Jacqueline Jules is a Northern Virginia author and poet who writes for children and adults. Her books for young readers include the Zapato Power series, the Sofia Martinez series, and Never Say a Mean Word Again. Her poetry has appeared in numerous publications including The Broome Review, Sow's Ear Poetry Review, Christian Science Monitor, OffCourse, Hospital Drive, and Imitation Fruit. She is the author of two chapbooks, Field Trip to the Museum andStronger Than Cleopatra. Visit www.jacquelinejules.com The Greatest Jaws dropped to see a young Black man, one who had grown up in Kentucky, son of a sign painter and a maid, stand in the ring with boxing gloves raised, shouting at the top of his lungs, boasting his own beauty, his own strength, his own speed—his inalienable right to win in a country slowly relenting to serve everyone at the lunch counter. “I am the greatest!” Muhammad Ali told us, over and over, until the echoing words questioned our own timid minds. Could we? Be the greatest, too? Choose conviction over career? Proclaim unpopular faith in public? And could we? In later years, battle infirmity, stand at the Olympic podium still holding our torch proudly, with no apologies. Could we?
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Donal Mahoney, a native of Chicago, lives in St. Louis, Missouri. He has worked as an editor for The Chicago Sun-Times, Loyola University Press and Washington University in St. Louis. His fiction and poetry have appeared in various publications, including The Wisconsin Review, The Kansas Quarterly, The South Carolina Review, The Christian Science Monitor, Commonweal, Guwahatian Magazine (India), The Galway Review (Ireland), Public Republic (Bulgaria), The Osprey Review (Wales), The Istanbul Literary Review (Turkey) and other magazines. Some of his work can be found at http://eyeonlifemag.com/the-poetry-locksmith/donal-mahoney-poet.html#sthash.OSYzpgmQ.dpbs A Gathering of Generations An old man, a poet of the generation of Kerouac, Corso and Ginsburg, is at the lectern tonight in the auditorium of a small college nestled in the Ozarks of Arkansas. Although widely published for many years, both in the United States and abroad, he has never done a reading of his work. He attended a reading once, back in the Fifties. It was held in San Francisco and given by Gregory Corso. All the literati of the day were there, a number of them under the influence of one thing or another. But the reader tonight was so bored he swore he would never do a reading himself. Not one to fraternize with other writers, the poet usually stays home with his African Grey parrots and Scarlet macaws. He writes at an old roll-top desk in what a romantic might call a garret, which he says is just a drafty attic over his old garage, part of an estate he inherited from his parents. He writes, off and on, day and night because he sleeps very little--two hours here, two hours there. He disdains liquor and dope but is a souse when it comes to milkshakes. Tonight his friend of many years, an old professor at a local college, has asked him to read. The professor, almost as old as the poet, assumed the man had read his work often at various venues. The old poet for some reason agreed to do the reading. Maybe the money was attractive, although the honorarium was small. Long ago the poet's four books had been remaindered and now money in any amount helps. Seed for the parrots and macaws adds up. He lives on Social Security and an annuity given to him by his parents long ago because they figured he would never be able to earn a living. They were right. "I can't do a thing other than write verse," he has often admitted. "Maybe a little prose if no poem pops into my mind. Sometimes I find a poem works better as a short story. An editor tipped me off to that not long ago and I make the switch when it's obviously the right thing to do." At the lectern tonight, however, the poet is in his Sunday best--bib overalls and a stovepipe hat set off by a white beard that drops far south of his crotch. He is--as his first and only wife once said--a sight to see but not too often. "I would never have married the man," she said in an article in 1962, "had I any idea of his habits. He can write but that's about it." Many of the students in the audience, almost six decades the poet's junior, have never heard of him nor have they read his work. If they had Googled his name with quotation marks around it, they would probably have been amazed at the number of major journals his poems have appeared in since the Fifties. His work has been published more than a few times with those major writers now remembered as The Beatniks. Most of them are dead now but this man continues to write and publish not only in print but also online. Hundreds of his poems, first published in print years ago, can be found swimming on the web because he sends them out by email when he can't sleep. "Print is in hospice now," he told the professor. "Maybe if I get enough work out on the web, a hundred years from now someone might bump into one of my old poems." The students in the audience are there because the old professor who arranged the reading asked them to attend. Besides there are other professors in the front row the students want to impress. Could be the difference between an A-minus or a B-plus. After being introduced by the professor, the old poet begins to read in a voice laryngitis would enhance. Since the students do not have a copy of his poems in front of them, they can't follow him and they remain unimpressed. Some nod off as the hour wears on. At the end of the reading, the reader says he understands that many students in the audience write poetry and he wants to tell them something someone told him when he was young and new to writing poetry. Clearing his throat, he removes his stovepipe hat, leans into the microphone and says in a loud, clear voice absent during his reading: "A noun is nothing more than a limousine waiting for the right verb to drive it where it needs to go. Without the right verb the noun goes nowhere. "Adjectives and adverbs are dead weight, unnecessary freight, a drag on fuel economy, an impediment to any poem in gestation or out and about as an adult. "Worse, adjectives and adverbs are cyanide ingested to any writer hoping to create art. "The secret, if there is one, is to write the first draft of a poem and then dive back into the text like a surgeon and excise adjectives and adverbs no matter how much you want them to stay there. "Next, replace any impotent verb with one that has muscle, a verb that can move its noun forward until the noun ahead of it is almost forced off the page. "Remember, a poem is not an essay for rhetoric class or a report in a newspaper. A poem is a living thing. The first draft is a fetus no one should abort. You should work on that draft nine months if you have to and then bring it to term." When the old man finished speaking, applause broke out among students and faculty alike. The poet bowed and smiled. And then he moved back from the microphone, put on his stovepipe hat, turned his wheel chair around and rode off the stage. On this night he would have two milkshakes before going home to feed his parrots and macaws. Scott Thomas Outlar hosts the site 17Numa.wordpress.com where links to his published poetry, fiction, essays, interviews, and books can be found. He recently received three Pushcart Prize nominations for his work in 2016. Scott is a member of The Southern Collective Experience. He also serves as an editor for Walking Is Still Honest Press, The Blue Mountain Review, and The Peregrine Muse.
Roaring Remedy The bed where you lie burns with the fire of creation, causing temperatures to rise like the bubbling boil of water poured over leaves of tea that heal the flu of this world with an herbal kiss of honey salvation. The sweetness of your smile is a sacrifice to the gods, taming the rage of a roaring tempest and calming the madness of war with a cure heaven sent through the morning song of birds that chirp our path back to peace. The mirror in your room opens the portal to grace, unlocking the rhythms of fate when the orbs of your eyes pierce beyond the boundaries of time and space to touch the depths of an eternal salvation that sends our future surging toward transcendence. You Open Every Portal There is an emotion that ranges beyond the spectrum of what us mere mortals suffice to refer to as love, but we cannot seem to fully grasp the vastness of its metaphysical meaning because the supernatural power pulses at a higher vibration than the rhythms of our hearts can handle. But you bring the keys to an otherworldly realm when you smile here on earth, and every opportunity I have to stare into your gorgeous eyes allows me to breach the boundaries of this physical life’s limited dimensions. Your voice is the melody that harmonizes with a primal source of salvation, and each note sung from your holy lungs pierces through the fault lines of my flesh to penetrate the core of my soul where sweet honey coats the golden paved roads toward heaven. Stairway to Heaven Your love is like a ladder that reaches down from heaven with honey smeared on every step to tempt me with its taste back to grace and through God’s gates. Your love is like the nectar that mixes with morning dew to cook a feast of sweet salvation, soothing my stomach with the strength to reach the promise of a future paradise. Your love is like a garden where innocence is righteous and no fruit is forbidden when we bite the ripened knowledge; juices that flow like the fountain of youth keep my spirit in tune to the symphony of birds that sing for our hearts. Slaughtered Stars Now that the smoke has cleared from the sky, I can breathe fresh air into these battered lungs that were nearing the point of expiration. Now that the stars have been ripped from my eyes, I can see the prize that still lies ahead on the path stretching forward toward the future. Now that the hope has been wrenched from my heart, I can sense the kiss that karma leaves in its place with promises that all my mistakes are forgiven. Now that the lies have been purged from my mind, I can focus solely on the truth of God’s source while taking each step closer to success. Hollow A particular hint … a strand of time … of space … of sand … a grain of salt … a hearth … a heart … a halo … a pass to heaven … a path of gold … a strain of silver Hollow out the center of my chest and place a kiss … a breath there Ananya S Guha lives in Shillong in North East India. He is currently Regional Director at the Indira Gandhi National Open University. He has been writing poetry and publishing his poems for over thirty years. When Gandhi Crossed Dreams When Gandhi crossed dreams he had just been killed worms crept out from the soil. Blood oozing, holding on to stomach he said: This great country will live for ever in hovels, railway tracks and slums They are my countrymen I will see them through their daily bread the battling women I will rinse of dowry, child marriage the schools I will shade them with sun the street children I will bestow smile the teachers I will give classrooms I will equip the farmer with technology I will wreak vengeance on the strong who have money power but no will I said partition of Bengal would be over my dead body but they have killed me not my dreams. Be you Hindu, Christian, Buddhist, Sikh or Muslim if you keep killing them my body, phoenix like will rise in shambles what will you say then? A ghost,an apparition in this country of warriors, ghosts and the supernatural? The blood still emanating on to my shivering body, I wiped it slowly. Slept. Started dreaming again of Lions and the great Warriors. William Quincy Belle is just a guy. Nobody famous; nobody rich; just some guy who likes to periodically add his two cents worth with the hope, accounting for inflation, that $0.02 is not over-evaluating his contribution. He claims that at the heart of the writing process is some sort of (psychotic) urge to put it down on paper and likes to recite the following which so far he hasn't been able to attribute to anyone: "A writer is an egomaniac with low self-esteem." You will find Mr. Belle's unbridled stream of consciousness here (http://wqebelle.blogspot.ca) or @here (https://twitter.com/wqbelle). Picture: Wikipedia https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/IPhone The G Button Bert pulled away the bubble wrap and looked at the shiny new device, the Shangdi Smartphone IV. It cost more than other models, but consumer reports ranked it favorably in ease-of-use and he didn’t want to waste any time fooling around with technology. Life is too short, and he had far better things to do than become frustrated with the so-called necessities of modern life. He set the device and instruction booklet to one side, gathering up the box, bubble wrap, and bits of debris to put in the recycling bin. After pouring a fresh cup of coffee, he sat down to familiarize himself with his latest purchase. How intuitive was the device? A reviewer had written how most people never read the manual, making it imperative that manufacturers create products that were as foolproof as possible. Looking at the buttons and display, Bert doubted whether the device was as intuitive as it claimed to be. He turned the device around in his hands, noting the power switch, the charger socket, and the volume controls. He looked over the keyboard and saw the standard keys: alpha-numerics, Enter, Delete, and Shift. Frowning, Bert stared at a small key in the upper left-hand corner, marked with a capital G. Removing his glasses, he held the phone right up to his face. To the right of the G were two tiny letters that he could barely distinguish. Blinking twice to clear his vision, he stared at the key. He couldn’t be one hundred percent sure, but the tiny letters seemed to be a lowercase o and d. Setting the device down and putting his glasses back on, Bert picked up the instruction booklet and thumbed to the index. He followed the alphabetical listing to the section headed “G” and skimmed through the entries. Finding nothing, he pursed his lips and shook his head. It had to be an acronym, he thought. Bert pressed the power button. The display showed an hourglass and percentage marker, counting up to one hundred. As he took a sip of coffee, the display lit up with a monochrome wallpaper dotted with icons. A sidebar showed the image of an envelope, a small 1 in the corner. Curious, he touched the screen, over an icon labeled “Mail.” A chronological listing of messages appeared. The single email proclaimed: Welcome to the Khoda Network. Hoping this would give some answers, Bert took another sip of coffee and touched the subject line. A full-screen version of the email came up. Thank you for your purchase of the Shangdi Smartphone IV, and welcome to the Khoda Network. We’re certain you will find your experience with us heavenly. If you should have questions, please feel free to use the G button in the upper–left-hand corner of your keyboard. You will be immediately connected to a support representative who will do their best to ensure quality service. Rubbing his chin, Bert scrunched up his face and stared up at the ceiling. If it was an acronym, what did it stand for? Glory or Death? Gold, Oil, and Drugs? Wasn’t there a sci-fi comic book featuring a Galactic Obliteration Device? Should he press it and see what happened? Closing the message, Bert exited his inbox. He tapped the clock icon, examining the various options. It took a moment, but he managed to set the alarm for 7 a.m., his usual time. He glanced again at the G button. The options menu suggested various alarm tones, so he systematically tried each one. The first choice, “siren,” was particularly loud and made Bert jump. He lowered the volume, thinking he simply wanted to be woken up, not scared to death. After several tries, he chose one labeled “traditional,” the ringing bell of an old-fashioned alarm clock. His glance slipped past the G button. Bert opened the instruction booklet, combing first through the G section in the index before looking under K. In the chapter discussing the features of the keyboard, he found much information about typing, using the support keys, and discovered supplemental uses for the Enter key. Other than the email he had received, there was no other mention of the special key. Deciding to explore the other features of the phone, Bert picked up the device, his gaze immediately flicking to the G. He inspected each of the icons on the display, but came back to the mysterious button. Lifting a finger, Bert held it over the button. He dropped his hand on the arm of the chair, tapping his finger. What to do? What to do? Taking a deep breath, he pressed the button and held the phone up to his ear. There was the sound of a phone ringing. One ring, two. There was a click on the other end of the line and a male voice said, “Jesus H. Christ.” Bert took the phone away from his ear, looking at it in disbelief. Making a face, he put it back to his ear. “Hello?” “How may I be of assistance?” “Who is this?” “You phoned me.” Bert frowned. “What?” “Listen, I haven’t got all day. There are a zillion people waiting. My phone’s lit up like a Christmas tree, and I’ve got to get busy answering questions, listening to prayers, and delivering a miracle or two.” “Seriously, who is this?” Bert felt a little annoyed, as though somebody was pulling an elaborate hoax. “Did you press the G key?” “Well, yes.” “And so, here you are; connected to the great beyond. Okay, the above and beyond.” Bert glanced around the room, puzzled. “What’s going on? Is this some sort of prank?” “Nope. It’s the real deal.” “Who is this?” “I told you. Jesus H. Christ.” “H?” “Hallowed. Although for some it’s Harold. Those biology nerds cleverly say ‘haploid’.” “Hap— what?” “Haploid, one set of chromosomes; as opposed to diploid, two sets. It’s a joke about the virgin birth. Nevertheless, let’s not be formal. Just call me Jesus.” Bert took the phone away from his ear again and looked at the device. “This is stupid,” he said aloud. He pressed the red button marked “End Call.” Turning his attention to the calendar application, Bert set about learning how to record his appointments. The phone rang, a message appearing on the status line: Press green to answer. Obediently, he pressed the green button and put the phone up to his ear. “Hello?” “Why’d ya hang up?” Bert rubbed his chin. “What’s going on? Who are you?” “I told you, Jesus Christ. Mr. Christ to you. And you are ...?” “Okay, wise guy. Shouldn’t you already know that?” “Of course I do, Bert. I was only being polite. I am omniscient and all that.” Bert scrunched up his face. “This is a joke.” “It’s as much of a joke as you make it.” “Do you have any idea of what’s going through my mind right now?” “Hey. I said I’m omniscient, not a mind-reader.” “Listen, I’m going to lodge a complaint with Shangdi or Khoda.” Bert sat upright, anger spurring him on. “I have no idea what’s going on, but this can’t be sanctioned by the phone network.” “Tch, tch. Is your middle name Tommy?” “Listen, smartass —” There was a deafening clap of thunder. The house seemed to shake, and windows rattled in their panes. Bert jumped up to scan the sky. In every direction, he only saw blue. There wasn’t a cloud in sight. He brought the phone back to his ear. “Hello? Hello?” Looking back out the window, Bert surveyed the sky and found it clear as before. His brow creased, he returned to the kitchen chair. Bert scratched his head. This is crazy, he thought. Distracted, he tried to peruse the instruction booklet, but kept picking up the phone. He pressed the button. After two rings, he heard the male voice: “Press 1 for God. Press 2 for Jesus Christ. Press 3 for the Holy Ghost. Hang up or stay on the line to leave a message at the sound of the tone.” The male cleared his throat and in a raised pitch said, “Beep!” Bert sat frozen, his mind racing to make sense of this seemingly nonsensical exchange. “Aw, I’m just messin’ with ya now,” the voice said. “Is God some sort of stand-up comedian?” “Hey. Who do you think invented comedy? Robin Williams? I just do it on a grander scale. I split a gut every time I see scientists trying to figure out how a photon can be a particle and act like a wave at the same time. That’s hilarious. One of my best.” “So, I’m speaking with option number two?” “The Trinity is really one and the same thing. H2O can be ice, water, or steam, but it’s still the same substance.” “Did you cause that thunderclap just now?” “Did you call me a smartass? Watch your mouth, buddy, or I’ll smite you. Or send a plague of locusts or infect you with festering boils. I’m supposed to be omnibenevolent, but let’s not forget that punishment is for your own good.” “Can you prove you’re God? Can you do a miracle?” The voice sighed. “Your politicians stand up and make all sorts of ludicrous statements about this, that, and the other thing: the economy, foreign affairs, or global warming. It’s obvious they can’t possibly know what they’re talking about, but the bunch of you take this hook, line, and sinker as if it’s the gospel truth.” There was a pause. “The gospel truth. Hmmm, there’s a joke in there somewhere.” Bert clicked his tongue, impatient. “How about that miracle?” “What do you want, the loaf and fish thing? Water into wine?” Bert rolled his eyes. “This is ridic—” Just then the doorbell rang. Who could that be? Ignoring the hack on the other end of the line, Bert put down the phone and opened the front door. “Large pepperoni pizza with mushrooms and green olives.” A teenage boy, wearing a baseball cap bearing the logo of Pizza Most, held out a large cardboard box. “Listen, I’m sorry. I got lost trying to find your place. Technically, anything over thirty minutes is supposed to be free, but if you could see your way clear to paying me, I won’t get into trouble. Forget the tip. My fault.” Bert could smell the appetizing aroma of hot food. His mouth watered. Glancing curiously at his new phone, he pulled some bills out of his pocket and offered the boy a twenty. “Gee, mister, thanks!” He handed Bert the box, snatching the bill and running back to his car. Bert opened his mouth to protest but hesitated. He shrugged and watched the boy drive off. After shutting the door, he gave in to his hunger, picking up a slice of pizza and taking a big bite. The phone rang. Bert took a tissue from a side table, wiping his hands. “Hello?” “You paid him? Oh, for cryin’ out loud! He was over thirty minutes. It was supposed to be free. Where’s the miracle now?” “It was just a kid. He’ll get dinged for the amount if he fails to collect. I don’t think that’s fair.” “Fair? Heck, is life fair?” “Maybe not, but that doesn’t mean I have to contribute to it being so.” “Aren’t you a nice guy.” “I like to think so. But wait. You’d have me stiff a kid? What happened to the benevolent God?” “Do unto others and all that. You look to me for benevolence when you should be looking to yourself.” “I thought you were all-powerful.” “My omnipotence isn’t the issue. It’s a question of belief. If you believe, I can do anything. In fact, I’m so powerful, I don’t even have to exist to save you.” Bert stopped eating and blinked several times, trying to process this latest statement. He wiped his mouth with another tissue. “What’s the matter? Pizza got your tongue?” “What is it that you want?” “What do I want? You contacted me. What do you want? Let’s not forget that at the end of the day, it’s all about you. I’m omnipotent and I’ve got the whole universe to play around in. You’ve just got the little ol’ third rock from the sun. You’re the one with the short end of the stick. You’re the one who keeps praying for something better. You’re the one who keeps contacting me for help. What do I want? I want you to get off your duff and do something! I want you to take charge of your destiny. Stop praying and start doing. Divine defecation, do you people procrastinate! You love to follow the adage, ‘Why put off to tomorrow what you can do the day after?’” Bert reached for another piece of pizza, fumbling the phone. It flipped out of his hand and fell to the floor. “Jesus!” Pushing the pizza box aside, he jumped out of the chair to retrieve his phone. Hoping nothing broke, he turned it around in his hands but there was no visible damage. “Whew!” He pressed it against his ear. “Hello? Hello?” There was no answer. Looking down at the display, Bert saw nothing out of the ordinary. He pressed the G button, speaking into the device. “Hello? Hello?” Nothing but a dial tone. Holding the device in front of him, Bert pressed the G button several times in vain. Had the phone actually been damaged, perhaps internally, from the fall? The sidebar again showed the image of an envelope, a small numeral one in the corner. There was new mail. Pressing the icon, Bert opened his inbox. He found a single email labeled: Khoda Network: Service Announcement. He touched the line, and the email opened full-screen. Dear Customer, We regret to announce a temporary interruption of our Digital Orientation Guide. The G button may be defective, and we are offering a replacement at no charge. How to tell if your phone is defective: the G button, or Guide button, is supposed to be labeled with a lowercase d and o before the uppercase G. It has come to our attention that on some models this is reversed. It’s been reported these buttons are connecting people to a malfunctioning guide service. We apologize for any inconvenience. Yours sincerely, the Khoda Network. END The above story was taken from the following collection of twelve short stories.
Amazon: $3.99 USD Kindle, $7.99 USD paperback https://www.amazon.com/dp/B01N0SR8A2 Doriana Mercado has a 10-year career in Hospitality Sales and Marketing. Most recently, she decided to continue her high-level education at Full Sail University, where she plans to use her dedicated work ethic to build upon her passion for creative writing. Her love for movies, theatre, and books keep her inspired to tell unique stories. She hopes to share her work with the world and leave her literary footprint. Doriana resides in Orlando, Florida with her supportive parents and her 6-year-old Yorkshire terrier, Roscoe Jenkins. Coolest dog in the zip code. Jenkins Apartment 212. Cold. Four walls and a 12-inch television set spouting out endless useless commercials of holiday feasts and favor. What do I know about holiday feasts? I haven’t had a solid meal in days. I don’t even think I’ve left the couch in days. It’s just become so hard to understand the point of it all. My only family was Jenkins, my dog. A 9 pound Yorkshire Terrier who had a 10 feet tall personality. He made getting up in the morning worthwhile. He needed me. Often jumping onto my chest to wake me up each morning. His grey and golden hair would brush my face as he licked my eyeballs to wake up for his morning walk. Which was okay. He enjoyed spending time with me, which was more than I could say for my father when he was alive. Jenkins and I would take long walks around the neighborhood as he barked at anyone who came near me. Some people may think that was rude, but I felt like he was the one living thing that truly protected me. Loved me. After 10 years of Jenkins by my side, my best friend’s growls and cries were silenced. His boisterous energy taken away from him as the cancer spread through his tiny little body. I failed him somehow. I had one job to give him the best life and after only 10 years, I failed him. I should have figured out a way. Cancer took my grandparents, my parents and now my best friend. When would it take me? I wish it would. Just a week ago today I was left with only his toys to surround me and memories to comfort me. A raggedy old pillow where Jenkins fell asleep each night still lay on the floor next to me. I haven’t left this old blue couch. Sometimes I can still feel him running around this apartment. Sometimes I pretend he’s still here. It’s just empty without him. Tonight I hear the kid upstairs jumping up and down. Maybe they got a dog? I hope they got a dog. Dogs are the best. They listen to you, they hear you, they comfort you. I need some comforting. Flipping through the channels searching for something to fill this gaping hole I pop open another warm piss beer to go with my ice cold heart. What if I ended my life right here, right now? Would I be greeted with family on the other side? Jenkins on the other side? My Catholic background tells me I wouldn’t. However, I haven’t been to church in so long, maybe those rules don’t apply anymore. I’m just expediting the process anyway. The evitable demon that we all suffer hugs me like a sweater even as Christmas carols are sung to try and make you forget how lonely life is. I know better. Santa Claus can’t save me neither can Jesus. I rolled off the couch for the first time in days. Making my way to the kitchen in effort to find some source to end this guilt and emptiness. On the fridge was a picture of Jenkins. Smiling with his tongue curled with excitement. Reminding me of a time when I was happy. That was a good day. That particular day we went to the dog park. He ran and ran and ran some more. Free. I met a girl that day. She was kind and pretty in a different kind of way. Short. Long wavy blonde hair with the prettiest brown eyes I have ever seen. I can’t really explain it. She just felt like someone I could get to know and looked like someone I wanted to know. Jenkins jumped into her lap and licked her face a dozen times. Her laugh was infectious. I couldn’t believe it. He never jumped on strangers. Her name was Julia. I remember because she placed her phone number in my phone. Asked me to call her. I never did. How lucky I am to have had this little dude as a companion and wingman. What would he want me to do? Why does he matter so much? It’s a dog. He was my dog, the best dog. Before me was a bottle of hydrocodone that I had been stocking up since my knee surgery this past summer. I could end it now. Holding the bottle of pills in my hand, I took another look at that photo. Jenkins smile, his golden hair blowing in the wind. Happiness. I wanted happiness. I don’t want to die. I want happiness. It hit me. Jenkins. Julia. He wanted me to meet her. She wanted me to call and I never did. Could this be a chance at happiness? What if I missed out? What if she forgot about me? I could feel Jenkins pouncing with approval. I dusted my phone off from Cheetos debris and searched for her name in my contacts. I called… she picked up. “Hello?” Angel Edwards from Vancouver BC is a member of SOCAN, BMI and VMA and she owns a small music publishing company.She currently performs as a solo acoustic electric singer songwriter guitarist. Her poems are included in two international poetry anthologies "Mind Paintings" and "Between Earth and Sky" from Silver Bow Publishing and her poetry and stories have been published in dozens of literary magazines in several countries. Her poem "Morning Flight" was published in The Long Islander Newspaper in "Walt's Corner" April 23 2015. http://www.reverbnation.com/AngelEdwards https://itunes.apple.com/ca/artist/angel-edwards/id282564414 https://thegalwayreview.com/2016/05/02/angel-edwards-at-the-edge-of-paradise/ Angel is preparing her first poetry, short stories book. Purple lining Moody skies stormy navy blue thickening clouding Purple lining cloaking ivory moon glowing Awaiting the long dawn embracing The evening Rick Edelstein was born and ill-bred on the streets of the Bronx. His initial writing was stage plays off-Broadway in NYC. When he moved to the golden marshmallow (Hollywood) he cut his teeth writing and directing multi-TV episodes of “Starsky & Hutch,” “Charlie’s Angels,” “Chicago,” “Alfred Hitchcock,” et al. He also wrote screenplays, including one with Richard Pryor, “The M’Butu Affair” and a book for a London musical, “Fernando’s Folly.” His latest evolution has been prose with many published short stories and novellas, including, “Bodega,” “Manchester Arms,” “America Speaks,” “Women Go on,” “This is Only Dangerous,” “Aggressive Ignorance,” “Buy the Noise,” and “The Morning After the Night.” He writes every day as he is imbued with the Judeo-Christian ethic, “A man has to earn his day.” Writing atones. Daddy’s Daughter Hi, Mom, how are you doing? I parked my car in the driveway I hope I’m not blocking you or dad but I came by because I want to talk to you about something that is... Shhh...wait wait...here it comes...six, five, four, three...ahhhh...it hits. Ahhhh...twenty-two minutes and thirty eight seconds. What is twenty minutes? Two, twenty two and thirty eight seconds. It takes that long for the pills to be effective. How many pain-pills did you take? Not pain-pills, darling, pain assuagements as the dark forces hide in the ebony crevices of my being awaiting an opening to inflict their demonic surges which is their mission apparently. How many, mother? Two. Two how often? You are positing picayune queries which are hardly applicable to a situation evoking...what did you say? How many and how often did the doctor say? Ah yes, Dr. Franke said one every four hours but she doesn’t experience the discomfort, that’s the elusive perfusive word she used in her inflexible rigid intransigence but negating the cognizance of excruciating searing life-challenging pain. How many, how often? Two every two hours which is a blessing undisguised and a blatant necessity irregardless of Dr. Franke’s...did you know there is no such word as irregardless? If Dr. Franke said that you should... I wonder about women doctors. I would have preferred Dr. Eckstein, a man, on vacation. Since when is it appropriatable for a healer to go on vacation. It’s a vocational violation of the hypocritical oath. You know where Eckstein went? Mom I wanted to talk to you about something personal but now, well, I’m not sure you’re up to it so...maybe later. Africa. The land of extremities and extinction. Are you talking about elephants? Giraffes. Here. What are you typing? Giraffes...look...those beautiful animals. You see them run in their awkward hobble as if they are choreographed by Mia Michaels. Don’t you just adore that show? You talking about So You Think You Can Dance? See their gentle mouths nibbling flowers, I could kiss them. Oh God! Pain hit? I thought the pills were... Not physical pain. Don’t you children understand the grossest most effusive effective deflective pain is...oh God, Giraffes are going extinct god damn it! Ahhh, the absence of pain is a demonstrable palpable gift. Well, okay, I get that it’s been rough morning, so I’ll... Pain was off the charts. Off the charts... What are you typing now? Googling: Ah, Off the Charts: Extraordinarily out of the norm; beyond expectation; top of the line. There you go, my pain was beyond expectation and now the relief is top of the line. Google and I are so near, dear, one could say endearing but don’t tell your father as we might be declared illegal. That was humor. Even a survivor has humor. In fact that is the saving gracefulness of surviving. Humor. Ask the Jews in Auschwitz. Why did Hitler kill himself? He saw the gas bill. Ugh, Mom I don’t think that’s all... Want to hear another? I’m not sure. The read brick wall was the color of a brick-red crayon. What’s the punch line? The Apostles were Jewish by birth. Mother, please, your brain is getting fried from these opioids so either...why are you waving at me? I wasn’t waving I was just...oh Hannah, sometimes I do forget. Sometimes my mind goes on pause, what do you think? I think that you should take the doctor’s advice, one every four hours rather than two every two hours which might be excessive, don’t you think? No I do not think. How can you say that behind the deficient awareness and ebbing knowledge of such pain that could drive a submissive rejecter of a tangentially person mad. Almost as bad as when I gave birth. No one tells expectant mothers about the excruciating pain while giving birth. If I knew then what I know now I never would have gotten pregnant. Somehow that’s not very assuring. And particularly now. Now what, mother? You’re not paying sufficient attention. To bring a child into a world absent of Giraffes is the height of insouciance. I’m not sure that word is... God damn it, how can anyone choose to live in a world without Giraffes! Well, for most of us, there is no choice. Oh, you’re here Hannah. You said something about blocking the driveway I think. Yes, in case you wanted to drive but I don’t think you’re in any kind of state to drive. Wrong again. I have a license to drive in this state. That’s not what I meant. Oh why don’t children of your generation say what they mean instead of elucidating around. It’s such a distractioning dominatrix way to translate the existential essential clarity of communication which is too often oblique, discursive and inconvasive to say the least. To say the most you come to see your mother and all you talk about is driveways never asking your mother how she feels! That’s the first thing I said, how are you doing, Mom, when I came in, how are you doing I distinctly asked. Doing is not being. Doing is not feeling. How do I feel was never asked. All right, how do you feel, Mother? Right now? A good a time as any. Right now I feel...I think you should go downstairs and visit Daddy...right now I feel, ...ahhhh, I’m going to close my eyes right this moment of now and float into the enigma of rewarding entropy of pleasantness. That’s better. Shhhhh.... Ah, Hannah, just in time. Listen to this: I’m far from birth closer to death, putting on my socks I’m out of breath. Dad, I got a problem. Okay, yes, it’s just a first draft with much more to come but in time I may just compete with rappers of your generation. What do you think? I got a problem, Dad. You don’t like it, huh? Okay, I respect your opinion but... No, my problem has nothing to do with your inane rhymes. Inane. My daughter’s going for the jugular. Hello! Hear me oh father of mine. Your daughter has a problem. A personal problem. Oh, sorry, I thought you were referring to my “inane rhymes.” So, you have a problem. Good. Good? What are you talking about? A problem has a solution whereas an issue is embedded in the path of your life as a stepping stone or an obstacle to which you have to adjust, accept, or... Stop, Dad, stop. I am not in your philosophy class. Forgive me, Hannah. It’s just that I have a full day with grading essays, a meeting with the dean which may be good news as I expect to be granted tenure even as we speak...or not which would be a grotesque disappointment so forgive me if I seem distracted. Distraction shmistraction, are you not interested in the problem that Daddy’s daughter is dealing with? A problem, yes, not a fucking issue, a major fucking problem. When reason goes out the window vulgarity enters. Your mind obviously does not integrate any information which does not fit into your conditioned comfort zones so I’ll leave you alone. No, no, please Hannah, forgive me. I’m just...on top of all that I had a...what is the word...disappointment, disillusionment, hurt, yes that’s the word, hurt from your mother. After all these years, I asked her, are you still in love with me? You know what she said? How would I know? That was rhetorical. In love with you, she said. After all these years I am more in habit with you. Ouch. Exactly. Lately Mom goes in and out of clarity. She misuses words and loses a train of thought so I wouldn’t take what she said as literal. No, your mother was coherent, unfortunately. But don’t you think she sort of over-indulges in popping her pain relievers which may cause... Your mother has had two back operations, a concussion from falling, she deserves relief. Even if it begins to distort reality? Rarely. I still think she should be monitored in use of opioids. No. Just plain no? Your mother was a major linguist, a respected professor. Now she is a wounded woman who must be cared for. If those opioids stultify the pain, I’m for it. And her mind? Occasional forays but most-times lucid, intelligent and rationally dealing with her infirmities. She’s not hurting anyone, Hannah, so let it be. Your wife, your call, Daddy. You said you had something personal to share. Okay, yes, is this a good time, or is there ever actually a good time to hear about your daughter’s problem? You’re being melodramatic. Yes, of course, what’s the problem and can I be of help? I’m pregnant. My God, how did that happen? A man puts his penis in... Don’t be snide. It’s not an attractive aspect for someone so... You’re grading me again, dear God, give this daughter a break! And give this father some reason as I am sure you know about the pill, contraception, condoms, how in the hell did you get pregnant? A moment of impulse, I guess I was too lonely and now I’m too late. How far gone...how long? Seven weeks now. Well, that is a problem. Does the man know? Do you know who he is? Don’t be insulting. Yes, I know who the man is and no I did not and will not tell him. My problem, my decision. Are you going to abort? Still cogitating on it. You’re what, a sophomore at the University, planning to go on for your Masters and then perhaps even your doctorate. We discussed this and I happily agreed to support you in... Most of the fees are covered by scholarship thanks to your daughter who is smart enough to get great grades in the University but not in life, baddabump! Have you told your mother? I intended to but...Mom is...she’s made complaining into an art form. I know this is redundant, Dad, but when she is pain-free that’s because she is deep into an oddly detached relief from a gang of opioids, saying words that are inappropriate or just outright confusing. That’s unfair. We’ve been through it, Hannah, you know she has been dealing with severe pain since... Dad, come on, it’s like a secret whispered in the stall of the girl’s bathroom. Mom, your wife, is addicted. I’m grateful that she gets relief from the punishing agony. And regardless, she’s still there for you. You’re her first born, her daughter for God’s sakes. She loves you more than life. Consult with Mom. Right now, though, I need my father’s counsel. What do you think I should do? You’re an adult. Your decision. Do you plan to abort? Think I should? A child now, at the apex of your education, not married and apparently not involving the father... Don’t call him that. It was just a mad indulgence with I won’t tell you with whom but certainly not intended to be a father. What should I do? A child at this time would be a major inconvenience. Whew...a human being categorized as an inconvenience. You have a way with words. Why are you trying to hurt me? You asked my opinion, I gave it and I am here for you, Hannah, so cut your dear ‘ole dad some slack and you tell me, what do you want to do, and I will support your decision. The world’s in a mess, isn’t it. I assume that’s metaphorical but yes and I’ll spare you the details. No, please, detail away. You’re being snide again, aren’t you. I mean it, I just want to hear words, something, anything that’ll help...or maybe hinder...if you think I’m confused, you are accurate. Come on dad, tell me why this world is so fucked asked this potential mother. Okay, I’ll indulge you. Let’s see, okay, today’s reality, some cities in China and Indonesia, citizens are encouraged to stay indoors because breathing the soiled air is hazardous to your health. We’re living in the age of stupid where people wave off extinction on the altar of revenue. Enough? Nailed it. Thanks. Maybe the world’s not ready for another child. I wonder. Can I ask you a question? You know you can. And please, Dad, answer me honestly, even not considering my condition. Okay? Okay. When does life start? Whew, that’s a high hard one. High hard...? When I used to play baseball, before you were even born, I was pretty good, too, but I couldn’t hit the high hard ones. Your question is a high hard one. Hit it, Dad, when does life start? If you’re a scientist or an ultra religious conservative, when the egg is fertilized by the sperm. And if you’re just a regular human being? Some say when it takes its first breath. Genesis 2:7 is clearest. The first human became a living being, nefesh hayah, a living breath, when God blew into its nostrils and it started to breathe. Others say when the woman feels the first kick of the baby. It’s complicated. And if I do decide before the first kick... I’ll drive you to the hospital and then home. You understand, Dad, that an abortion, I mean almost eight weeks old, is killing a living being. It is not a...not a child yet. Your first priority must be you, Hannah. How does this impact on your life? Can we do an evil act to get good results? Now who sounds like they’re in my philosophy class. Please, darling, I know this is a difficult time but you must make a decision...particularly at this early stage of pregnancy because... What do you think of Uncle George? Excuse me? Uncle George. Your brother. Talk about a non sequitur, where’d that come from? I lost my key and he was very helpful. Good. You didn’t answer my question. What do you think of your brother? Okay, I’ll play although I don’t know the rules of the game. George is twelve years younger than me. Not only chronologically but his generation is, well, culturally, dress, hair style, tattoo even, he’s my brother but we have little in common, he’s into Real Estate I’m into Academia. You’re renting an apartment in one of his buildings, right? Yes, like I said he opened my door with his master key and made a spare for me. He was very helpful. We rarely spend time with each other so when you see him, thank my brother for taking care of my daughter. No, I won’t do that. Good so...what did you say? I won’t thank my Uncle George for taking care of Daddy’s daughter. What does that mean? There’s some awkward subtext going on that I dread and want to ignore. Talk to me, damn it!. His tattoo is a panther. A panther. On his lower back. Hannah, what the fuck is going on...yes, I’m into obscenity with a fear of not wanting to know but having to...tell me, Hannah, what!? Uncle George and your daughter had sex, ergo, pregnancy. That son of a bitch...I’ll... Where are you going? To get the phone. First call him and then maybe the police. Stop...Stop damnit...you’re going to call the police because your adult daughter had sex? Because that bastard obviously raped my daughter and... No...stop, dad, it was not rape. Not. N – O – T rape. Consensual. In fact I may have been the one to instigate although I’m not sure. He came up with the key and I was wearing short shorts. He couldn’t miss it and like any man he complemented me on my butt which I mocked a shy thank you and even wiggled my butt as we both laughed knowing what we’re laughing about and... Enough God damn it, Enough! I don’t know what to do with this. Here he goes again. He doesn’t know what to do with this...as if it’s all about him. Enough mean spirited cracks about your father. Obviously you must abort. Must I? The chances of having a normal baby with my brother’s genes are... I Googled it. More nieces had sex with their dirty uncles than you might think. And one I read about, in England, has two normal babies while the Uncle is in jail because she was underage and... Stop, Hannah, just stop. Please. You can not have this child. I know and yet... There is no room for yet. Make an appointment. I’ll drive you to the hospital. Dad, the truth is...we like each other. We really do. You’re talking about your father’s brother, god damn it! I’ll think about it and come to a decision. There is only one decision. I know. But I’m just not ready to make it. The longer you delay the more... I don’t know, Dad. I know it’s not...what, sensible, reasonable, all those rational, cogent words, everything points to the ride to the hospital but...oh God, Daddy, there is a very real part of me that would like to feel the baby’s first kick. Daginne Aignend is a pseudonym for the Dutch poetess Inge Wesdijk. She likes hard rock music, photography and fantasy books. She is a vegetarian and spends a lot of time with her animals. Daginne started to write English poetry four years ago and posted some of her poems on her Facebook page and on her website. She has been published in some online Poetry Review Magazines with a pending publication at the Contemporary Poet's Group anthology 'Dandelion in a Vase of Roses'. Yesterday's news Apathetically watching the news Numbed by all the violence and misery in the world Conditioned dismay, a replica of yesterday's items 'Heath Ledger died today at the age of 28 years' Shocked, devastated My Heath left this earthly mire His impersonation of the homosexual cowboy in Brokeback mountain broke all my boundaries I never saw such a rough and still tender love before Someone who can touch others that deep by playing sentiments needs to be idolized I mourned, saw his movies and left it all behind Yesterday's news Ken Allan Dronsfield is a Published Poet and Author originally from New Hampshire, now residing in Oklahoma. He enjoys the outdoors, playing guitar and spending time with his cats Merlin and Willa. He is the Co-Editor of the new Poetry Anthology titled, "Moonlight Dreamers of Yellow Haze" available at Amazon.com. His published work can be found in Journals, Magazines and Blogs throughout the Web including: Indiana Voice Journal, Belle Reve Journal, Scarlet Leaf Review, Peeking Cat Magazine, Dead Snakes, Bewildering Stories and many others. Miscreants of a Flickering Glorification Night shows no mercy upon those of the Light. Walk the dark line as a shadow Moon whispers. The aura shines brighter on this brisk winter's night, feel a trite of the stinging cold. The Raven spreads his wings while soaring to a warmer sky. A black line engulfs meeklings as shadows grasp at burning. Smoldering crosses hang in ice belief makes room for hypocrisy diabolical sees pious sufferance. Night shan't show mercy upon a flickering glorification of holy light. |
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