THE VICTIMI whimper as he grabs me. I can’t help it. His pale face flushes with need and those deep black eyes burn. I can tell what he wants. He knows I can tell. And he doesn't care that I know. The honesty in it is thrilling. My blood responds to it, even though I know it shouldn’t. This is dangerous, so dangerous.
He is tall and strong with arms that even through the material of his shirt are firmly defined. His body is lean and hard as he pushes against me, tilting me backwards so that his lips touch my neck. He really did that, I thought. I was in the moment and outside it simultaneously. I had only seen that move in old movies but the vulnerability of my bare neck so near his teeth is exquisite. I want him. That’s insane. I know it but I can’t help it. He pushes me back through the doorway, kicking it shut behind us. The echo dies in the house that is as dark as the night outside. The night where he appeared as I made my way through this strange part of town. He was simply there, standing outside this old house, looking refreshing and cool in the too warm darkness. Now we are inside, where pools of moonlight stain the floor of the tiled hallway. He doesn’t care about those. He wants to go upstairs. I am powerless to resist even though I know I should go slowly. There is no escape once we go up there. The stakes are high, yet I don’t resist. Two of us go up that stairs but I have a strong belief that I may never come back down. That thought stops me. Even in the spell he has cast on me I know what happens up there will can change me. His firm hand rests on my hip from behind, urging me forward but not pushing. He wants me to give myself to him. He will not force me. That's not what’s happening. In that moment, even before the act itself, it is decided. I take the next step, then forward to the bedroom. Once inside, I turn. I stand and wait for him by the bed so that he can see me, once he has closed the door. I can feel my heart racing, my pulse pounding, as I see him look at me, lit by moonlight. He is going to take me now, to devour me. He will be my first. His hand goes to my cheek. This big powerful hand on such a young man, a boy really, not much older than me, up close. That makes me feel better. He slides his fingers from my cheek down to my neck and I know he has found the vein there that pulses visibly. He licks his lip involuntarily when his finger finds it, savouring the direct connection to my heart. That’s when I bite. Hard and fast, on his wrist. My fangs pop forward even before they touch the skin. The taste of his blood is rich and salty, full of everything I dreamed it would be as soon as I saw him. Better than any I have ever drunk before. As I bite deeper, I realise why that is. This blood is untainted by fear. The ones brought to me by mother and father were terrified by the time I could feed. This one, locked in place by confusion and a twist of his arm, hasn’t had a chance to be afraid yet. It will come, in the blood. It won’t ruin it. Blood is blood after all but those first few moments are precious. He sinks to his knees as I drink, this boy who thought he was the hunter, laid low by a petite girl with strength he couldn’t have guessed at. Not when he saw me looking lost and vulnerable walking past his house, certainly not when he invited me in to his house, the greedy host, not when he closed the bedroom door behind him, ready to have me. I kneel with him, letting his wrist drop and moving my mouth to his neck. I wouldn’t have thought to do that if he hadn’t earlier done it. The image makes me smile as I drain him. I slip out the window, changed. A woman now, no longer a girl. The moonlight caresses me as I follow my path to the ground. I’ll never forget you, I say, my first kill.
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Mary Gatheru is a junior in college at Salem State University. She majors in psychology and minors in English. Her work varies from poetry to short fiction. She has poetry published in Oddball magazine and Voice of Eve magazine. Beauty and the Beast RenditionGrowing up in Oxford was like living in the sticks, country side-like. Occasionally, Hannah would go to the city in Worcester to do grocery shopping for her father. Her father was in no shape to make that voyage because of work. In worcester there was this man named Peter. Peter was the ideal partner to every girl who knew of him, except Hannah. Peter liked the fact that Hannah didn’t go crazy for him the way other girls did. As Hannah was roaming the grocery isles he followed trying to start a conversation with Hannah.
Since Hannah wasn’t that interested, the conversation was cut short as Hannah traveled back to Oxford. When Hannah got home she made her father his favorite meal because he was coming home from a long day of work. Usually her father Frank is home by 6:00 pm the latest, but tonight it hit 8:30pm and he had not arrived yet. Hannah decided to go look for her father. As Hannah was traveling in search for Frank she saw his toyota corolla parked outside a mansion in Shrewsbury with two flat tires. Hannah decided to go inside because that is where she believed Frank was. As she entered the creaky door, she saw Frank locked in a dungeon like room alone, locked away. Hannah was relieved to see her father was ok. Frank on the other hand wanted her to leave immediately. Hannah became confused at her father’s reaction to seeing her. As Hannah and frank bickered back and forth a large shadow appeared from behind. As Hannah turned around it was a tall 6’7 man, dog like teeth, completely covered in masses of hair, with not the best hygiene methods. Frank shouted “Hannah run!” Hannah decided to speak up against this beast like man. Henry told Hannah her father was not going anywhere. Hannah responded with “ Let my father go and I will take his place in that cold dungeon room you have kept my father”. Henry standed contemplating what to do. After thinking for some time, Henry decided to agree with the terms Hannah had proposed. As her father was released they shared a heartfelt hug because Frank didn't know if he would ever see his daughter again. Since Frank had two spare tires in the back he changed them out and headed back to the city to find help. Instead of keeping Hannah in the cold dungeon room her father was kept, he let her stay in a warm,comfy bedroom and allowed her to roam around because he boulted all the doors for his height to reach and only his. While Hannah was laying on the bed she started to cry. As tears rushed down her face, a little teacup on the dresser asked her if she was ok. At this moment Hannah thought she must have inhaled cocaine because talking teacups could not be real. Hannah then rubbed her eyes in hope to fix her vision but when she opened her eyes the lilac lamp and plush pillows joined the conversation. Since Hannah had no one else to talk to she conversed with them. Overtime Hannah was told the story of why Henry looked and was the way he was, and why inhuman objects were talking which put Hannah at ease. Over the course of two weeks Hannah and Henry became very fond of each other. One night after they had dinner Peter and his gang pulled up to Henry’s mansion in search for the beast like man and to in hope Hannah would reciprocate the same feelings if he saved her. Peter and his gang barged into the house with multiple illegal weapons; all in search to kill Henry. After hours of fighting going on in the mansion Peter and Henry were feuding on the balcony and before Peter could stab Henry, Peter plummeted to his death. When Hannah finally made her way up to the balcony she found Henry laying on the floor in bad condition; he was beaten brutally. Hannah began to cry because she fell in love with Henry. Hannah then gave Henry a kiss of love. After she did that magical sparkles and lights which were completely supernatural arose Henry back to health and back to the man he was before being put on the spell. Henry transformed into a 6’7 handsome man. All the inanimate objects that spoke became the people they were before. Hannah explained things to Frank, and Frank then approved of Hannah and Henry’s marriage. From then on Hannah and Henry lived happily ever after in Shrewsbury with all the staff he had living with them.
Sita of Suburbia That afternoon, the sky turned black, Split open like a fish belly slit. Poured hail like hapless spawn That smashed lifeless upon our roof. Even though I walked through fire for you Unscathed, your rage was not appeased. Your hands fluttered about me Like feeding Coragyps. Your serrated words chopped me down, cut me up Into pieces you could manage Into voiceless pieces you need not hear Into impotent slabs you need not fear. As I surrendered, you turned soft Immured me with your lanky arms. Brushed back my tears with your fickle palms, Pulled back my hair and kissed my scared-frozen neck. Hissing that you loved me, you hoisted up my skirt, slammed in and up into my belly. With a grunt collapsed atop me with your full dead weight. Repulsed you withdrew, stood up and glowered down in disgust. Your face became a familiar map of contempt. Your neck strained as you kicked me furiously. Torrid tears traced my cheek, then neck, pooled on the cool floor, As your fluid slid out. Weary and wary I begged Mother Earth to open up and swallow her defeated daughter and bring her home. Mother Always Asked Uncle Art to Babysit |
Charles Hayes, a multiple Pushcart Prize Nominee, is an American who lives part time in the Philippines and part time in Seattle with his wife. A product of the Appalachian Mountains, his writing has appeared in Ky Story’s Anthology Collection, Wilderness House Literary Review, The Fable Online, Unbroken Journal, CC&D Magazine, Random Sample Review, The Zodiac Review, eFiction Magazine, Saturday Night Reader, Cha: An Asian Literary Journal, Scarlet Leaf Publishing House, Burning Word Journal, eFiction India, and others. |
What A Joke
I saw the hurt and confusion on mom's face when she realized that Nixon was a crook and that my liberal leanings had a better hold on the truth than she had thought. Nevertheless she and her kind took care of the mess, got rid of Nixon, and kept their honor in tact. I watched it all unfold with the abandon of one who had just survived a war and was not about to get involved again in something that could actually change lives. That was then.
Today we have a republican party that is all about money while pretending that jobs, paid for by a huge tax cut, are not just a faster way for big business to acquire more wealth and consume resources. Just ask some of those who have had jobs, worked all of their lives, and now live check to check while those same republicans fantasize about gutting their sources of income. Any attempt to expose this is many times met with proclamations of patriotism, “the last refuge of the scoundrel.” Nixon should have been so lucky to have had such a milieu. Probably one of his offspring would be leading us now if he had been. Currently that might not be so bad. But, thank God, it wasn’t meant to be.
I have little doubt that the souls of people like my mother, John McCain, Dwight Eisenhower, and many others are restless when it comes to amerika today. And yet, in another way, it’s good that those dear souls can avoid the psychological stench that plagues me and others. This, one also can be thankful for.
For those who deign to follow the current republican ways paved with lying rhetoric, you had better have lots of that wealth because what wealth you have now is going to decrease exponentially. And with little wealth only your values will be able to provide succor. What a joke.
Charles Hayes, a multiple Pushcart Prize Nominee, is an American who lives part time in the Philippines and part time in Seattle with his wife. A product of the Appalachian Mountains, his writing has appeared in Ky Story’s Anthology Collection, Wilderness House Literary Review, The Fable Online, Unbroken Journal, CC&D Magazine, Random Sample Review, The Zodiac Review, eFiction Magazine, Saturday Night Reader, Cha: An Asian Literary Journal, Scarlet Leaf Publishing House, Burning Word Journal, eFiction India, and others. |
Last Prayer
The taste of blue steel as it presses against the roof of my mouth is vile but not as vile as what I have done. I voted for him. With my toe on the trigger, I flash pray. God, let this vote really count.
Ken Allan Dronsfield is a disabled veteran, prize winning poet and author from New Hampshire, now residing in Oklahoma. A proud member of the Poetry Society of New Hampshire, he has three poetry collections to date; 'The Cellaring', 'A Taint of Pity', and 'Zephyr's Whisper'. Ken does not have an MFA or Creative Writing Degree but, he once road a dirt bike on woodland trails from southern New Hampshire north into Canada. He's been nominated three times for the Pushcart Prize and six times for the Best of the Net. He was First Prize Winner for 2018 and 2019 in the Realistic Poetry Internationals Nature Poetry Contests. Ken loves writing, hiking, thunderstorms, and spending time with his cats Willa and Yumpy. |
Season of Flame – Ode to Australia
above billowing smoke and fire.
The tendrils of sunlight;
peek through lower clouds.
Reaching for crests of waves
on these long hazy days.
Great fires decimate the land
dispel truth and steal your breath.
As water hits the flame;
dark smoke changes to white.
Koala, Kangaroos and Wallabies,
birds and others escape from
burning thickets to small clearings,
trying to out-run the choking smoke.
To unravel this stifling torment;
you must begin somewhere.
The Heron soars higher;
over wisps of smoke at sunset.
The Diner
smoke and perfume waft in the air
old men cough at the crowed counter
the waitress arrives with my coffee
pesky flies buzz to and fro all about
I play judo trying to chase them away
one wins and lands upon the spoon
a door opens; fresh air begs an inhale.
Finish my coffee and donut I light up
with long inhales from my old pipe.
Ah yes, life is good here in the diner.
The Minuet
soaring above the red fiery pyre.
Sprites dodge wayward snowflakes;
seeking boughs of spruce cover.
Ice fairies waltz a loving minuet
on crystal icicles along my old roof.
Goblins dress in Sunday attire;
softly kiss with lemonade pouts,
chickadees rustle in pine needles
Life as a cherished mystical soul
whilst misty diamond stars weep.
During that icy passionate dance,
azure tidal rivers shall rise and fall.
Flashing tease of an ocular ellipse,
peeking full moon in pastel clouds.
Edge of a cold troll’s rapaciousness
inhales of a pinkish twilight unicorn,
all enjoy the minuet of the ice fairy.
The Yearning
through which came wishing, dreaming
within many splendid, unquiet enthusiasms
an echo murmured back the word, prayer!
I was needy and you solicitous,
my mind always straying to paradoxes.
Instead I uncovered the devotion,
the perkiness brought such euphoria
and so, I screamed, 'Is that a blessing?'
Mattering and assaultive within theodicy
Urging and purging within my slyness,
my shyness or otherness, I could not
awaken! Tossing its ghost into all desire,
'It's that barrenness,' I muttered
Queryingly back into my memories
craving the eccentric, eclectic fantasy
the yearning essential evanescence
an evolutionist laughed in retort.
'It's that piety,' I whispered.
The saintliness simply smiled.
THE BROWN ROOF
Taking a deep breath, I lie down on the red couch, brushing off some pretzel crumbs, and dial. Yes, dial is the correct word. I have only one phone and it’s a landline.
“Hi, Ma?” I say.
“Yeah, I was expecting your call,” she says.
“I called you yesterday,” I said, “but you didn’t pick up.”
“Sometimes I can’t find my phone,” she says.
No wonder. She sleeps in a double bed, the same one she and Dad used to sleep in before he died of brain cancer. She and my sister, Ellen, who lives with her, finally managed to buy a new mattress five years ago, but are still thinking of returning it.
“I went to Ada’s mom’s funeral the other day,” I say.
“What? Ada died?”
“No she did NOT,” I screamed into the phone.
“I’ll ask Ellen what you said,” she muttered, and then shouted “Ellen!”
They lived in a huge house and Ellen was usually on another floor. My mother would occasionally mention something I told her a dozen years ago. Case in point: that she could come live with me – after all, she gave me the money for my three-bedroom house – rather than put her in a home.
That woman could remember everything I said, not to mention every insult or slight from one of her five daughters.
“I want you to come over and go through my photos,” she said.
I didn’t mention I had done that and ended up at a point where I didn’t recognize any of the mishpucha. Yiddish for “family.” We were sitting at the kitchen table, a huge Shaker table with long benches with comfortable cushions on them. She had a picture album and we labeled the backs of the photos and shoved them into the compartments.
Not easy. I had her do it with her arthritic fingers.
From the red couch I heard some birds chirping.
“Mom, did you hear that?”
“What?”
“Birds chirping. I’ll open the door so you can hear.”
Two large bluejays were fighting in the birdbath in my front yard.
Squawk! Squawk!
“I hear them, faintly,” she said, not interested.
“The bluejays have no home. Nor do the chickadees,” I said. “Remember?”
She remembered that my boyfriend, Scott, who lives next door to me had three trees cut down. At the first cut, every single bird who lived in the tree or were perching there, sailed away as fast as they could.
It’s like living in your own house which was rocked by an earthquake.
“He got a good price from the tree service. Seven hundred fifty dollars,” she remembered. Money was Mom’s way of controlling her children.
A few moments of silence. When she spoke, I thought, Figures.
“You still owe me money from when you got your roof done.”
“I know,” I said. “I’m planning on paying you back. How much do I owe you?”
“Ellen!” she shouted.
I thought, I do have some stocks I could sell, but when the results arrive in the mail I don’t know what they mean.
“Never mind,” I said. “I have it written down some where.”
It was a bright November day.
“Mom, take a look outside.”
“I can’t,” she said, “it hurts too much to get out of bed.”
“Did Ellen give you your Alleve? You should take two.”
“I don’t remember,” she said.
On my kitchen table, I have a bright blue pill box where I keep my pills. The days of the week are chipping off, like old nail polish, since I’ve had it for 18 years.
“Ma, I’m going to hang up now but I’ll see you on Sunday.”
“Are you gonna bring lunch?”
“Uh, I think Lynn will.”
A major fight ensues when Lynn brings her three-course meals.
“Everyone out of the kitchen!” she proclaims. “I need all the room.”
Ellen is infuriated. In-fur-iated!!!
“Bye!” I say and hang up quickly.
In my polka-dot pajama top and bright blue slacks, I go outside where the blue sky shines brightly. Earlier that morning when I went out, I said Good morning to the neighbors who were still asleep in their beds.
Then I walked to the sidewalk and took a good look at my new roof.
If you can describe a roof as gorgeous, it sure was.
Brown tiles, which matched my yellow house.
Whenever I pull out of my driveway, I say, “God bless this house, even though I’m not sure there’s a God.”
John Mara began writing fiction this summer beside a serene New Hampshire lake after years writing business articles inside a stale New York cubicle. He writes with the creative input of his wife Holly. They never fail to attract mortified glances when they discuss ideas and plot structure in restaurants. John’s short stories are published or forthcoming in eight markets, including Scarlet Leaf Review. |
Maternal Justice
“His hands and arms are comin’ with me,” Zack says. “You bury the rest of ‘im good before dark.”
“In which grave, son? The one I dug today or the one I dug last night?”
“Brother died today. Who’d you dig a grave for last night, Maw?”
“I dug it for myself,” she says. “But what’s it matter? Now you can choose. Bury ‘im right side of Pa, or left?”
“Bury ‘im left. Left’s good.”
“You gonna help me bury ‘im, Zack? I’ve been up on this hill diggin’ since last night, and I’m feelin’ cold dead myself.”
“I’m done with buryin’, Maw. I buried hundreds during the war, both Union and Confederate. The killin’ got too easy. Bury ‘im yerself.”
Zack lumbers down the hill to their farmhouse below, carrying the two prosthetic limbs he took from Brother. The prosthetics are carved of solid oak, with hinged elbows and wrists, and fingers painted to look real. Just two weeks ago, a Union Army surgeon fit them to Brother’s stubs after the Rebs blew off his real arms at the battle ending the Civil War – Appomattox. The matching oak arms were pulled from a dead Union captain who valued their fine craftsmanship. “They’ll fetch a pretty penny, these arms will,” Zack says. “Besides, Brother won’t be a needing ‘em no more.”
Up on the hill, Maw drags what’s left of Brother’s corpse into his grave. She kneels and whispers a mother’s eulogy to him, and she talks to Brother before putting her shovel to work. But Maw doesn’t fill the grave as she had planned. Instead, she learns from Brother about a sibling dispute that needs her maternal resolution before he’s put completely to rest. She perches the shovel on her shoulder and traces Zack’s steps to the farmhouse below.
###
“Murderer!” Maw brandishes the shovel over Zack as he sits at the kitchen table admiring the oak arms. “You killed your own brother!”
“Murder? Hah!” Zack says. Let’s say for a minute I did – and I didn’t, you skinny old goat. How would you know?”
“Brother just told me, that’s how I know. He told me all you done,” Maw says.
“There was no murderin’, Maw. Brother died of the terrible fever he got when his real arms were blown off. We was paroled after the Rebs surrendered at Appomattox, and I dragged him back to Pennsylvania, new oak arms and all. We got home this mornin’, and that fever finished ‘im off good by noon.”
“You was tellin’ it straight there, son, right up to the very end.” Maw paces around the kitchen. “But when you got home today, you saw how the Rebs killed Pa, slaughtered the animals and ruined the fields while you and Brother was gone fightin’. That’s when you decided to finish Brother off good before noon. There was no fever. You smothered ‘im with his own pillow!”
“You’ve been up that hill diggin’ graves since last night,” Zack says. “You wouldn’t know about any pillow killin’ down here from way up there.”
“Why’d you kill Brother today over what the Rebs done marchin’ through here two whole years ago?” Maw says.
“We’ve got to work to survive, Maw, and he’d drag us down!” Zack says. “You ain’t done nothin’ on this here farm in two years. Ever since that Reb regiment destroyed it! I’ll plant us a garden at least, and we’ll buy us a cow once we sell these pretty oak arms.”
“Brother could’ve helped on the farm some, so he says.”
“What could Brother do, with nothin’ but oak arms? Can you see ‘im milkin’ a cow with these wooden hands? How ‘bout swingin’ a shovel in the fields?”
“Even so, couldn’t you let ‘im live out his days in peace?”
“Be practical, Maw! He’d contribute nothin’, he’d need nursin’, and he’d be another mouth to feed. At least you can work that shovel real good!”
“I’ve a right mind to tell the sheriff what you done,” Maw says. “What’s just is just.”
“Tell the governor if you want! But who’d fix what the Rebs done to this farm with me rottin’ in the county jail?”
“Then maybe I’ll show you some justice myself!” Maw circles the kitchen table, threatening Zack with the shovel.
Zack lifts the oak arms to shield his skull. “I’m the judge and jury here now! With Pa gone, I own this farm!”
“Brother says you won’t be gettin’ away with it. Not this time. He can’t change being dead, that he knows. But he says he’ll be a wantin’ them arms of yours, to be buried complete.”
“Well he can’t be a havin’ no arms!” Zack says. “We’ll turn these fancy oak arms into a milkin’ cow to help make the farm complete! Brother’s worth more to us dead than alive.”
“You had somethin’ to do with him losin’ his real arms in the first place,” Maw says.
“Let’s suppose I did – and I didn’t, you skinny old goat. Who told you?”
“Brother told me,” Maw says.
“First the pillow, now his arms? He talks plenty for a dead man.”
“I know your ways, son. When you was kids, you sent ‘im down the well for the cat, and you sent ‘im into the burning barn for the calf. I know you sent him through that rigged door in Appomattox, too.”
Zack eyes get big, and he jumps up from the kitchen table. “How would you know about any rigged door in Appomattox?” Brother and Zack were securing buildings near the Appomattox Court House, so General Lee could surrender his army to General Grant. Zack sent Brother into the buildings first, because the Rebs booby trapped a few of the doors. Brother eventually pushed open the wrong door. He lost his real arms the very morning the South lost the war.
“After what you done at Appomattox, he’ll be a wanting them arms of yours,” Maw says. “To be buried proper for the judgment day, so he says.”
“You still got that mother’s intuition, Maw, with your pillows, arms, rigged doors and what not. I’ll give you that much. But you’re doggone crazy now, too.”
“My head’s been swimmin’ since three of them Rebs did what they done to me – after they killed Pa for tryin’ to stop ‘em,” Maw says. ”I keep seein’ their evil faces, and I ain’t slept in my own bed since. I ask the Virgin Mother every night to forgive what I done.”
“I’m just tryin’ to fix what’s broke on the farm and what’s broke in you, Maw, that’s all. With Brother out of the way, the fixin’s easier, don’t you see?”
“It’s past dark. Time to get back up to the graves for the night,” Maw says. She takes her shovel into Zack’s bedroom and slides it under his bed.
“One more thing before I go, son,” Maw says when she returns to the kitchen. “Reach inside that oak arm there – the left one. Brother says you’ll find the paper you was lookin’ for when you killed ‘im.”
Zack pulls a folded document from the hollow of the oak arm. “So that’s where he hid it! It’s Pa’s will, Maw,” he says. “Brother wanted to steal the farm out from under me. That’s why he put it where I’d never look.”
“You forced Pa to change this here will two years ago,” Maw points out. “See there? Your name only, Brother’s name gone. Stamped official, June 1863. He found it the day before the two of you left to defend Gettysburg from the invading Rebs.”
“So what? I’m oldest. The farm’s mine,” Zack says. “I’m aimin’ to find a girl and start me a family.”
“You knew Brother was aimin’ to contest the will when he got home and found Pa dead.” She lays the will on the table next to the oak arms. “Brother’s awful curious what got ‘im killed. Was it the arms he lost or the will he found? Or some of both?”
“What is it you want, Maw?”
“I only want what’s just all around before I’m back up on the hill buried for good,” she says.
Zack walks Maw to the door. He starts her up the hill and away from the town sheriff. “She knows all of what I done,” he mutters. “Why not sleep here tonight in Brother’s bed?” he calls up to her.
“’Cause Pa says all he wants now is me near.”
Zack closes the farmhouse door. “Fixin’ the farm’ll be hard, Maw, but fixin’ you is easy,” he says. “You’ll be sleepin’ on the wrong side of a pillow before long, too.”
#
The town doctor rides up to the farmhouse at sunrise to conduct his weekly check on Maw. Or Maw’s head, that is. Doc knew her before the war started, when she managed her farm and family, practiced her faith, and turned any man’s eye. She deteriorated gradually during the course of the war, but Doc watched her plummet into an abyss after the Rebs murdered Pa and ruined the farm – and her – on their march to Gettysburg. She hit rock bottom the day Doc delivered the stillborn baby of the Rebs that raped her. “It was the devil’s seed,” Maw told him. She seems better on some days, but on other days she sinks back into her abyss. Doc heard in town that her two boys got home yesterday from the war. That should raise her spirits! Let’s hope today is one of her better days.
Doc finds her in the bedroom smiling tranquilly over Zack as he sleeps. “Morning, Ma’am. Let’s bring in some sunshine.” Doc opens the curtain, and Maw lifts Zack’s pillow from his face. Doc rushes to the bed. Zack’s face is ashen, and his skin is clammy. He’s delirious, barely conscious, and his panicked eyes stare fixed ahead.
Doc pulls back the covers to take Zack’s pulse. The sheets are sodden with blood. Off to the side, Maw hears one thump and then another, as the two oak arms drop to the floor. Doc will ask questions later; right now he wants to save Zack’s life. He examines the jagged stumps of Zack’s arms. “He’s lost most of his blood, Ma’am. He’s in shock. I don’t know how, but something kept him alive until I got here.”
“Maybe someone was careful to keep ‘im alive. That way he can think over all he done,” Maw says contentedly. “I told him Brother would be a wanting them arms of his.”
Doc stays at work tightening the two tourniquets. He served a stint in the war, and he knows how to treat Zack’s traumatic wounds. Maw’s head and solving what happened to Zack will have to wait.
Maw collects a carpetbag and her shovel from under Zack’s bed.
“Now where do you think you’re going, Ma’am?” Doc says. ”I’m just getting started here.” He injects Zack with morphine.
“I’m goin’ to stay with some kinfolk – nice and peaceful up on a hill.”
“But what about this kin here? Zack will need plenty of nursing, starting right now.”
“This farm’s his now to do with as he likes, so says Pa’s last will.” Maw tosses the will guilelessly onto Zack’s bed.
“I think he’ll survive in the end,” Doc says. “But he’ll never redeem this farm with arms made of oak.”
“Ain’t no matter. Zack swindled his brother outta the farm, and then he swindled him outta his oak arms. He wanted both, and now he’s got both.”
Doc cuts Zack’s hair to examine a crack in his skull. He takes a careful look at Maw’s shovel. “Zack survived the war without a scratch, Ma’am. How did someone get close enough to cut him to pieces like this? And where were you and his brother last night when it happened?” He sees blood caked on the black mourning dress Maw has worn for the last two years.
“Will you be wantin’ your coffee before I go?” Maw says. “We’ve got a lot to talk about over our coffee, Ma’am. But I have a lot more to do to stabilize Zack first. Don’t be running off too far until then.”
“Just goin’ up the hill there, Doc, that’s all.”
Maw leaves the farmhouse with her carpetbag and shovel, pleased about the extra measure of blood vengeance she apportioned on behalf of Pa and herself. “You’re in for a surprise, Doc, when you find Zack’s privates went missin’, too,” Maw says unaffectedly over her shoulder. “If Brother can’t carry on the family name for Pa then neither should a son like Zack,” she decrees. After Maw cracked Zack’s skull and severed his arms, she adjudicated three additional hacks of her shovel to his genitals. On each stroke, she flashed back to the faces of the three Rebs that despoiled her two years ago and gave her the devil’s child. Zack stayed responsive long enough to mumble pleas for mercy, but it was no use. With her latest troubles added to her former ones, Maw had retreated deeper than ever into her dark abyss. ###
Maw trudges up the hill. She kneels over Brother where she left him waiting last night in his grave. She pulls Zack’s two mutilated arms out of the carpetbag and positions them on Brother with solemn ceremony. “Now you got them arms of his you wanted, son, to face Saint Peter proper at his gate,” Maw says. “Good and fresh.” With Brother’s cold justice complete, she shovels dirt with calm finality into his grave.
Maw shuffles over to the grave she dug for herself, on Pa’s right. Two nights ago, before her boys arrived home, she knelt in her grave. She pulled up the sleeves of her black mourning dress and slashed her wrists with Pa’s razor to escape her shattered world. The blood pumped slowly and completely out of her. She could feel her soul, her life being, leave her, and she joined Pa among the dead. But she didn’t pull the dirt down over herself as she had planned. When she prayed for her soul’s redemption to the Mother Mary, a mother’s intuition rose in Maw that sustained her – bodily at least – among the living. Although Maw was newly dead, the Mother Mary resolved to leave her corporeal being behind in this world as a vessel to work one last maternal intervention. She waited in her grave and, when Zack delivered Brother’s corpse to her up on the hill, Brother told her exactly what she could do to allot some maternal justice.
And now with that justice fully administered, Maw adjourns into her grave to resume the bodily part of her escape. This time, she pulls dirt down onto herself with her shovel, and the Mother Mary releases her corporeal being from this world. She enters the cold darkness of her final passage, not with the anguish she felt two nights ago, but with a warm maternal contentment. In the end, Maw knows she has conferred on Brother, Zack, Pa and herself precisely what each wanted. “What’s just is just.”
" Ami ek jajabor' ( I am a gypsy ...)
Some of the writings including poems appeared in dissidentvoice.org, Leaves of Ink, Tuck Magazine, Virasam, Velivada, countercurrents.org, counterview.org, counterview.net, sabrangindia.in , etc.
The omnipresent spy
Your steps I track
Even before you speak,
I record your talk
Even before you think
All your thoughts I sync
Even before you try to wink
I keep you restless and awake ....
Forget your individuality and identity
You are just a 'non- entity'
I occupy all the available space
Like the furtively alert 'Pegasus'...!
Do not raise questions like 'how' and 'why'
I am the omniscient omnipresent spy
Who can demolish any and every question
Before you wonder and feel the sensation !
Another beginning
Blossoming to greet sun,
Hope and optimism
Greets people every morning.
As the day progresses,
Failures interspersed with success
Lead lives
Till late night
Every night
Little optimism and
Lot of pessimism
Lead people to pray
For a better tomorrow ....
Days
Months
Years
Have passed this way
But every new year,
New resolutions
And yearnings for a better year
Never cease ...
Every extra day or year
Adds to history of optimism
And existence of life ....!
Me and Bart Go to the Circus
Early that morning I was bouncing a tennis ball off the garage door, partly to keep in practice catching and partly because I was mad at Mom, and knew the noise bothered her.
I took my eye off the ball and it rolled under my glove. I chased it down across the lawn and when I stood up, Bart was crossing the street wearing a big grin. Good, I needed a friend.
Bart stopped and put his hands on his hips. “Did you know the circus is coming to town?”
“Yeah, I know. I saw a poster at the hardware store. My mom said we couldn’t afford it right now. I don’t want new clothes for school. I want to go to the circus. I’ve never seen an elephant.”
“Well,” Bart said, “My mom had a friend over for breakfast and he said we should go to the circus.”
“But my mom said—"
“No, you don’t get it. I don’t know what he does at the circus, but he said they’re always looking for vendors.”
“That still doesn’t get us to the circus.”
“Vendors sell stuff. He said we could sell popcorn at the circus. And he’d grease a skid or something so we would be chosen as vendors. And we make money.”
“You mean we get paid to go to the circus?”
“We get in free. And the more popcorn we sell, the more money we make.”
“Everybody likes popcorn. We’ll be rich. But I need to check with my mom first.”
I was careful not to slam the screen door because I needed to have her say yes.
“Mom, Bart’s Mom’s friend said we could be popcorn vendors at the circus and we’d get in free and we’d get to see every show and we’d see elephants and we make money and can I go, please? Please? Please?
“If you stop bouncing that ball off the garage, yes.”
“What? Really? I can go? Yes, yes, I’ll stop bouncing the ball.” I couldn’t believe my ears.
I dashed out of the house, tripped over the garden hose and fell flat on my face on the lawn. Bart helped me up.
“I can go! And I can be a vendor.”
“Great,” Bart said. “There are shows Thursday evening, Friday evening, and two shows on Saturday. And we get to go to every show.”
“I can’t wait for two weeks for the shows to start. This will be like a job, but fun.”
“I know. I guess they’ll tell us all we need to know at the orientation. I think we have to pay for popcorn we eat, just like at the movies.”
“Get your glove,” I said, “let’s play catch.”
Thursday took forever to come but it did. Me and Bart were at the circus gate three hours before the start and stood in line by a door labeled “Vendors.”
I looked around. “Everyone seems older than us, Bart.”
“Yeah, I’m not worried. We’re mature for our age and we have an in.”
We got to the front of the line and there was a skinny old man with a scraggly beard. Bart said, “We’re here to be popcorn vendors.”
“Well, are you now?” The old man had a booming voice and he looked me and Bart up and down. I was afraid he wouldn’t let us in.
He broke into a broad grin and said, “Welcome aboard, young fellas. We are indeed in need of eager popcorn sellers. Go to the room on the left and pay attention to what you’re told. Okay?”
I hadn’t realized I was holding my breath, but I let out a big sigh as Bart answered, “You betcha.”
The orientation was about making change from a dollar. Seemed pretty easy. We were assigned the north side of the arena.
“Which side is the north?” I whispered to Bart.
Bart raised his hand and asked my question.
“The north side is the one without bleachers,” came the reply. “The south side has bleachers. Stay in your assigned areas. Everyone get that?”
I nodded along with everyone else.
The first show wasn’t even close to sold out and I didn’t sell much popcorn, but I got to watch many of the acts. The trapeze artists flew through the air and were amazing. I was glad none of them fell to the net. My favorite were the lions and the clowns. That is, until the elephants came into the ring. I couldn’t take my eyes off them. The elephants were led out of the ring and then all the performers marched around the ring and then the circus was over.
I went back to the popcorn room to turn in my tray and money pouch, minus my take. “I still have four boxes of popcorn in my tray.”
The man behind the counter asked, “First time?”
“Yes,” I answered.
“How’d it go?”
“Well, there are a lot of stairs and I’m kinda tired. But it’s good training for baseball.”
He grinned. “The deal is that you can take the leftover popcorn home, if you want it.”
“Really? For free?”
“Sure. We don’t want to sell old popcorn tomorrow.”
“Thanks. I’ll take it. I love popcorn.”
I hadn’t seen Bart after the elephants left the ring, but I heard his voice as I backed away from the counter.
“Bart, we get to keep the popcorn!”
“I know, cool, huh?”
“Where have you been?”
“Visiting the elephants. They’re really big.”
“Can I see them up close?”
Bart nodded. “The elephant trainer said we could after the last show.”
The other shows looked just like the first show, but they were still fun. We sold lots more popcorn on Friday and Saturday than on Thursday. I had all the stairs I needed by the end of the second show on Saturday.
I was excited about a profitable venture, free circus and popcorn, but I really wanted to see the elephants. I put my hand on Bart’s shoulder. “Now can we see the elephants?”
“Yup, follow me.”
We arrived at the elephant tent and the trainer waved at Bart. “Remember our deal?”
“Sure do,” Bart said.
“What’s the deal?” I asked.
“We shovel all the poo into the container and we get to keep a bag. Nobody in town has elephant poo.”
“That’s right,” said the trainer. “But first, come with me, and I’ll introduce you to the elephants.”
They were bigger up close than in the ring. I got to touch their skin. The skin felt a little like tree bark, but it was soft, or maybe like a big rubber eraser. One of the elephants ate some hay out of my hand. Now I was sure I wanted to be an elephant trainer when I grow up.
“Thank you so much,” I told the trainer. “I grabbed a shovel and started in.”
It was easy work and only took about ten minutes. Me and Bart each filled up a small plastic bag to take home.
The trainer said, “Might want to leave the bag in your garage, it’ll keep better that way.”
The trainer kept smiling and shaking his head the whole time we shoveled. Me and Bart were smiling too, because we were going to be the only ones in the area with elephant poo.
Popcorn, money, touching elephants, and our own bag of elephant poo. All in all, it was a good day, and who knows, there is always tomorrow.
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ABIGAIL GEORGE
AHMAD AL-KHATAT
BARRY VITCOV
BOBBY Z
BRUCE LEVINE
CAROL SMALLWOOD
C. CHRISTINE FAIR
CHARLES HAYES
CHARLES SPRINGER
CHELSIE RIVERA
CHRISTOPHER MALONE
CURTIS A. BASS
DOUG HAWLEY
GRACIE PHILLIPS
IOANA COSMA
JOHN ("JAKE") COSMOS ALLER
JOHN MARA
JOHN TUSTIN
JON CARTER
JORDAN ALMOND
JOSIE ROZELL
KABEDOOPONG PIDDO DDIBE'ST
KAITLYN REESE
KEITH BURKHOLDER
KEN ALLAN DRONSFIELD
K SHESHU BABU
LOIS GREENE STONE
MARC CARVER
MARY GATHERU
MEGAN E. FREEMAN
MICHAEL LEE JOHNSON
NDABA SIBANDA
NT FRANKLIN
OLIVIA ARIETI
RUTH Z. DEMING
SAM JOHNSON
SARAH ELLIS
SAVANNAH MARTIN
SHERRON SINCLAIR TULLOS
TOM O'BRIEN
ZOEY CHANDLER