​Lois Greene Stone, writer and poet, has been syndicated worldwide. Poetry and personal essays have been included in hard & softcover book anthologies.  Collections of her personal items/ photos/ memorabilia are in major museums including twelve different divisions of The Smithsonian.  The Smithsonian selected her photo to represent all teens from a specific decade.

​An envelope with a two-cent stamp didn’t look discolored or even old, yet the post-office cancelled date said 1927.  Why did someone who lived in The Bronx have to write, longhand with a liquid-ink pen, to a person in Brooklyn? 
            Phone calls, put through by a live operator, were expensive.  Many people often didn’t have telephones.  Sounds like something from an elementary school history book, and not possibly anyone alive could know if this were accurate. 
            A nineteen year old Bronx boy had fallen in love with a girl from Brooklyn.  In perfect penmanship, he began his letter first with his return address on Kelly Street, and began “To my own Dear Marion,” He tells her of his love.  He’s also perceptive about her handling office situations where her good nature might cause one to take advantage, and he suggests she confide in him.  “I want you to come to me with anything that may trouble you.”  With perfect grammar, but a conversational tone, the letter continues for three pages.
            The writer was my father; he and my mother wed in 1930.  I’m unsure how to explain to my grandchildren, or even children, about phones, certainly no tv, no air conditioning, few buildings with elevators, not many apartments with private baths, putting coins into a meter to heat a room.  My own offspring remember that I waited until after 11pm to call my mother, long distance, as the rates went down after that hour, but they’ve no recollection about our tv set, only black and white until about 1970, was perched on a metal stand. 
            As I held the letter trying to imagine my own parents at age nineteen, a smile came as I’ve tangible proof of much simply because there were few phones and too much cost to even use one.  A subway ride divided them, but the distance was as short as expressing feelings via pen, paper, and postage.
             "How to Use the Dial Telephone" (1927) (The Museum of Public Record)  informed people how to place calls themselves without depending upon telephone operators. Phone numbers back then were just four digits, instead of ten. But the public still had to be instructed how to, literally, remove the receiver, wait for a "tone" then dial the numbers.
            “...when Bell first showed off his telephone, many people argued that we didn’t actually need such a device. Why would you want to hear someone’s voice when you could just send them a telegram instead?” (The History of the Telephone) “Candlestick phones were popularized throughout the 1890s to the 1930s. The candlestick phone was separated into two pieces: a mouthpiece that stood upright (“the candlestick”) and a receiver, which was placed in your ear when you were placing a phone call.”
            Telegrams were costly; while 2-cents for postage on a letter was not considered inexpensive, it certainly was less than a telegram!  A phone?  A luxury. What did a nineteen year old, whose father died at age forty-one without life insurance, and who watched his widow-mother figure out and raise and educate five surviving children, know about luxury.
            I was tethered to a heavy black phone and monopolized it during my teen years; I didn’t know about paying bills.  Calls to my fiancé, twelve hundred miles away in med school, were made person-to-person since his dorm (as mine had been) had only one telephone in the lobby area and he had to be summoned via intercom from several flights of stairs. I was in grad school and my mother was paying, although I only later wondered how she, a widow when my dad died at age 45, managed.  Because of distance, and phone expense, we corresponded with ink and paper.  Our lives, frustrations, yearnings were penned, and, sometimes, I’d spend extra money on an air-mail stamp else the transportation was by rail and took longer. I also used thinner stationery lessening the postage-weight.
            I understand my parents’ 1927 process.  It could not be explained well today.  Just the sentence from telephone’s history “Why would you want to hear someone’s voice when you could just send them a telegram instead?” even makes me grin as I use Face Time,  Skype, WhatsApp with out-of-town family.  I want the sound of voices, and to see a great-grandchild ride a tricycle for the first time; I want my smartphone to record as-it-happens events I can no longer attend.  For me, today is incredible.... yet.... it is incredible for me to read my dad’s handwritten letters while in his teens and glance at the boy who, as a man, retained the same values and philosophy. 
 
 

​Lois Greene Stone, writer and poet, has been syndicated worldwide. Poetry and personal essays have been included in hard & softcover book anthologies.  Collections of her personal items/ photos/ memorabilia are in major museums including twelve different divisions of The Smithsonian.  The Smithsonian selected her photo to represent all teens from a specific decade.

​            Just when I assumed definitions had changed about as much as possible for 2019, and Scrabble added new words forcing serious players to update their books, the tech teams took language to another stage.  I’ve taught English to both high school students, and college ones.  Though subject matter, and expectations in writing, differed for the age groups, basic skills were, well, just basic.
            Basic.  Once, in the ‘80's, it was a computer program.  Who’d know that now?  I grew up with a basic, (different meaning) watch-face; no one said ‘analog’, it was a dial.  An alarm clock had a pin to pull out to set it to signal, and no how-to-use manual was necessary to turn it on or off.  My radio had tubes that heated for a bit before sound came through; no surround-sound, just broadcast.  No, it wasn’t simple to look up a word as one had to know how to spell it first, and dictionaries were really heavy.  How, I told my mother, am I supposed to look up the spelling of pneumonia when it’s pronounced newmoanya and won’t be there!  That was confusing!
            Integral Algebra was complicated.  Puberty’s emotional see-saw changes were confusing.  Mixed-messages from family about what was correct behavior in society also seemed ‘mixed’ as how was I to enjoy intelligence but not let people know I was smart, for example. 
            Daily life became less heavy-lifting as luggage donned wheels, stick-shift cars became automatic transmission, garage doors went up and down by pressing a button, dishwashers concealed soiled dinnerware and cleaned them when we were ready to have that engaged.  Microwaves heated by magic, and refrigerators no longer had frost build up.  Whole house air-conditioning, telephones free from being secured to a wall, heavy 78rpm records going to LP’s then CD’s and ultimately to i-pods seemed wow.  An electric typewriter was easier on the fingers. No speed bicycles became geared... well, these things are a bit humorous to the young who are growing up with computers, cell phones, artificial intelligence, hands-free phones in a car, and soon even driverless automobiles.  But now smartwatches are a reality.
            Smartwatch.  It detects when the wearer falls down and calls 911; honestly.  It has e-mail, and telephone, and weather reports, and messaging, and measures footsteps, tells time.... for starters.  Having a phone/Internet/ etc. on a wrist not even tethered to a telephone in the pocket is a freedom.  But language is, again, laughing at the user.  This simple all-in-one device that literally is worn on the wrist has complications.  To uncomplicate, Apple’s face has the ability to have each corner customized to the wearer’s interest for instant information.  Intended to be an addition and to simplify getting, for example, the e-mail or a scheduled appointment quickly seen, these quick access things are literally named Complications.  Who chose that word?  Wasn’t anyone in one of my English classes.  Look up the definition:  a difficulty, an involved or confused state, complex consisting of many different and connected parts/not easy to understand. So personalizing the watch face for quick and individual ease involves Complications.
            The four corners of the device offer a potential use of the space: leaving it blank so one Complication can be nothing.  Until that word can be changed to ‘personalization’ or something suggesting the real intention of those corners, I’ll opt for ‘nothing’.
              

​A face like vodka,
a soul like wine,
cocktail of life
drained dry by time
 
Your cruel departure
left a hole in the universe.
All existence has ceased.
 
Drowning in intoxicants,
vestiges of sanity gone,
a scent of grapes lingers on.
 
Birds overhead observe me
grounded supine,
my roots reaching downward
Into the dead earth.
 
Searching for a reason to exist,
dreams like bourbon,
voice like rum.
 
You are gone from my life.
Now life becomes a river
of drunk deception. 
 

​Ruby studded sky,
the horizon calls to me.
It knows my name by heart.
I have stood here all eternity,
watching a coral glow of evening,
as geese fly past the moon.
Stories of past lives
unfold before my eyes.
On wings of imagination
my mind takes flight.
The night is my master.
The night is my friend.
It folds me in its warm embrace,
darkness pulls me in,
like a lover waiting to be kissed.
I sing a song to the twilight
with voice soft and sweet.
Dancing stars join the refrain.
Night is my salvation,
its magic lives within.
Everlasting is its song
 
 
 

​Delicate fragrance of life,
plucked before it is ripe.
 
I cannot live beyond this
realm, where moonlight
dances, and swallows
speak in hushed whispers.
 
Stars sing to lost loves
and sheltered fears.
Caressed by wind
and washed by rain.
 
I once loved in the real world,
before falling from the sky
into your arms.
 
No longer with the living,
I find myself in a place of
dreams and expectations,
where reality does not exist.
 
 

​Your visceral beauty
cannot be denied.
Countless torturous
paths have been trod,
yet you remain a pillar
of strength. Darkness
that surrounds all else,
does not encompass
you. One luminous star
in an vast ebon sky,
dispersing brilliance
on all you encounter.
A wisdom beyond words
emanates from within.
Teacher, lover, friend. 
You wear your beauty
like a cape, enfolding
all in love. A shinning gift
bestowed on humankind.
Beauty is your name.
 
 

​Once he is gone,
the door will open.
In will fly the summer breeze.
 
Harrowed life left behind,
a new life to commence.
Change and chance will attend.
 
Finger worn beads
cast aside at last,
strewn across eternity.
 
Inhale deeply
invigorating radiance
infused with compassion.
 
Tattered emotions release.
Feathered dreams fly off
carrying forth intentions of balm.
 
Learning to affirm,
you walk through the
open door, into acceptance.
 

​“Golden locks, they love those,” the vice-principal said, looking at the boy. “Tousles. Curls.”
Maya smiled at the woman, tight and hard. The vice-principal had arrived unannounced. She wore dark grey over black, and her eyes were drawn to Milo’s toys, to the colorful counting mat on the floor. Maya had not offered her coffee, so the vice-principal had simply made her own, finding the beans and the filter and the water, while she talked.
“Elves love blondes,” the vice-principal repeated. She took a tentative sip of Maya’s coffee, and nodded, approvingly.
Maya hesitated. She had expressed the most tepid of doubts, to a mom she trusted -- had trusted -- at a non-school event. They had no wardrobes, no creaking old beds with dark spaces, they had no dazzling pink princesses entranced with unicorns and promising smiles. Just two boys. “There was that article…” she said, intending to trail off.
The vice-principal said nothing. Maya was forced to continue. “He’ll lose his innocence naturally, he’s outdoor all the time. He’ll squish spiders and ants and bees and wander onto the internet.  He scrapes his knee. By age five…”
She did trail off, determined now. She wanted to order this woman out of her house. The vice-principal had her foot on the playmat, tapping it against a pair of brightly colored legos.
“They want him,” she said. “We’ve been starving them successfully and systematically for decades, now. We have cut abductions to a thin railroad of the neglected. And yet, in nice neighborhoods such as this one, with their many bedrooms and playdates and shiny SUVs out front, we have seen a dramatic uptick in lost children. Santa Monica lost three last year.”
An infuriating pitch. Maya wondered if she could scream at this woman. Tell her about Maya’s own upbringing in the shit neighborhoods east of anywhere noticeable. She held off, concerned that this vice-principal had a government tie. Also, it was a very  
“Well, we’ll think about it,” Maya said, brightly.
“Innocence Day is in a week,” the vice-principal said. “Think carefully. Think very long and hard.”
“We certainly will!” Maya said brightly. She waited for the vice-principal to put down her coffee and leave. The vice-principal stood.
 
“Maya,” she said, “where is your son?”
She frowned. “Upstairs. Playing in his room.”
The vice-principal was silent. Everything was silent. Maya heard the wind outside, a distant dog barking. Suburban sounds. She stood up and forced herself to walk very slowly. She walked up the stairs, the vice-principal immediately behind her. There were no closets in Milo’s room. No, she was lying to herself. They were boarded up, drywalled over. But they were still there. There was an empty cavity underneath his bed, covered in plywood. There was silence from his room, the door closed. Already he was being passed from stag to stag in some world other than this, clothed in leaves, told he was King of Elves…
She opened the door. Milo sat on the floor. He was looking at a phone she didn’t recognize. Myra stared at her son’s blonde curls. The vice-principal walked inside and picked up the phone, and slipped it into a pocket. When -- how had she passed it to him? Milo complained about the phone getting taken away.
“I will see you next week,” said the Vice-Principal.
 
###
 
There was a nanny doing dropoff on Innocence Day. Maya stared at her, appalled. Today, of all days? Maybe, she told herself, the parents would be there at pickup, to make that mandatory run for ice cream, sold half-off at ice cream stores across the city. Sure.
 
“Mom, everything okay?” Milo said. He still had a trace of a lisp, and Maya was considering speech therapy. Outside of his bright blonde hair he was just another boy. He himself had picked out a bright red Ninja Turtles shirt, and Maya had horrified herself thinking about how it wouldn’t show any blood stains.
“Sure,” Maya said. Should she hug him? No, too obvious a tell. But Milo could tell the scene was off -- too many wan Moms and stiff Dads, dropping off the kid together. David sat in the passenger seat, drumming his fingers on the side of the car, staring at his phone. He had taken a quick snap of his son. “The parents are going to a conference, so you’ll be -- you’ll be out back I think. It’s a conference.”
Milo lost interest. He had seen some friends, and drifted over to them, yelling.
“Want to see?” David said, pulling up the photo.
“What, exactly, would I be seeing?” Maya said. She slipped into the driver’s seat. They had already dropped off Logan at daycare. Two empty car seats sat in the back.
“He’s not even going to remember,” David said. He sounded half-amused, and it bothered Maya tremendously. “This is going to be an ice cream day for him. That’s it.”
“Fine, go to work, then,” Maya said. She looked hard at him. David knew she only looked right at someone’s eyes when upset. He went back to his phone. “We should’ve done this ourselves.”
 
“I’m okay with professionals handling it,” David said. He slouched. “I heard that some people are trying pornography. It’s illegal but I guess it works. And less cleanup.”
Maya tried and failed to stop herself from imagining that. She put the car into drive. A parent behind her honked. There was a fleet of SUVs, today, Moms dressed with care in dark clothes.
“I got a bottle of wine at home,” David mentioned. “Big bottle of white. I figured.”
“Wine is for celebrations,” Maya said. “I checked. We have plenty of gin.”
“Gin it is,” David mumbled.
 
###
 
“My name is Veronica Jarrod, and I was taken,” said the vice-principal. “Slide.”
It clicked up on the main screen. A picture of a very young girl taken with very old film, in black and white. She had frizzy hair and wore overalls. The caption read “1939” in Comic Sans, for whatever reason. Maya shook her head. She was a graphic designer.
“I was 6. I don’t remember anything of the abduction itself, but it was from a standard wardrobe, in my sister’s room. I spent the next fifty winters in a land of ice and snow, traveling to all parts of my distant kingdom in a sledge driven by wolves. I met with other abductees in my glittering palace, where I gave them bracelets and rings made of warm ice, and treated them to sherberts and floats and creams of every flavor.”
Great, Maya thought, now getting ice cream afterwards would feel weird.
“Slide. And then I because unacceptably old, and I was led in grass chains by a pack of my capering friends, and I was thrown out. I woke in a field in 1983, in the middle of summer, on a pack of ice melting beneath me. And now I work in education.”
Maya noticed the logo of the Department of Defense along the bottom row of the next slide. She felt a little vindicated -- she didn’t yell and throw hot stolen coffee at a government agency.
David had vacated almost immediately, to “go to the bathroom.” He had been gone for ten minutes.
“We’ve made real progress,” said Veronica. She clicked through chart after chart. “Abductions, far down. Our Standard Furniture initiative has decreased incursions by a marked percentage. Many of the elves who have infiltrated our plane have been emaciated, noticeably weak. And, of course, Innocence Day.”
The older teachers stood in a line at the back of the auditorium, with lowered eyes, basking in the seniority. Younger teachers without union benefits were out back, on the blacktop, comforting long lines. A few of the Innocence Team walked by briskly in their long red robes, wands in holsters.
 
The door opened on the far end of the auditorium. Parents turned. An older man stood there in wine-red robes, backlit by the streaming sunlight outside. He held a clipboard. They had been warned about this. Recalcitrant kids may need parental involvement in the process. Everyone in the auditorium thought: please let my child not be recalcitrant.
“Milo Fonseca?” the man said.
Maya stood up.
 
###
 
She was ten, and they played elves. Maya dressed in green and they all made bracelets out of construction paper, bracelets and tiaras. Three neighborhood girls and her, chased inside by a rare rain. Maya and Astrid, and a girl whose name she didn’t recall, and Joan.
They liked her house because her Mom was never there, predictably never there, not like Joan where the household size was unpredictable day to day. Maya prided herself on the house always being clean, and they had the money for paper and glue and scissors. She made a point of handing out the paper herself.
“We can all be queens or we can all be princesses but I don’t want us to mix them up,” said Astrid. She was all in royal purple, her tiara towering three layers high. “Queens are above princesses so that’s not fair to the princesses.”
 
“We can be more than that,” Joan said. She had big plastic glasses, and her bracelets were intricate with cut-outs. “There’s baronesses and countesses and marquesses.”
“I like marquesses!” interjected the nameless girl.
“...and you can be more than one,” said Joan. “Like you can be Countess of the town and you can be Duchess of the wild. There’s all sorts of titles in the Realm.”
They giggled. They had absorbed enough from older kids to know that elves were for kids, that they had to Fall or were Fallen in some way to never see the broad grin of a sparkling boy, dressed in leaves. That elves were bad but the glamour, the glamour. It was all an intoxicating blend on a rainy Sunday.
“Okay, lets check the pantry,” Joan said. “Remember, think good thoughts.”
“Of what?” Maya said. She felt at sea. Joan was hijacking her house, more than a little.
“Oh, come on. You know what I mean,” Joan said. She laughed, and Astrid joined her. Maya smiled, tightly, and led the way to the pantry. It was a dark brown wood, and they had closed it a half-hour ago, to give the elves a chance.
“Okay, Fair Folk, I… abjure and conjure thee,” Maya said. She flung open the door. Waiting for the soft trill of the Fair Folk, a small figure tugging with amusement at her cardstock finery, replacing it with gold and jewels.
The sour scent of old spices wafted out. The closet was empty of magic.
 
There was a sharp gasp behind her. They all turned, but Maya’s mother was already among them, ripping off bracelets and tiaras. Their arms were tugged and yanked, and a loosed staple raked across Maya’s arm.
“Mom, we were just…” Maya started.
The slap across her face knocked her to the ground.
 
###
 
Maya walked out into the sunlight. She had texted David. She wondered if he would come. Probably five minutes late, pushing it as far as he could.
The playground was a sea of sobs. There were seventy children or so, many Maya recognized from past playdates or birthday parties. The hysteria was widespread, boys and girls with their faces screwed up in big red sobs, their hands held tightly around their sides. The staff walked among them, blithe and unconcerned. They had the kids in a long line, trailing towards a bubbling steel pot. The memory potion, to soothe without erasing.
Maya regarded the new sinners. They weren’t bloody. No, there were a few flecks on their shoes. Just a little bit of blood.
Her son stood apart, with a young witch next to her. She had done her robe up with a black rope and knelt next to Milo, encouraging him with a big friendly smile. She glanced backwards, noticed Mother approaching, and gave a curt and professional nod.
“Milo, your Mom is here, okay? Just like you wanted. Okay?”
“You can put your hands over his,” the older man said. “He does need to push, however. We’ll let you know if he did it correctly.”
Milo stood in front of a small plastic box.  It was clear. There was a small rabbit inside, and a very sharp blade above it, with a handle attached. A little bunny guillotine.
Inside, Veronica discussed impact. “The rabbit is the smallest mammal demonstrated with 100% certainty to remove innocence,” she said. “The blade is enchanted, the amount of effort practically minimal. Guinea pigs do not work with total reliability. Innocence requires a certain level of cultural conditioning. Hence the rabbit. Slide.”
Maya kneeled on top of an old outline of a basketball court. She put her arm around Milo. He was sobbing. She let him cry it out for a minute. The witch stood up and dusted off her robe, and checked her watch.
“Milo, lets just do this,” Maya said, softly.
“Why?” Milo said. He was bewildered. “You want me to kill a rabbit? Why? Why would I do that? Why?”
Maya considered him. She should’ve thought of what she would say, in advance. From the side of her eye she saw David approach, slowly and reluctantly. Words like “it’ll help you, honey,” tasted acid in her mouth. “You need to do this for your own good” felt like honeyed poison. Her jaw clenched.
 
“Do you want ice cream today?” she said, eyes wide. Milo looked at her, puzzled. She put his hands on the top of the handle. “Do you?”
“Y...yeah,” Milo said. He was a little over five.
“And do you want to play on the iPad tonight? Do you want TV?”
“Yeah, yeah,” Milo said. “But…” he looked helplessly at the rabbit.
“If you want all these fun things, you need to do what I say,” Maya said. She saw him riding free in a glade, a blade of reeds on his head, clad in riding leathers, a bow across his back. They would love his curls in the Realm. “Milo! Push down on the FUCKING HANDLE!”
The word did it. Every five year old knew the word Fuck. There was nothing more serious. Her son pushed hard on the handle without even her hand on him. It sliced clean.
There. She had made him into poison food. He had been stained. Maya sat back, and turned her head. David arrived at just that moment, and gathered Milo up. He had a bright smile for his son. “There! See! Like going to the dentist!” Milo clutched at him, briefly younger. Her son wiped his nose on David. David chuckled mildly. He smelled of cigarette smoke. Maya had known he had a pack left, in the back of his sock drawer. But he must’ve bought a lighter recently, or bummed one outside. Probably not hard to find a smoking parent, today.
 
They ushered Milo over to the next line. He had been the very last child.  A witch beckoned over a pair of school janitors, and they began to stack the small tombs onto a pallet, their hands in heavy gloves.
 
###
 
Baskin Robbins was extremely crowded, even with the giveaway.  There were big crowds of docile children, waiting patiently in their third line of the day.
Milo was among them. His eyes were glassy, like the others. His face was very calm. His hair stood out, in the crowd.  There weren’t many blondes. She kept focusing on it, after that terrible visit, the vice-principal harping on the curls, the curls.
The ride there had been very quiet. David had been silent, far away. Milo had been drugged, his crying forgotten. She had checked his shoes -- they were clean. Three sinners in that car. Maya had been glad for the silence.
“First time, right?” another Mom said. Maya turned, surprised that anyone would talk to her. It was the Mom that she suspected of ratting her out -- Abigail. “This is my second time through. And I have another one, too. Such a blah day.”
“Yeah,” Maya said. Sellout. Rat. Would it punish Milo to accidentally forget to invite his friend to the next birthday party? Yes.
 
“He’ll be drugged until dinner time, then he’ll be starving. I swear, next time we’re going to do it at home,” Abigail said. She gently shook the shoulder of her nonresponsive child, who was mechanically eating ice cream.
“Oh, Veronica said that was a bad idea,” Maya said. Abigail narrowed her eyes. “Who?” she said.
“The woman. Who made the presentation,” Maya said.
“I should’ve warned you. That thing just makes you feel like absolute SHIT,” Abigail said.
 
###
 
Milo had been back to normal by after dinner. He had destroyed an entire box of mac n cheese, hadn’t mentioned a thing about the day. Didn’t seem to realize he had been out for ice cream. After dinner he had pushed his little brother to the ground, and Maya had just watched it, letting David handle minor discipline. He had smacked his little brother around before, remorseless. But he had needed to kill a bunny, apparently, to make him unappetizing. Was he worse now, in some way? Or had she just cut off a diseased limb? A waving lure? Honey, you can be president, or an astronaut, but you cannot romp with the elves in a dusky glade. But he had read a bedtime story complacent and giggling, and fallen to sleep on schedule.
“Don’t stand in the doorway,” her husband whispered. “He’s fine. He doesn’t remember any of it.”
 
Maya shook her head, minutely. She had been thinking of the boarded over closet. They couldn’t remove any of it, yet. They still had a second kid to send through the line. Would she have to threaten this one, too? Would it be better if she didn’t?
“Why did you tell the vice-principal about me?” she said.
David looked away. Ah-ha. It had just been a guess. “I didn’t want to take chances,” he said. “You kept talking about this like it was killing his childhood.”
“Uh-huh,” she said.
“I had a kid in my town get taken. My parents told me about him, growing up. He never came back. So no, I didn’t want to mess around showing my first-born son soft-core porn. I wanted the professionals to handle it.” He looked at her. “Alright?”
“I guess,” she said. She felt a distant echo of that old slap. No elves! Take that FUCKING tiara off! “It’s over.”
“Once Logan is old enough, it’ll be over,” David corrected.
Strangers can always come into the house, she wanted to say. But she wasn’t sure if he’d get it, and was afraid of what would happen if he did.

​Danny. His energy and zeal make me think he’s early 20s but he assures me he is late 40s, he has never confirmed whether that is 47, 48 or 49. I don’t push this. We’ve talked online for months, I feel I know everything else about him.
I step along the narrow-cobbled street and scan the restaurant where I’m meeting him. It’s hideous! ‘La casa del filete’ is lit up in neon yellow and looks out of place next to the quaint shops and cafes surrounding it. The fillet house. Original I think. Danny promised this was the best steak in town, I’ve serious doubts about his bold statement. First date in 2 years, go with it I order myself.
I’m slightly nervous as I approach the waiter. He does not greet me warmly, he eyes me up and down and I immediately resolve he will get no tip tonight. I hope Danny is not a disappointment like this place.
“This way,” he says and shows me to a small table in the middle.
The tables are packed close together, all have red tablecloths with little green reading lamps, they want you to think cosy, I think cramped. I ask the waiter in clipped tones if I could sit near the window but I’m informed all other tables are reserved. 
“Yes, you’re very busy!” I state trying to make a joke, the waiter gives me a small smile and I sit down. The restaurant is empty.
The waiter saunters off allowing me to study the menu, they’ve tried to make them classy but the gold lettering on the front is frayed and I would only need to run my nail over the words to make them disappear. I close the menu and decide to wait for Danny, he’ll know what’s good here, if anything.
I start to feel awkward and fidget in my seat.
Something touches and flies by my ear and I whip my head to locate it. A house fly, ugly things. It’s had the audacity to sit on the menu in front of me.
“Go away!” I say and wave my hands around. My voice echoes in the silence, my shooing does nothing, the fly sits comfortably on the letter a.
The waiter reappears, I observe his shirt is off-white and grimy, he has too much gel in his slick-back hair, it shines even in this dim light. He doesn’t look clean, I worry about the state of the kitchen.
“Would you like a drink while you wait?” he asks as he stares past my shoulder.
“Yes, a glass of house red please and some water.” He has a name badge that reads Nathaniel, it rhymes with Daniel I chuckle to myself.
I can’t see the fly but I can hear it buzzing and then quiet. It’s settled on the green lamp facing me.
“What do you want?” I try to swat it hard with the napkin. I’m talking to a fly, the nerves are getting to me. Play a game, I think. I make up games when I’m agitated, it passes the time and occupies my mind. The fly can be my subject, word games are my favourite. A from the menu, g for green lamp.  Keep going I telepathically tell the fly.
 
 
The waiter comes back with my glass of red, the fly sits twitching between his eyebrows but he doesn't even flinch or notice and I wonder if the fly is in my imagination. N for Nathaniel.
I take a sip of my wine and immediately spit it back, it’s warm and watery, Danny clearly has no taste. I should make a run for it but I hear low murmuring voices and glance over, Danny and the waiter are talking intently to one another. He looks a little like his photo. He smiles at me and I give a little wave.
“I’m sorry for being late, traffic was awful. You’re beautiful,” Danny says and he’s almost forgiven for choosing this place.
“Thanks.” I blush and sit back down in my chair. “It’s nice to meet you.”
“Usual please.” Danny says to the waiter like they’re old friends and opens his menu. He bends his head down slightly, I see the fly on his head, roaming slowly across. How does he not sense that? D for Danny. I use my napkin again to wave it away but neither Danny or the waiter see.
“It’s quiet in here,” I say to make conversation and also to take my mind off the strange aura around us.
“It’ll liven up.” Danny grins confidently and looks back down.
I smile and pick my menu up again for something to do, I don’t really know how to act, I’m uncomfortable. The pesky fly is humming, it pierces through the restaurant and I locate it on the lit-up exit sign. It’s goading me, I want to lob my menu at it. E for Exit. I wish.
“What do you recommend?” I ask, there is a sheen of sweat on his forehead and his eyes are darting around, maybe he’s seen the fly too.
“Everything is good, the meat is juicy and bloody.” He replies seriously, no smiles. “How’s the wine?”
“It’s lovely.” I lie and I glance over at the vulgar red liquid. Danny’s stare makes me shift in my seat, he’s not how I imagined.
I search for my water but remember the stupid waiter did not bring it. I pick up my wine, it’s better than nothing and as the glass reaches my lips, it catches my eye. R for red, the fly is dead.
The air becomes hard to breath, the lights lower and not in a romantic way, the silence is oppressive. I can feel eyes burning into me, I daren’t look up. Danger. The letters spell danger.
I whisper to the fly.  “How do I escape?”  Knowing I will never receive the answer.
 

John (“Jake”) Cosmos Aller is a novelist, poet, and former Foreign Service officer having served 27 years with the U.S. State Department serving in ten countries (Korea, Thailand, India, the Eastern Caribbean (lived in Barbados but covering Antigua, Barbados, Dominica, Grenada, St Kitts, St Lucia, and St Vincent) and Spain. Prior to joining the U.S. State Department, Jake taught overseas for eight years. Jake served in the Peace Corps in Korea.  He grew up in Berkeley, California and has been to 49 States, and 50 countries.  He has been writing poetry, fiction, and novels for years. His work has appeared in numerous literary magazines online. His poetry blog can be found at https://theworldaccordingtocosmos.com
                                                                        

​Watching the latest Presidential
Act of political  courage
Shutting down the government
Just before Christmas

​I am reminded of a movie
As I fall asleep
Listening to the TV
 
Blather on and on
About what it all means
 
Mr. Natural pops up
And screams
 
"It don’t mean shit
 “Dude,  Trump the movie
Starring Donald Trump
Is about to begin”!
 
A middle-aged white man
Down on his proverbial luck
Just been fired
 
Replaced by a foreign worker
Or a robot
 
Or just fired
Because he was no longer
Deemed useful
To the masters of the universe
 
If he was lucky
He'd  be given a watch
And an IOU worthless pension
 
And the man wanders into a restaurant
Pulls out a gun
 
Eats his breakfast
After the official breakfast hour
 
Puts on a Pepe the green frog mask

​Drops acid, Snorts speed
Drinks a shot of booze
 
And coffee smokes a joint
Snorts cocaine for good measure
and smokes a cigaret
 
 
And walks outside
 steals a bus at gun point
Filled with passengers
 
He tells them
They are hostages
 
And he puts on his vest
With the dead man switch
Next to the bomb
 
He announces
Via tweet
 
He is going to take the bus
To the proverbial pot of gold
 
Hidden deep in a cave
And when he got there
 
He would release the hostages
And disappear into the mine
And never be found again
 
And as the bus careens around the mountain
At a 100 miles an hour
The dude sprouts out
 
Conspiracy after conspiracy theory
About Obama the Muslim communist
 
secret gay working with George Soros
the Jewish money people
in league with the shapeshifting lizards
 
and Mueller is one of them
they are all after him
because he knows the deal
 
And the passengers are transfixed
Half hoping he would make it
Half hoping he would be blown away
 
And as the bus careens out of control
With the wheels falling off
 
And the cliff looming ahead
You realize this is real life
 
And the wheels are off the bus
Being driven by a lunatic President
 
We are all passengers
On the Trump bus crazy train
And this will not end well
 
I woke up from my nightmare
The world was still here
 
And I knew that the end
Of Trump’s mad bus ride
Is coming soon
 
Sanity will prevail
Before the world is blown up
 
Mr. natural pops up
 
And smiles

​Are you sure ?

Note:  This is a true story.  For further details see Dreams and the Unexplainable– a Chicken
Soup for the Soul book, published September 2017, or my blog,
Https://theworldaccordingtocosmos.com     

​It all began in Berkeley, California    

​In the spring time of 1974 
  One fateful afternoon   
 
I was nodding off
 in my high school Physics class.   
 
I looked up 
and saw a tall, beautiful Asian woman standing looking at me. 
 
 She was the
most beautiful women 
in the universe
   
I screamed out, who are you? 
She disappeared like
she was beamed
away from my dream.   
   
I knew that someday
I would meet the girl
In the dream   
   
Little did I know   
I would have to wait until 1982   
 
Starting that month 
I began having
the same dream
Month and month and month.   
 
Always the same dream
She was saying something
in a strange language
   
Then one day I had the dream
and knew that she was in Korea.
   
So, I chose to go Korea
In the Peace Corps,
Somehow knowing
That I would meet her there.
   
One day   
A year after the Peace Corps ended  A month before I planned  to leave to return to the U.S. for graduate school 
 
That morning early in the morning 
I had the last of these dreams.   
This time I understood her.   
   
She said, “Don’t worry.   
We’ll meet soon.”   
 
That evening   
As I was getting off the bus   
To go to my class   
 
I saw getting off the bus 

​The girl in my dream.   
It was her!
I was speechless.
I did not know what to do.
   
Over the course of the evening
I ran into her several times.   
   
Finally, I was introduced to her. 
I muttered some lame excuse
 About wanting to find a Korean tutor and got her number.   
   
The next day she came to the gate 
Of my base where I was teaching 
ESL to Koreans 
She said that she had to speak with me.   
   
I told to wait in the library  for about an hour, 
and I would cancel class   
and meet her then. 
We went out for coffee.   
   
She told me that she was madly
in love with me   
And simply had to have me.   
I told her I felt the same way.   
   
I proposed five days later,   
And got married one month later.
Does she believe this story?   
 
She claims she does not believe it
 Because it is impossible to be true.   
   
But I know that there are other worlds
and other times.   
   
In a past life we must have been together somehow.
And our love was so strong   
   
That it crossed over the barrier of past lives.
She found me in 1974,   
But it took until 1982
For us to actually meet.   
 
 
And it has been 36 years   
Since we met in the physical sphere
Or 45 years since the dream began   
   
And I still recall the dream
 And meeting her   
   
I had no choice   
When I met her   
We were fated to be together  
 
Until the end of this lifetime
And the next and the next 
Until the end of time itself
 

​Ruth Z. Deming has had her work published in lit mags including Literary Yard, Blood and Thunder, Pure Slush, O-Dark-Thirty, and Your One Phone Call. A psychotherapist, she lives in Willow Grove, a suburb of Philadelphia. She's always proud to be published in Scarlet Leaf Review. ​​

​I’ve been traveling, give or take, about ten years. Such is my lifespan. I’m considered quite popular so there are actually one-thousand copies of me. Of course, they mutilate me. Stamped on top with black ink is written “Montgomery County, PA, Central Library.” I’m in a canvas bag which reads, “Property of the Library.”
               Into the bag with me are crushed an assortment of five other hard-back books, three DVDs, and two soft puppets. All my life I have been a book, born in a bindery, with soft paper, now slightly discolored. Occasionally a patron man-handles me – I doubt on purpose – so I’m sent to the “Mechanical Room” where I undergo a sort of surgery. Since I’m not a sentient being all I feel is a little tickle.
               I try not to think of what will happen to me when my time is up. While I’m still fairly young and beautiful, with a full cover copy,  I understand I can be recycled, similar to some people who have compost heaps. Their egg shells and pressed lemons and bits of celery are eaten by fox, deer, crows and raccoons.
               The family I just stayed with lived in some sort of house. Houses are bigger than apartments or, in a few cases, nursing homes, where people are always bustling about.
This family sat down in the den, smelling of a spaghetti-and-meatballs dinner. Daddy said, “We’ll all take turns reading.”
               “Me, first, Daddy,” said a little girl, who was wearing a yellow nightgown.
               “Me wanna go first,” said a little boy in pajamas with trains on them and footsies .
               He stood up and began screaming.
               “Go to your room, now,” said Daddy.
               “You don’t love me,” said the little boy who was carried upstairs by Mommy.
               The little girl, who had black hair and black eyes, cleared her throat and began to read.
                “Charlotte’s Web.”
               “Where’s Papa going with that axe,” said Fern to her mother as they were setting the table for breakfast.”
               She continued to read, offering up a few yawns.
               At one point the little boy peeked from the stairs.
               “All right, son,” said Daddy. “Come down and listen. But no more screaming fits.” 
               I enjoyed my two weeks with the family before they drove over to the Upper Moreland Library, stopped their car, and dropped me down the chute.
               It was like a roller coaster ride and I giggled.
               Soon another book fell on top of me and then another.
               Where, I thought, will they send me next.

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).

​Kelly stood at the entrance and surveyed his new apartment. What a find. Heck, what a steal. This was the perfect location in a great neighborhood, and he couldn’t ask for more. On top of it, the moving company did a great job of getting everything across town at the last minute and arranging the major pieces of furniture. All he had to do was to deal with the smaller things and his personal stuff. Could life get any better than this?
   He walked into the kitchenette and opened several cupboards. It would take some thought to figure out how to arrange his dishes, utensils and cooking items. He peeked inside a side cupboard extending to the floor, the perfect spot for brooms and such. He frowned. There on the floor toward the back was an old cardboard box. The previous owner must have missed it.
   Kelly picked it up and carried it to the living room. He set it on the coffee table and sat in an easy chair. Pulling the flaps up, he peered into the box and removed various items: a rolling pin, several sponges, a flower vase, and a plastic tray of utensils. At first glance, none of this seemed of any particular value, certainly nothing he could use. Getting rid of the box would be first on the list when he put out his garbage and recycling.
   Something metallic caught his attention. He reached into the box and pulled out a handheld oil lamp. “You’ve got to be kidding me.” It was a Middle-eastern style, an Aladdin magic lamp. Kelly chuckled. Should he rub it? Now, this might be something worth keeping. The rest of the stuff he’d throw out, but the lamp had a novelty aspect to it and would make for a good conversation piece.
   He turned it over, looking for a clue as to its origin. There didn’t seem to be any markings, not even a price tag. He eyed it thoughtfully, shrugged, and then rubbed the side of it. Blue smoke poured out of the spout and Kelly gasped. He shoved the lamp on the table and jerked back wide-eyed as a cloud billowed throughout the room. Waving his hands, he coughed as a pungent aroma filled his nostrils.
   The blue smoke dissipated and Kelly’s vision cleared. He looked at the lamp then glanced at the box and the other items on the table. He looked up. A man lay on the couch.
   “Holy crap!” Kelly jumped up from the chair and backed away, keeping his gaze fixed on this intruder. “Who the hell are you? How did you get in here?”
   The man lay full-length, his head propped up by the end arm. His eyes were closed. “Look at me and look at me closely. I’m wearing a turban. I have traditional Arabic shoes.” He wiggled one of his feet. “Note the style of my Middle-Eastern attire.” He motioned with one hand down the length of his body. “Who do you think I am?”
   Kelly gulped some air and took a step forward to study the figure. “This is impossible.”
   The man opened one eye and looked at him. “Oh, ye of little faith.” He sat up and put his feet on the floor.
   Kelly crouched, ready to sprint out the door.
   The man lounged back, spread his arms out on the back of the couch and half-smiled. “I am Youhenna Diab Mudsin Husain Mahdi, the all-powerful, all-knowing genie of the eternal magic lamp. But, you can call me Fred.” He nodded. “At your service. Blah, blah, blah.”
   “Get out. This is a gag. Am I being pranked?” Kelly looked around. “Is this being filmed?”
   Fred let out a long sigh and rolled his eyes. “Oh boy. Here we go again. Or should I say: here I go again.”
   Kelly scowled. “What are you talking about?”
   “I always have to go through this, and I find it tedious.”
   “Go through what?”
   “Having to convince you I’m the real deal.”
   “Convince me?”
   “Whoever is the current owner of the lamp. They can’t believe I’m a genie and we go through this back and forth until I manage to convince them that I am, in fact, a genie: magic, blue smoke, grant wishes and all that.”
   Kelly stood upright and eyed the man suspiciously. “So, wise guy, can you prove who you say you are?”
   Fred held out his arm, and a bunch of flowers appeared in his clenched fist.
   “A magician’s sleight of hand: you pulled that out of your sleeve.”
   The flowers disappeared. Kelly looked perplexed and held up his hand, a bouquet in his clenched fist. “Whoa!” He dropped the flowers and backed up a step. “How the hell did you do that?” He stared wide-eyed at the floor.
   “Does a magician reveal his secrets? Where’s the magic in that?”
   “This is a load of B.S.”
   A snort sounded behind Kelly. He whipped around to find a horned steer standing in the middle of his kitchenette. The animal snorted again and defecated with a loud plop on the linoleum floor.
   “Still think it’s a load of—”
   “Whew!” Kelly winced and held his nose. “Okay, okay. You’ve made your point. Make it disappear.”
   Fred shrugged.
  The animal was gone. “Hey! What about the manure?” Kelly pointed at the kitchenette. “For crying out loud. Get rid of that!”
   Fred shrugged again. “Magicians and animal acts have their problems. If ya gotta go, ya gotta go.”
   “Very funny.” He sat down in the easy chair. “So, you’re a genie.”
   “Yup.”
   “You grant wishes and all that.”
   “That I do. However, plural has been downgraded to singular.”
   “Pardon?”
   “I don’t grant wishes. I grant a wish. Just one.”
   “What happened to three wishes?”
   “Cutbacks. Inflation. Expenses have gone up.”
   Kelly furrowed his brow. “I think you’re pulling my leg.” Fred gestured toward him, and an invisible force tugged on his right leg, pulling him forward on the chair.   “Hey! What are you doing?”
  “You said ...”
   “I didn’t wish it.”
   “True.”
   Kelly straightened up in the chair. “So, what do I wish for?”
   “That’s up to you.”
   “I can wish for anything?”
   “Anything at all.”
   “How about a ton of cash?”
   “Sure. However, a ton is a ton, and when I drop it on you, you’ll be crushed.”
   Kelly opened his mouth, paused, then shut it and leaned back in the chair. “What if I ask for gold?”
   “That’s fine, but I’ll have to get it from someplace, and Fort Knox seems like a good choice. Of course, I’ll have to leave an I.O.U. with your name and address.”
   “Why?”
   “I’m a genie, not some petty thief. Geesh, do you think I’m dishonest?”
   Kelly pursed his lips. “I take it that I have to be specific when making a wish.”
   “What you say is open to interpretation.”
   “A million bucks?”
   “A million male reindeer.
   “Okay, okay, a million dollars.”
   “A one-dollar bill copied one million times: good for the charge of counterfeiting.”
   “All right, I mean one million dollars all different and legitimate.”
   “One million Zimbabwe dollars, currently equal to about twenty-eight hundred dollars U.S.”
    Kelly stared at Fred. “You’re an evil genie, aren’t you?”
   “I told you that what you say is open to interpretation.”
   “Either you’re not too bright, or you’re mean.”
   “No need to be insulting. How to win friends and influence genies.”
   “You’re going to make this difficult for me.”
   “Anything worth doing is worth doing right.”
   “How about ...” Kelly tapped his index finger on the arm of the easy chair. “How about making me the richest guy in the world?”
   “I transport you to an uninhabited world. You are now the richest person, the only one, but the richest.”
   “Immortality?”
   “Doable. Although, you didn’t also ask for eternal youth. A hundred years from now, you’ll be a walking skeleton with the last remnants of flesh rotting off your bones.”
   “Well, that sounds quite unpleasant.”
   “You pay the price for your folly.”
   “The folly of not being specific.”
   “You’re catching on.”
   Exasperated, Kelly waved his hand at Fred. “Why can’t you grant my wish? Why can’t you do something nice for me?”
   “Be careful what you wish for.”
   “Meaning?”
   “There may be unintended consequences. Nothing in life is free, and nobody should be looking for the easy way out. True rewards don’t come from wishes; they come from desire, purpose, and hard work.”
   “Are you a philosopher genie?”
   Fred tilted his head in reflection. “I’ve seen a lot.”
   “How long have you been doing this?”
   “A few millennia.”
   “You seem kind of cynical.”
  “I’ve seen people at their worst: egotistical, self-centered, greedy, power-hungry, a complete lack of compassion, no sympathy, certainly no empathy, and an ignorance about life that is astounding. They’re generally short-sighted and just plain stupid. It’s hard to believe humans are at the top of the food chain.”
   “You seem jaded.”
   “It’s hard not to be.”
   “Is that why you interpret what I say so literally? Is that why you want to sabotage my wish?”
   “Bad things happen to bad people.”
   “I like to think I’m not bad.”
   “Let’s say you’re not perfect.”
   “Who is? Do I deserve to be punished for it?”
   “Am I supposed to be all-merciful? Stuff happens. If you stick your finger in a light socket, you get electrocuted. Ignorance or stupidity is no excuse. In the theory of evolution, it’s a way of weeding out the weak and unfit.”
Kelly stared at Fred.
   “What?”
   “This isn’t my lucky day.”
   “Why not? You’ve found this nice apartment. Things seem to be looking up.”
   “I was talking about you.”
   “I’m here to fulfill your wish.”
   “Now I’m wondering why the last tenant left your lamp behind.” Kelly pursed his lips.
   “She wished to be happy.”
   “And?”
   “And what?”
   “Did you make her wish come true? Is she happy?”
   “Very much so.”
   Kelly squinted. “What did you do? How did you interpret her wish?”
   “Forrest Gump was a happy guy.”
   “Forrest Gump?”
   “At least, he wasn’t sad.”
   “What do you mean?” Kelly paused. “Wait. Did you make her dumber? Did you give her an I.Q. of seventy-five?”
  “I think she’s quite content now. Certainly, politics is of no importance to her. Besides, who can follow that stuff, anyway? It’s enough to wipe the smile off any face.”
  “Just a second. She wishes to be happy, and your interpretation is to make her as dumb as Forrest Gump.”
   “You make the wish; I interpret how to fulfill it.”
   “You’re dangerous.”
   “Just doing my job.”
   “I’m going to make a wish, and you’re going to royally screw me.
   “Just doing my job.”
   “And just what exactly is that job? You seem to be more of a bad genie than a good one. With a change of clothes, I’d be calling you the devil.”
   “Different department.”
   Kelly glanced around, rubbing his chin.
   “A penny for your thoughts.”
   “I think I’ll ask you to go back in the lamp.”
   “What about your wish?”
   “I don’t trust you.”
   “I’ll do exactly what you say.”
   “That’s what I’m afraid of.” Kelly picked up the lamp. “Do I rub a second time?”
   “That would do it. And I’ll add that you’re making the right choice.”
  “I wonder how many innocents over the ages have found themselves in undesirable circumstances?”
    “They weren’t innocent, believe me.”
    “I’ll take your word for it. I’ll get on with the rest of my life all on my own.”
   “In the long run, you’ll have a better sense of accomplishment. Nobody values anything they get for free, but if you work hard, struggle even, your eventual success will be all that much more satisfying.”
   “In that getup, I can see you as a spiritual guru, sitting on a mountaintop somewhere spouting wisdom to all those who dare make the pilgrimage.”
Fred chuckled. “Have a good life, Kelly.”
   He rubbed the lamp, and the genie disappeared in a cloud of blue smoke. Kelly stared at the lamp for a moment, then put it back in the box. He rode the elevator down to the building garbage room and left the box just inside the door. Maybe another resident could make use of the items.
   He put his hand on the door handle to exit and stopped. He took the lamp out of the box and tossed it into an industrial bin marked Garbage.
   When Kelly got back to his apartment, a Chinese food delivery guy was knocking on the door across the hall. A flustered man answered, “Oh my God. I forgot about this.” He reached for his wallet. “Quick. How much do I owe you?”
Kelly opened the door to his apartment.
   “Hey you, neighbor.” The man pointed at Kelly as he handed the delivery man several bills. “Do you want a free dinner?”
   “Pardon?” Kelly said.
   “My wife’s water just broke, and I have to get her to the hospital right away. She wasn’t due for another two weeks, but then Bingo! We’re off to delivery.”
   The man thrust the large paper bag into Kelly’s hands and disappeared back into his apartment. The delivery man grinned at Kelly and headed down the hall to the elevators.
   A man and woman came out of the apartment, and the man locked the door. “It’s okay, honey. We’re only about ten minutes away. I’ve already called the doctor, so everything set. They’re waiting for us.” The two of them went down the hall to the elevators.
   “Good luck,” Kelly said after them.
   He went inside and shut the door. Setting the bag on the kitchen table, he pulled various cardboard containers out, examining each one in turn. They all smelled appetizing.
   At the bottom of the bag was a white slip of paper, the bill. Kelly picked it up and read down the list, twenty-four dollars in total. This was a pleasant surprise. He hadn’t yet figured out what he was going to have tonight.
   Kelly turned the slip over. There, written in blue ink, was the message, “Dinner’s on me. Fred.” He looked in the direction of his apartment door. “Seriously?” He looked again at the message, chuckled and shook his head. He picked up a plastic fork and opened the first container.


                                                                     END

​Author is a retired attorney having practiced for 35 years in Illinois who now lives in Texas and started writing stories about a year and a half ago.

​     They  joked about it all the time now. Well for the last couple of years anyway since it suddenly dawned on them that they were both old now and soon would be dead. Joking about it was their way of dealing with it, death that is.
    For example the other day when they were out at a department store she suggested to her husband that he buy a couple of new shirts as his were getting old and frayed at the neck. To which he replied, “I ain’t buying any more shirts. I got me enough shirts to last me the rest of my life.”
    Whatever he had now, he had enough of to last him the rest of his life. He always said that.
    “But yours are old and worn out.  You need to replace them,” she said knowing that he’d rise to the bait. 
    “Well so am I. I’m old and worn out too ya know. You gonna to replace me too woman?” He said all this with his usual smile upon his face, a twinkle in his eyes, proud of himself, thinking he was quite the clever fellow indeed.
    They both enjoyed this little banter, this little routine, this little repertoire, or whatever it was called of theirs. The skit was over for now. She said no more.
     Oh they would improvise or ad lib on occasion when doing their routine. Like the other day when she suggested that they buy some new furniture as theirs was getting old and tacky looking.
      “Kind of like me I’m old and tacky looking too ya know. You gonna  replace me too?”
      To which she replied, “Ya maybe I will.”
     “Oh yeah, who  you going to replace me with?
     “Well maybe I’ll get me a handsome young gigolo. Did you ever think of that?”    
     “Well I might replace you with one of them there trophy wives.Did you ever think of that?”
     “You haven’t got enough money for a trophy wife.”
     “Well I’ve got enough for a pre-owned one.”
     “No you don’t. You couldn’t even afford a pre-owned one whatever that is.”
     “Well I’ll get me one of them there rescue women then.”
     “A rescue woman? What in the hell is a rescue woman husband?”
    “You know how they have those animal rescue shelters for cats and dogs?”
     “Yah.”
     “Well they got them for women too. I might get me one there. They’re free. Hell I might get  couple of ‘em and if any of ‘em don’t work out, I’ll  just take them back. What do you think of that, woman?”
    “I think you’re being silly now so just shut up,” she said with eyebrows raised cutting him off before he could say anything else that was sure to be stupid. After all, even for her, enough was enough.
    From the tone of her voice and from the fifty plus years of their marriage, her husband knew it was time to shut up or commit suicide by wife. He chose to live.
   All this talk about replacing was just plain silly as far as she was concerned for never, not even once, during the course of the marriage, had she ever thought about replacing him for she loved him so. She would be lost without him. He managed all their investments. She knew nothing about them and wouldn’t know how to manage them if he went first. She worried about that. He handled the tax returns. She had no idea what records to keep and how to fill out a tax form and that was another thing she didn’t want to have to  worry about if he went first. He was handy around the house and fixed things. She wasn’t. She’d be lost, helpless without him, and have to hire someone to fix things and hope that they would be honest with her and wouldn’t rip her off.
     It wasn’t that she was dumb. She was sure she could learn how to do these things if push came to shove but she really didn’t want to be bothered with all that at her age. Teaching an old dog new tricks wasn’t her thing. That and the fact that she didn’t want to live alone without him were the reasons why she wanted to go first.
    Oh she knew that if she died first, he would remarry. After all being a man he’d have to have someone to clean and cook and wash his dirty underwear for him. Those things were just too complicated for a man. Besides as far as he was concerned a man wasn’t supposed to do those things anyway. That was woman’s work. Furthermore she knew that her husband was a social animal, loved being around people, loved to joke obviously, and never would be able to live by himself. He wouldn’t be able to take the loneliness. He’d have to have companionship in order to survive. Have someone around to joke with. God help the poor woman whoever that might be.
     Though she worried that some woman might take advantage of him, get his money, clean him out, that didn’t really bother her that much.
    “Oh well,” she shought. “So be it. What the heck. Que sera, sera. Let him be happy his last few years. What do I care. I’ll be dead. Why deny him happiness even if it costs him.” After all, that’s all she ever wanted for her husband, for him to be happy that is.
    So they continued their comedy routine about death, her setting him up, him delivering the punch line, and life went on for them.
    But as they grew even older their health deteriorated. Their life took on a new routine now, trips to the doctors in their battle against death. They’d make a day of it, going to the doctor and back that is. Everything moved at a snail’s pace for them now except for time which of course continued to fugit by.
    Now enough time had passed that it was time for one of them to leave this world. So Mr. Death paid them a visit one night as they slept. She heard him stumble around their room for he was quite the clumsy fellow and as he did so he woke her up. Besides that he had had a few drinks that night. His job got to him sometimes. Her husband though kept on snoring through it all, kept on sawing logs, for he was such a sound sleeper that he could have slept through the second coming, which this was in a way sort of.
    “I’m sorry I woke you up,” slurred Mr. Death to the old woman, “I’m such a klutz you know. But don’t worry. I’m not here for you. I’m here for your husband.”
    Mr. Death had lied. He might have had a little too much to drink but he still had his wits about him. He was here for her but didn’t dare tell her that. For whenever he told anyone that he was here for them, they became hysterical and they were always nothing but trouble then. He wanted to spare himself all that. That’s why he had lied.
    “Oh,” she said. Though she knew this day was coming, she had been caught off guard and was flummoxed by Mr. Death’s sudden appearance.
    “Oh don't worry.”  Mr. Death reassured her with a limp flip of his wrist. “I won’t hurt him any. That’s why I take them while they’re sleeping.”
     The old woman got her bearings now, straightened herself upright, and confronted Mr. Death. This was her chance to go first and she couldn’t let it pass her by. A once in a lifetime opportunity so to speak for she really did not want to go on living  alone without her husband.
     “Look,” she said, “how about you take me first? I won’t fight you. I’ll go peacefully into that good night.”
     “But I’m not here for you dear,” repeated Mr. Death. “I'm here for your husband. It’s his turn according to my laptop.” He stuck to this line so as to not upset her.
    With that said Mr. Death pulled out his laptop from the inside of his flowing, though somewhat gaudily decorated black robe, brushed back his hair behind his ears, straightened out his ruffled pink flowered shirt, and fired up his laptop. Nimbly his fingers flew as he typed in the name of her husband under tomorrow’s obituaries and showed her. “Here,” he said, “take a look for yourself. It’s his turn. Besides he’s older than you and everybody knows that the man always goes first.”
    The old woman refused to look at the laptop. Instead she fired back. “Where is it written that the man must go first? And certainly you of all people Mr. Death must know that we don’t all check out in the same order that we checked in now do we? After all how many children do you take every day?”
      “But the computer says.”
      “But nothing,” she snarled, “the computer can be wrong now can’t it? People hack into computers and change things in them all the time now don’t they? I’m sure you know how to do that now don’t you? Have a little consideration for people’s feelings will you. I want to go first. Please delete my husband’s name and type mine in his place.”
   Mr. Death was not used to doing anyone a favor but now he would have to act as if he was.
   “Well,” said Mr. Death pausing for effect and then putting his right hand over his heart. (Yah he had one.) “Okay I’ll see what I can do. Just hold your horses now will ya while I google you up.” He said all this in a huffy like manner as if he was being put out some for he couldn’t hide his real feelings. He wasn’t that good at acting.
    Mr. Death went to work typing away on his laptop. He made faces and smiled and grimaced as he typed and then after awhile he shut his computer down.
    “Okay I’ve reprogrammed everything so that you can go first,” he said.
    He lied. In fact he had just been answering his emails the whole time.
    “I can take you now but you gotta to promise one thing first, not to fight me,” he said. “I hate it when people do that. You would not believe what I had to go through with the other day when this one guy just flat out refused to go.” He gave her another limp wrist wave. “Oh the stories that I could tell you.”
   “Okay, okay, I promise. I promise. Can we just get on with it please?”
   Mr. Death knew how he was going to take her now. He had a plan.
    “Why don’t you go over and tell your husband goodbye now and then you can go. But whatever you do don’t wake him up. For if you do and he objects to me taking you, then I’ll have to take him first after all to shut him up. And we both don’t want that now do we?”
    “Thank you,” she said as she walked over to her husband still somehow asleep through all this. She whispered a few words to him explaining her actions. Told him that she loved him. Told him that she was doing this because she loved him and didn’t want to go on living by herself without him. That she was taking his place for him for she wanted him to have a few more years of happiness here on earth. Then she bent over and gently kissed him on his forehead.
    Her back was to Mr. Death. He was right behind her. He tapped her on the shoulder. She was gone.
    
     

​We shrugged at bomb scares at school
Locked our doors, watched our bags and our steps
And skirted any lone bag on a bench.
These were the years of lead, after all.
The violence that edged things was rising
And life was getting a ragged quality to it.
The heart was falling out of the city
Its famous walls bulged with sanctioned corruption
Handshakes and deals that never happened.
 
So when a famous politician was kidnapped
And held hostage for fifty-five days,
We’d run out of shock, so to speak.
Yet his heavy-lidded resignation dragged at our hearts
As a mugshot released grainy proof that he was, still, alive
And his letters of appeal went public.
‘In truth,’ he wrote, ‘I feel a little abandoned…’
 
The government, curiously, was implacable:
Its refusal – this time! – to negotiate for one of their own
Was cold and hard as marble.
Not the supplications of family and friends
Nor the offer of papal intervention
Stemmed the inevitable, blossoming horror.
 
To the wail of sirens and a thickening crowd
His bloody, bullet-studded body was found
Chained and crumpled in the boot of a Renault
And dumped in the centre of Rome.
The symbolism was callously clear:
A sacrifice had been laid at a political altar
But by whom?
 
Then was the time of recriminations and allegations
Of tip-offs unfollowed and other inexplicable revelations
Strikes, demonstrations, and calls for resignations
Spawning ever more accusations
Which clung like mist to the men in black suits
And shadowed the stretching of the years ahead.
 

​Over the grills in Boston Common
As the evening turns to night
Dark figures drift into view
Warming themselves in belches of steam
That arise, as groggy and insubstantial
As vapours from Hell.
 
Hoarse cries, red-rimmed eyes
Gloves clutching at brown paper bags
Like holy relics.
Ignoring the averted eyes
And the judicious stepping aside
Of the lacquered mainstream
These misfits of society, these malcontents
Blot out their demons and
Soak away their lives
In alcohol.
 
The last commuter has long since gone
When these lumped, slumped figures
Alternative versions of our darker selves
Subdued at last, lie down
Blanketed, beanied and scarved
Arms crossed over, heads bowed
Wrapped in plastic like giant plasters
Suturing the city’s most intimate wounds.
 
A trolley-ride away
In the salubrious salons of the well-to-do
Where money and class work hand-in-glove
The high-court judge, the stockbroker and the policy-maker
Uncoil themselves from their cases, spreadsheets and drafts
And tend, at last, to their own needs.
Drunk on pride and vintage sherry
They lick their lips, lock their doors
Flick off their chandeliers
Pad across mahogany floors
to retire at last to bed
and (with the help of a pill, perhaps)
to a clear, untroubled sleep.
 

​The sun bores down
On a rectangle of synthetic green:
An inner-city playground.
 
The empty swing hangs immobile
Its knotted metal chains glinting
Its mottled wooden seat waiting.
 
It is one of the passed-over places
An oasis of discomfort, cut out from shade
Of the surrounding canopy of trees.
 
A little boy plays alone
Throwing a twig high into the sky
It does not come down again.
 
Under the trees, a man’s rough call
Blurry with drink and loneliness
Lingers in the hot air.
 
Paper bags, like big brown leaves,
Drift stained and empty along the pavement
Shored up by the playground railings.
 
‘Mama, look!’ The boy has made a face
Out of sticks, cigarette ends for his eyes
His delight is palpable.
 
The young woman in the laneway
Walks across, slowly, each step an effort
Her arms, so thin, reach out to him.
 
I cannot stand and watch this, I cannot stay
I tuck my son into his stroller and turn away.
 
(Written in King’s Cross, an inner-city suburb of Sydney where the bohemian lifestyle it is known for lies like the thinnest of blankets over the deeper problems of homelessness, addiction and crime.)
 

​In the kitchen I stand
Tracksuit-clad and blinking
As the click of the front door shuts
The sounds of the day away.
 
I snuff the gas
And the subterranean gurgling fades to naught
As, like a latter-day suburban witch
Leaning over her latter-day potion
I raise the lid of my coffee pot
Damp my fingers in the steam
And enact the tri-part ritual:
Close, lift, and ever so gently pour
A rich and gleaming rope
Of boiling black memoried liquid
Bearing the imprint of half a century of pourings
Into my cup.
 
Reverently I raise it to my lips
And drink of another old high-ceilinged kitchen
Zig-zagged by light cutting in through the shutters
Half-closed against the sun from the run-around balcony
With its fluttering of uneven ghosts on the line
Which spoke of countless bendings and stretchings
As our mothers down the generations casually
Pegged our lives out there on the washing line:
All this inherent in that single sip.
 
I dip my toast in coffee, smile
And, fortified, swallow away nostalgia
and am, for now, grateful for what was.
 
 

​On any given day
There is a glut of words around me
On doorways, streets and signs
Informing, instructing, warning
On labels, shops and cars
Coaxing, cajoling, luring
In restaurants and bars
The many-tentacled monster
of modern communication
Pressing in around me,
Assertive and insistent
Audacious and capricious
oppressing and compressing me
Sometimes, they almost make me choke.
 
But then there are others
The passed over or forgotten words
Scrawled on beggars’ placards
The bewildered words
Whispered away in the slipstream of time
Crumpled thoughts in a lover’s thrown-away note
Fragments of people’s conversations
Caught in the wind on a street corner.
 
Must it be like this?
Words should be held like little gems
Precious-like
In the soft cup of a child’s hand
And picked out tenderly, one by one
So we can slip into the lining of situations
And see them from the inside.