught that: violence is bad despite what I watch on television, people are generally good despite Hitler and Manson, it’s great to have multiculturalism, an eye for an eye isn’t always the best rule, and that it’s great to take obsessive care of the environment.
As I approach my 22nd year, I am now told that: violence is unavoidable when a pre-emptive strike is necessary, anyone can be bad and I should be watching my neighbors for suspicious activity (especially if they are of Arab descent), it’s okay to hurt someone if he tried to hurt my daddy first, and that the only
parts of the earth worth giving a damn about are the parts that contain oil. Then we get to take oil and pollute the environment with it.
Now I understand why Woodstock was being used to advertise Jeeps. Our parents became over 30, and are unable to trust themselves. They’ve sold out sooner than Bob Dylan went electric, and now they hand us the same type of war they protested.
I will not be a screaming girlfriend in a dormitory hall. I will not be told to give up my citizenship because I am doing my duty to disagree, and refusing to blindly follow. I will not be taken over by the disenchanted media-driven image of my generation, I will become the media, and instead disenchant it.
I will dissent, while I still have the right to do so.
Hat Tricks
a poem
by Michael Wiles
I used to do great hat tricks:
A slight of hand,
And a bow to the waiting audience.
I used to be able to disappear into a cloud of smoke,
And it was always better that way,
Since I was so gone that fading into the distance,
Was hardly a trick at all,
And no one even thought to notice after a while.
But then I met this girl,
And everything changed.
For the first time,
My presence really mattered,
And someone was finally seeing me for myself:
Someone was finally there to notice how lost I was,
And to welcome me home,
To her,
Withand loving arms.
I’ve since given up my hat tricks,
My slight of hand,
And my regard for the waiting audience,
Since all I ever really wanted was to live,
And to find her at long last.
Over the Shoulder
a poem
by Dan Lukiv
*resume*
Ground black, coarse, grey, or raw:
Make soap. Make glass.
Make hypertension.
Louis,
Make the French Revolution.
Trade lumps or slabs for gold or grain,
Moors,
Pay the Roman wage for
Flesh-slashing,
The Greek wage for slaves not
Worth it.
Vince spilled some. That
Late Supper. Judas’ upturned
Saltceller,
His doom,
Unhonoured below the grains?
Unhonoured intestines!
Judas the world:
Throw some over your shoulder,
Preserve a few fish.
I Hate You
stream of consciousness
by Marie Sexton
Sometimes you are so heartless I want to scream. You make me feel insignificant, unworthy to know you - or have you spend your precious time with me. You don't think about the effect your actions might have on me. You're selfish. You don't understand the way you make me feel - regretful that I know you, regretful that I love you so deeply that I allow you to torment my every thought. I am regretful that I allow you to get inside my head, to know me so well without knowing me at all. You make me jealous - so jealous that I hate everyone you show any kindness to at all. I hate myself for the anger that I hold inside toward you, and toward the people you give your attention to. I hate the thought that you don't care.I hate that I think about you to no end and yet you don't hold a second thought concerning me. I don't need your approval - I've lived my life thus far just fine without you telling me that I need to do things differently and I'm okay - but I still strive to be the best that I can be for you. I hate you because I value you and you disregard me so easily. I hate you because you inspire such reactions from me. I hate you because I love you.
You Shine
a poem
by Tim Bruderek
You clap like a tambourine,
Like symbols that clang and bang and like a
Horn
Or blowtorch that blows
And like a lantern that glows. You radiate like a
light bulb
But you never want to screw.
Yours truly listens to songs with
No words
No light
And no gestures or written lines. Songs can be like
pages
Of a paperback or sheets pulled from a clipboard.
Your skin is so soft that it can still bruise me. Your
power,
It can pour blue into me.
So go to sleep like a motherless babe with blanket
Over face, or a
Twinkling mobile that is just two hands out of reach,
Or something that crawls across the
Panels of the ceiling.
Leave your wet shoes out by the door.
You’re welcome
To wipe your holey socks on the soiled carpet
And not to trip over the white stones
And the marigolds.
Protect that backdoor
like a Zulu guard with no sword shield or facemask.
Leave the key under the mat.
Let the dog bring in the newspaper
And sweep it beneath your feet,
Slippers in his teeth.
Find me and fine me
A dollar or quarter or half a pound
Or half a pint.
Talk to me through Atlantic Oceans and
Long Island Sounds and throw my girlfriend
At me. Coffee and cigarettes no longer
Exist when fresh air is your morning rush. You silence
me
And strike me
And motion accordingly. Out the door. Into your house.
Into
Two more years of craziness and barefoot on the grass.
We will see if you dip your feet into the blades
Or if they will only cut you.
At This Point
a poem
by Sara V.
This is the point
where I turn around
and there it is.
My life. A period of nothing and yet something
lurks in the background, waiting;
In suspense I wait with abated breath,
as my hopes rush past in a glittering stream
of trails not yet crossed.
A tangible thing, hope, it leads me when everything
else seems unreal.
I find solace in it's arms and gather strength for my
next test, knowing it will be by my side as a trusted companion.
Stowaway
a poem
by without an e
bent at all his angles and tight between his ribs
stretched out feet to touch the edge
of the boxcar he's rattling in
rattling east from Kansas fields and Kansas sins
arms folded underneath his head
the seaboard's days away, the tracks will stop
and trains will make their bovine way through towns
with no way to count their little names or days
not much to do but watch the tracks and lounge
awake, train slows to a grunt and hiss
two men sweep the cars with halogens
to brush out little things like him
shrunk into the boxes in the car
shaking while they walk
salvage cars Curtice
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