The Sleeping Baby
by
Misty sat in her grandmother’s chair, staring quietly at the small crib where the baby once lay. The room was so small, so unforgiving of the shadows covering every hidden corner, but the lamp threw a warm light on the crib and the tiny mattress covered by small sheets. Rabbits and squirrels decorated the sheets, though their movements lay suspended in the light. These weren’t the sheets on which he’d died; the police confiscated those. Of course, they found nothing but a faint stain of blood from his saliva. It was obvious that neither she nor Jason were responsible for the baby’s condition. And so the attitude of those wonderful authority figures turned from suspicion to sympathy, but she hadn’t really noticed at the time; their suspicions failed to penetrate her profound sadness.
She sat in the old chair, hugging a blanket. The room was cold, but she didn’t want to move to adjust the thermostat. She watched the crib and waited, because she knew he would appear again, and if she moved away or became distracted by some other concern he might not appear at all. No, it wasn’t a supernatural event, as Jason suggested months ago; it was only her mind inventing it, as if, through some imaginative engine, she created an impression of him once again in the room. Certainly nothing mystical was involved, though if it was she wouldn’t have made a distinction. Jason said as much when she first told him of seeing their baby in the crib. He was going to throw it away because he insisted it supported her delusion, but she begged him not to, she told him that some essence of the child, some spiritual quality still slept there, still inhabited the small bed, was still present in the room. She could see it, hear it, sense it in the air, but only if she concentrated long enough. Then the baby might appear, because she was his mother, and he’d left her in sorrow.
She’d wanted the chair long before her mother decided to give it to her. You’ll never have children of your own, her mother often told her before Sean’s birth. You weren’t meant to be a mother, you’re too selfish, too self-centered, you’ve always been that way, since you were a child—but what did her mother know about her capacity for love and caring? It wasn’t until the baby was dead that the chair passed into her possession, perhaps to atone for the criticisms her mother offered, the hurtful, ugly criticisms Misty deflected when she’d given birth to her beautiful little boy. She accepted the chair because she’d always wanted it; she’d loved her grandmother, who was a caring woman of liberal beliefs, unlike Misty’s mother who sought to control the world through vitriol and unwavering philosophical convictions. Her allegiance to her grandmother produced endless criticisms because of her mother’s resentment—or was that Misty’s fault? Perhaps she’d been intentionally sympathetic to her grandmother just to punish the woman— Yes, it was all very psychological and foolish, but it meant nothing now. The chair held the spirit of her grandmother, too, and so assisted in the process, she was certain. Why was her mother so dismissive? And why couldn’t she support her now?
She stared intently on the crib, as she had for the last few hours, remembering his face in her imagination, willing him to appear. She’d been sitting and staring listlessly at the crib the first night he materialized, the small hands and feet, the thin tracing of dark hair on his head, the faint blue of his eyes staring back at her. Some delicious fever overwhelmed her, and she seemed to lose all sense of the reality around her, the small, dark room and the sounds of life beyond the apartment—she’d wanted to call to Jason to come see, but she seemed imprisoned in a curious fugue, and could only watch her baby moving and laughing and waving his hands at her. She felt an inexplicable joy beyond understanding. Then, as the spell broke and she became aware of the world, Sean vanished from her and returned to the place from where his spirit found substantiation. She tried explaining the phenomenon to Jason, but he just couldn’t understand. Surely she was hallucinating, he said. But it was a real phenomenon—
He simply couldn’t understand the truth. He could only stand by helplessly when she found Sean’s still blue body waiting for her on the morning of that terrible day. Finally, he wiped the bloody mucous from the baby’s nose and then stood staring at his fingers as if the act might regenerate his son. She’d called the ambulance hoping that there was still a chance to save her baby—but he was dead, long dead from a night without breath, and there was nothing left to do but speak with the police and arrange for the burial. In that moment even her mother was shaken, and cried for the little life taken by sudden death. What kind of condition did a baby suffer for which there was no certain cause? And all the tears and all the words spoken in untenable grief—what good were they, ultimately, when her hands would never hold her son again? She tried explaining this to Jason time and again, but he simply couldn’t, or wouldn’t, understand. He accused her of so many things, just like her mother. And then her mother began questioning her behavior. Why was she still depressed? Why couldn’t she accept the circumstances of his death? Why did she need to flounder in self-pity and delusion? So she stopped speaking to her mother. Shortly after that, Jason moved out of the apartment. He said he just had to get away, to have some time to himself. But the days turned into weeks, and the weeks turned into months; soon, the time he needed to adjust to his grief would become a lifetime. So be it. Misty was only twenty-six, but her youth meant nothing for their future. She’d told him she would never have another baby. Losing another baby would be too painful, it would be the end of her, and she couldn’t live with any more grief. All right, he was gone, her mother once again at a distance from her life, and she was alone in the small apartment in the small room that should have been the ruin of her mind.
But her mind wasn’t ruined, because she knew she would see her baby again. This is what everyone else failed to understand. To see her baby, even through a supernatural curtain, meant more to her than what was left of her life. Of course, he didn’t appear every night, or on any perceivable pattern of days. Perhaps his appearance depended on the strength of her conviction on any given night. Or perhaps the level of her belief in his eternity determined whether or not he materialized. Tonight she sat in her grandmother’s chair staring intently at the crib, studying the warm light of the lamp beside it, praying for him to appear. She moved her body in the chair, a body grown thin and fragile, but no less determined; she never let her vision wander from the little bed. Tonight she would see him, she thought—
And then I’ll reach out to you and feel your little fingers around my fingers, and you’ll smile at me again like you used to whenever I made noises over you, laughing noises that a baby loves, and you’ll call out to me in your little voice and tell me without words how much you love me and miss me and I’ll tell you how much I miss you and wish I could be with you all the time again, and maybe you’ll let me hold you in my arms tonight and sing to you again—you’re coming tonight, I know you’re coming to see me—
But the night grew long again, and she grew weary from staring at the crib for so many hours. That was, perhaps, her failure; that she couldn’t sustain her wakefulness in the night long enough to see him appear; that he would only appear when her mind was balancing on the edge of full coherence. She felt her eyes close then, and opened them with a start. But soon her eyes betrayed her again, and again, and she couldn’t command them to deny their natural inclination. The caffeine pills were useless; soon she’d have to find stronger stimulants. But what if they interfered with the process? What if she introduced some potent drug into her system and found that it only ruined the experience? Perhaps she would try these things, but not now. She didn’t want to think of her failures, or the potential for failure. She didn’t want to think of her husband or her mother. She only wanted to think of that extraordinary moment when, like a dream, Sean’s tiny face found substance in the air. Her eyes fluttered again, with a heaviness that dropped painful tears on her cheeks. The sleep was coming on her, and it was a terrible thing. She lasted another few minutes before the weariness became an irresistible force; then, just before she closed her eyes to sleep in the old chair, she thought she saw a shadow moving in the crib just beyond the blanket of light from the lamp, a small, moving shadow gesticulating with tiny hands, breathing still; and she thought she heard the faintest noise, like the call of a dove, from the place where her beautiful baby had died—
When she woke from a dreamless sleep the sunlight burst upon her from the window and bathed the small room in its purity. She sighed, pulled the blanket from her body, and rose from the chair. Her joints ached terribly, and her muscles; her neck was stiff from sleeping in the familiar position. The sunlight filled the room, and she knew that any potential for seeing her baby would have to wait for another evening. Nothing else mattered to her. She would dress again, and drive to her work again, and labor quietly to pass the day; but she only really cared about the coming night, and the possibility of his arrival. What a strange life. And now she lived it alone, without her mother, without her husband, and without her baby boy. She stepped to the crib and moved her hand along the railing reverently, as if, unseen, a child’s ghost might be offended by careless gestures. She understood that, too. But she was the only one who did—her mother and her husband could only tell her, over and over again, how they couldn’t understand her dedication to her mourning. But it wasn’t so, was it? If they could see what she’d seen so long ago, in the shadow-line between sleeping and waking, they wouldn’t be so determined to dismiss her behavior. She moved her palm over the smooth sheet. Let them go, she thought, and I’ll wait here for you, I’ll give my life to you.
I’m not just being selfish, she thought. How could they say that I am?
Lawrence Buentello lives in San Antonio, Texas. His poetry and prose have appeared in several publications, including The Storyteller, Word Riot, Avocet and The Wallace Stevens Journal. He is also the author of the short story collection Ghosts of the American Dream and the novel South of the Moon.
Study of a Child in the Arms of a Woman courtesy of Art.com
Diggory and the Privileges of Man
by
Diggory knew he was in trouble. His simulacrum stood side by side with his opponent’s in a shifting cloud of light; two faceless, gray men floating in a sea of velvet pinpricks. They were representations, of course, zeros and ones stored on a server somewhere in cyberspace. Each point of light represented the vote of one member, and Diggory’s solid sheen of red had been shifting inexorably towards green throughout the debate. Nothing could be more important, for he who presided over the super-secret Order of The Privileges of Man controlled the destiny of millions of hapless females, while bettering the state of Man. True names were never used. Diggory’s handle was One of All. His opponent: Lightening Rod.
There were four minutes left before the vote became fixed. Trouble was, Diggory had nothing to argue. He had come here expecting swift confirmation. After all, he was the chosen candidate for the Glorium party, founders of the Order of The Privileges of Man. Everyone knew they had the best interests of man at heart. This Lightening Rod didn’t even have party affiliation!
“My friends,” Diggory said, trying to exude confidence. “Sex with more women. Sex with younger women. Sex without commitment. This has been the goal of our secret organization for more than 100 years. We, the Gloriums, have done more to further these noble goals than even Gloria Steinem, for whom our party is named. What is more, we have managed to convince women that, by becoming the sexual aggressors, by forgoing foreplay (Diggory smiled at his own wordplay) and eschewing marriage, they have taken power away from men!”
He turned up his auditory receptors to savor the laughter from thousands of Privileges members. More lights flashed red. Diggory’s hopes soared.
“It was the Glorium party, after all, that convinced parents that government should be responsible for teaching Sex Education, this being such a sticky subject to initiate. Thus we unhitched generations of young women from tedious moral hang-ups taught by out-dated parental, or worse, church-based morality.” He pressed a button on his belt and a graph showing sex education spending from 1970 to 2090 shimmered into view. “Notice how the increase in federal sex education spending almost perfectly coincides with increased promiscuity.” Two shimmering graphs overlapped. “Since my party first set the Order of Privileges of Man in motion, more people have been doing more partners, beginning at a younger age. And, as we predicted, as celebrities became infected with STD’s, more money has been spent on drug research, mitigating that niggling issue. Thus the concerns of our more timid members have proven unfounded. My friends, I will continue in the fine tradition of the Glorium party. If Gloria Steinem were still alive and aware of our organization, I am sure she would vote for me.” His final joke swung large swaths of lights to red. Diggory had a commanding lead.
The newcomer’s simulacrum darkened, indicating his turn to speak.
“No one denies the successes of the Gloriums,” Lightening Rod began. “But promiscuity levels have stalled. Women are actually waiting longer to have first intercourse than twelve years ago, and despite your recent efforts, they still view beer-belly blubber as a turn off.”
There was something odd about Lightening Rod, something familiar. Diggory wondered if he might actually know this person in realbody. The thought was disturbing. After all, the Privileges of Man had managed to remain anonymous for a hundred and twenty years.
“Your order reveres Gloria Steinem. Well, Steinem’s motto was, ‘A woman needs man like a fish needs a bicycle.’ She and other feminists taught women to become sexual predators, to reject family values and relish inhibition. But I have news for you, the efforts of this order has actually made you dependent on women.”
Most of the lights flashed off. Nobody seemed to know what to think. Back in realbody, Diggory heard his girlfriend flick off the VidCaster. Thank goodness this was nearly over! It wouldn’t do to let Yvonne see him hooked in to the Simulacrum Generator. Too many awkward questions.
Lightening Rod continued, “The Gloriums have led us into a neat little trap. We still need women. In fact, this need defines the order. It is time for a change.”
To Diggory’s astonishment, green dots began to light up in fits and spurts, while red remained noticeably absent. He broke all protocol and shouted, “We need women, sure. And a fisherman needs fish, but which one gets hooked?”
His microphone snapped off. In his ear, speakers announced, “You have spoken out of turn. You will no longer be able to influence these proceedings.”
“My friends,” Lightening Rod said, “I’m talking about eliminating the need for women altogether. I’m talking about making Gloria Steinem’s dream come true in reverse. I’m talking about womb implants.”
Diggory’s legs buckled. More lights turned green. This couldn’t be happening!
“Members take heart,” Lightening Rod said. “The technology is here. The days of dependence are over. With a simple implant, you can procreate, justify mood swings, qualify for maternity leave and even experience multiple orgasms. All without the burden of women.”
Through Diggory’s stunned ears: thunderous applause. The lights waxed a nearly unanimous green. The Privileges of Man had elected a new president.
“Honey,” Yvonne called, “You all right in there?”
Diggory closed the simulacrum connection with trembling hands. He removed the sensor pads from his body and stuffed them in the desk drawer. He couldn’t believe what had just happened. The whole order had been turned upside down in a matter of minutes. The Gloriums had been swept away. Thousands of men would undoubtedly rush to follow the new president’s lead.
“Dig?”
“Yes Yve. I’m OK. Just got some bad news, that’s all.”
Diggory shuffled from the den to the living room. Yvonne was pumping her elliptical machine vigorously. She had short, blond hair cut in a bowl. Her face, especially her button nose, was so cute the haircut actually worked. She wore short shorts and a tight, pink top. Sweat glistened on her forehead and her cleavage. Normally Yvonne’s sweaty body would be enough to take Diggory’s mind off his troubles, but not tonight. A twelve-pack and drug-enhanced boner might not be enough. He shuffled over and collapsed on the couch.
Yvonne stopped pumping, stepped off the machine and began pulling electronic pads from under her shirt, on her thighs, on her butt. Her breathing didn’t seem terribly strained.
“Testing your cardio?” he asked.
She shook her head and smiled. When Yvonne was happy she had a way of grinning with one side of her mouth that Diggory found irresistible. She joined him and draped her leg across his lap. Heat poured from her in waves. “Looks like you’ve been struck by lightening,” she said, stroking his forehead.
His fingers chilled. That voice, the simulacrum…
“Dig, I’ve just found out I’m pregnant,” she said.
“But you…you’re…”
“Yes Dig, you can call me Rod. And since the Order has changed, I’ve decided not to carry our baby to term.”
“You’re not?”
“No Diggory, you are.”
Scott Barnes’ short fiction has appeared, or is forthcoming, in Bewildering Stories, Reflection’s Edge, Midnight Times, The Lamp-Post: Literary Journal of the C.S. Lewis Society and Nite Blade. More of his work can also be found at his website.
Electronic Emotional Thought courtesy Art.com
A Touch of Time
by
She was much prettier than he’d imagined. Dusty brown bangs floated around her forehead with long waves splashing against the air around her neck. Her lips were two waves of flesh on the crest of a kiss. Her figure fit everyman’s calendar dream—not overly undersized, not overly muscular or plump or buxom or plank-like. He could have sworn that her eyes glowed blue. She was just right. As he knew she would be.
So much for the warnings about Internet dating. He’d just hit the World Wide Jackpot and he wasn’t about to wonder how he’d become this lucky.Her name was Persephone. He didn’t find it strange at all. His own name was Mordecai. Mordecai Morris. And he hadn’t spoken to his parents in a long time. He couldn’t remember Persephone mentioning her parents in any of their chats. He wondered if they were scholars or teachers or just well-read average Joes who thought they might wrest a name out of time and bounce it off the walls of the modern world. But he liked it. It suited her. She seemed to know a lot about history and the classics, and had described some of her favorite historical events in minute detail, as if she’d been on a movie set, designing the costumes and directing the course of action, much like a technical consultant drawing from personal memory.
He thought it was pretty damn cool that she looked as good as she did. This was just about the best thing that ever happened to him, or likely ever would.
“You’re Persephone?” he asked, smiling a little mischievously, knowing the answer.
“I don’t think so,” she said with a devilish smile. “What makes you think so?”
God, she was just like in her chats.
“Oh, the fact that you’re wearing a black turtleneck, red tartan skirt, black leggings, and you’re sitting at the table I reserved for us.”
“Nice guessing, Morry.” It was what she called him. He loved it. It sounded even better than it read. “Hope you can read Manchurian,” she said.
“This is a Manchurian restaurant?”
“You made the reservations.”
“Oh, yeah.” He pulled his chin lightly between two fingers. “I guess that would explain the name: The Frozen Horde. I thought it had something to do with iced desserts and lots and lots of blueberries or something.”
“Blueberries!” she squealed and grabbed his hand.
They were sitting in a café outdoors, in what looked to be a medieval French city overlooking a cobblestone street busy with men in tight knickers and long white wigs, and women with gowns flowing into the horizon. He thought he’d seen this place in very old prints and paintings. After a bowl of Bluet en Glace, they were sitting in The Frozen Horde relieved the menu had pictures of the meals.
Strange, though, he wasn’t hungry anymore.
She was drop dead gorgeous with the kind of lips a man could sink a kiss into and smother in lipstick with the tip of her tongue running along the edge of his soul. Big blue eyes peered through chocolate bangs, and her body could have been whittled from a stone of pure desire. She wore a skintight red gown plunging between spectacular mounds of white flesh. His eyes sizzled, his groin smoldered, his brain nearly snapped in half. She knew how to make an impression on a second date. Or was it their third? Who cared? She was drop dead gorgeous and he was the luckiest man on earth.
“Been waiting long?” he asked.
“And who might you be?” she replied.
He loved this game. “I’m the one who made the reservations for the table you’re sitting at.”
“Oh, him … the one who can’t read Manchurian.”
“We weren’t hungry anyway.”
“Speak for yourself,” she said. “Iced blueberries do not a meal make.” Blueberries. Ice. Something rattled at the back of his head, but evaporated into the Lost Regions of his gray matter at the sound of her voice. “So, do you speak Italian?” she asked.
“Everybody speaks Italian,” he said, picking up the menu. “Spaghetti. Lasagna. Linguini …”
She cut him off with the most amazing laugh ever to tickle his eardrums and her voice slid over the table like a spilled bowl of honey stew. “How did you know I love Italian food?”
“Everybody loves Italian food,” he said, and quickly regretted his words. “I mean, not that you have common tastes or anything . . . I mean . . .”
His ears buzzed with joy at the sound of her laugh. “It’s OK. You’re right. Everybody loves Italian, but I especially like it . . . I guess, for its historical content.”
“Historical content?” he asked. “That’s a strange reason to love food, but, if you say so . . .”
She reached across the table and took his hand and they were sitting across the table from Galileo Galilei as he tore off a chunk of Cabot while just around the corner in the kitchen Miro Sorvino sliced a wedge of Brushchetta and Luigi Pirandello twisted his fork into a mound of Spaghetti alla Bologna and Michelangelo Buonarroti gazed up from his wooden table as he chewed a mouthful of Tortellini di zucca and Frank Zamboni brushed ice from his jacket as his mouth watered thinking of Pizzette e Salatin and Federico Fellini scooped a steaming portion of Cannelloni al Ragu . . . and he still wasn’t getting it as he dipped a garlic stick into a pool of spaghetti sauce and wondered about the wooden bowl just as it turned to porcelain and Persephone smiled at him and asked if they should order another bottle of wine.
Another bottle? How many had they had? He tried to focus his thoughts but he was caught in the glow from her eyes and that was all that mattered and he said yes, another bottle of wine. Something red and Italian.
***
She was amazing. Life danced in her eyes. She was as fresh as the first time he’d met her and fallen in love on the spot, or had he already been in love after their weeks of sending and receiving over the Internet? He didn’t care. She was timeless and he told her so, “You’re timeless.”
She smiled bouquets and heartbreak and took his hand. “Something like that,” she said as they strolled past a heavily armored Samurai warrior outside a Japanese palace stretching into an ancient Far East sunset.
“But why me?” he asked.
“Why not?” she replied.
“There’s nothing special about me,” he said.
“Need there be?” she asked.
“But you’re so … perfect,” he said. “So out of my league. Why me?”
“I have a different perspective.”
He decided to leave it alone as their walk took them along a pedestrian bridge made of a single giant piece of plastic spanning two magnificent skyscrapers surrounded by flying cars and people streaking through the air in jetpacks.
Their walk finished in front of the coffee shop around the corner from where he lived. He asked if she’d like to go in for a coffee. They walked through the door and he noticed immediately that she was much prettier than he’d imagined with her dusty brown bangs floating around her face, her hair splashing against the air around her neck.
He suddenly had a craving for frozen blueberries.
***
His hand was wrinkled and liver-spotted, his nails cracked and dried. His eyes beamed youthfully, but the pinched gray skin around red-veined whites looked like something from the Bin of Ages. His legs wobbled whether he was standing still or walking. His head shook when he talked as though trying to shake the words out of his mouth.
She sat across from him, young and beautiful as her eyes enveloped him with their blue glow. His voice cracked as he spoke. “We’ve had a wonderful life together.”
She smiled and nodded and said, “Yes, we have.”
“I’ve loved you from the beginning,” he said.
“I know,” she said. “And right to the end.” She took his hand and they were standing in total darkness until, an instant later, the darkness exploded with color and fire rushing light years in every direction, populating the emptiness with stars.
And he was in the Frozen Horde, sitting across from the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. He looked at his watch and smiled. He wasn’t surprised. Not a bit. Just happy for the fraction of a second she’d spent with him.
He looked one last time into the blue glow of her eyes and winked happily as he turned to dust.
Biff Mitchell lives at the edge of the world. He has no life. He has no friends. Neighborhood children throw stones at his hovel. At night, Biff throws stones at his hovel. Someday Biff plans to write a book about a man who lives in a hovel that is stoned daily by neighborhood children who—through some magical twist of events—turn into snowmen. When spring arrives, the man’s house melts. You can learn more about Biff at his website.
A Business Woman Riding a Watch courtesy Art.com
Rose Garden
by
Overhead, my aura was arcing, aching, wanting him. It cascaded over to him, buzzing against his, electrifying him. I could feel him respond. His aura became warmer, more pointed in my direction, vibrating faster. I could feel it. His lips softened. Their lines became even more beautiful, with the little curve upwards on the ends, the fullness, the downward turn in the center, so graceful, so compelling. I felt mine softly purse towards his. They wanted to part, and I had to hold them back, consciously. I smelled a scent in the air, myself, my own desire. The tip of my tongue pressed against my teeth, slightly. Delicately pointed.
From behind me, my aura moved around the edges towards him, but the color was too dark. It was like having a caped vampire behind me starting to dramatically extend his arms, the shadows classic, before he enfolded me with great panache. My cheek itched. As I tried not to turn my head to look, my neck strained, and the vertebrae subluxed. Everything I am telepathically reporting to you just happened. It is only barely past tense. Just long enough for me to register and put into some context.
The context for this is my father. My father. It was the liquid way, the honey-like way he would keep the men away from me when they would start to take an interest. He had embedded himself. His cape of behavior had become mine. The electricity was being lost between me and the man in the rose garden.
His gaze fell back downward towards the rose bushes. He noticed one with petals starting to go brown and fingered it distractedly. The subtle sound of our frequencies humming together dropped a few notes.
Bah! Bah! Go away, darkness in my aura, you curtains of black velvet! I strutted off away from the man. There’s no point. No point in continuing. It’s over. There is no story, no dialogue, no character interaction, no romance, no kiss that turns into a fountain that carries us beyond the mundane world and into the filigree of heaven. Time is no longer stretched out: there is no future to stretch towards. This will happen every time.
It’s in my damn unconscious mind. My father put it there when he would slide his chair out, skidding it across the floor, making our vibrations stammer. He would lean back and laugh, put the cigar back in his mouth, and there would be no mention of why. Nothing had happened. But that was it. Nothing happened.
I smell the roses. Leaning down, into one’s face, I kiss it. Without thinking, I feel the powdery moistness against my lips. I let my mouth slide open, feel the wet insides of my lips against the petals, in the angles of them closest to the center as they stretch upwards redly I let the tiny tip of my pointed tongue touch up against them electrically, briefly, lightly, so the energy between us fires. We fountain out of the mundane world
Of separate structures, flower, body, tongue, saliva. At the conduit of the saliva
From living consciousness
To living consciousness the molecules jump, exchange, dance, play, and flow
Chemically, ionically, merging at the edges
The space in between the molecules like the sky
The patterns of tendencies, waves of concepts
Align and amplify, resonating harmonically
Made of love, finding their eternal madeness of love
Momentarily, and as the female draws out of the whole
Pulling backwards her face, her tip of her tongue
From that which is playing the role now separating
And calling itself a rose, the membrane-like surface
Draws in two directions, translucently, wrinkling up into folds
And she opens her eyes and the rose turns its attention towards her.
And they curtsey.
Tantra Bensko, M.F.A., publishes her writing and art widely, most recently in Cosmopisis, Lit Chaos, Soma Literary Review, Body Mind Spirit, Alternative Approaches, Ashe Journal, Outside, and CameraArts. She proposes a genre called Lucid Fiction: see articles about it in Retort, Unlikely Stories, and Mad Hatters Review. She lives in San Francisco by the sea where she likes to ride her red cruiser. Visit her website for more information.
Rose Petal Lips courtesy of Art.com
Con-temporary Love
by
Waking up to the ether of fresh love watching you sleep slowly you open your blue blue eyes hello there do you realize you are everything to me I will give up everything to be with you everything everything I was interested in before I met you you will become my everything oh, to be with you 24/7 to wake up on this Sunday morning with you is a gift we’ll leisurely have breakfast which I will lovingly cook, bake, sauté just for you then we’ll read the paper discuss a few current events make love, shower, dress later browse in the used book store oh … you think those places are dusty and musty well, later we can have lunch outside at the coffee shop and put our faces to the sun you’re fair-skinned and can’t sit in the sun, besides you would rather sit inside somewhere and belly up to the bar well, we could take a walk after lunch you need to take a nap after lunch and a few beers well, then we could take a woodland walk after your nap you never take walks in the woods—there are ticks and snakes and wild animals in the woods well, we could go see the latest flick or a play your legs are too long to sit in theaters then how about we go shopping at the oriental grocery store in the city so we could eat in
you’re a meat and potatoes man, you never eat exotic foods maybe later we could do some rearranging of your apartment you like it just the way it is some night we could go dancing you don’t dance well, what DO like to do you like to just hang out here all day on Saturdays and Sundays, not shave or shower, eat junk food and watch sports but what about Saturday nights, I met you last night at that concert you just happened to be there because a friend had an extra ticket and wanted someone to go with I know I said I would give up everything to be with you but you were supposed to say it back no, no you didn’t I just assumed we might reach some middle ground with what we wanted to spend our time doing together you don’t believe in middle ground, the last few women you dated said the same thing then wanted everything their way but I won’t be like that, I believe in fairness will I go to the fights with you well no, I won’t, but then you could go to the fights and I could go out to a movie or play with friends no, that wouldn’t be giving up everything for you I know I said I would do that but that was before I found out you won’t do any of the things I enjoy doing, I’ll just get up now and shower and dress so that I can make the service at the Unitarian Church you think those people are a bunch of nut cases no, they aren’t, they are highly intelligent people that’s what you mean I think I’ll pass on the shower and just get dressed that’s fine by you aren’t you even going to walk me to the door you want to get in some more Zs well, I’m leaving now maybe we’ll run into each other at another concert, are you even fuckin’ listening to me ZZZZZZZZ.
Bonnie Enes, Poet Laureate of South Windsor, Connecticut, has had poetry published in several literary publications including Pegasus,
Shapes, New Dimensions(ECSU), Kennebec (U of ME), Namaste, Nude Beach,
Yankee, Fairfield Review (editor's & readers' choice), Poet’s
Cove, New Monhegan Press--An Anthology, Country and Abroad, Artis,
Scope, Chronogram, Perspectives, Voices Israel Raving Poets and The Rose & Thorn. Her short story, The Hillsboro Garden and Literary Guild was developed into a play and won awards in Maine and Connecticut.
Sad Woman's Face courtesy Art.com
Love on the Rocks
by
There comes a time in some relationships when you realize you should have moved on a long time ago. Dangling from a rock face thirty feet above a jagged reef in nothing but your boxer shorts, I believe, is one of those times. But, hey, that’s just me. At this point somebody else might still hang onto the idea of true love and the idea that forgiveness is the cornerstone of any loving relationship. Right now, though, I kind of have my hands full, literally.
There were so many red flags. I should have seen it coming. She ate in bed, she left wet towels on the floor, she drugged me and left me for dead in the middle of the jungle. You know, minor things. It’s funny how running for your life half naked through dense foliage can bring about clarity. Personally, I would rather have just seen a shrink or read a self-help book, but hey, better to find out now than ten years from now. Wouldn’t that be embarrassing? I’ll have to thank her once I get off this cliff and wring her neck.
In all fairness, we did have some good times. I mean, before the whole drugging thing, and being dragged behind a jeep at a high rate of speed and being left sans pants in an abandoned guerilla detention center. So the relationship wasn’t a complete loss. I guess I’m maturing. In the beginning I would have blamed her for everything, cut all of my ties with her, and badmouthed her in front of our mutual friends. Basically, not taking any responsibility for my actions. But now I feel I can truly own my faults. I know where I have gone wrong. I know where I could have been a better friend and companion. I still don’t think that having my passport torn up and drugs planted on me before I attempted to cross the border into Panama was a fair response to me forgetting to pack her hair dryer, but some people just handle things differently. Who am I to judge? In her defense, she did take the bullets out of the gun so that when they found me, and I had to make a run for it, I couldn’t hurt anybody. I still don’t know how she found a gun, we were only in Colombia a week, but hey, she always was resourceful.
What am I thinking? I need to remember the bad stuff, like the leeches she planted in our hotel bathtub, or the glaring fact that my forearms are getting tired and I have the police hunting me for supposedly robbing a church for the blind.
Still, I think back to when we first met. She was beautiful. We were at a cocktail party, a political fundraiser for The Tundric Newt. I bought her a Mojito and as I handed it to her I intentionally pronounced it Mo-gy-to. That was the extent of my ability to be clever at that point. Apparently it worked. During the senator’s speech we sneaked away and made sweet romantic love in the handicapped stall of the men’s room at the Biltmore. Later that night she went home with one of the busboys, but she called me a week later. I remember the phone call. She thought I was the “guy from the elevator.” She had been cleaning out her purse and found my phone number. I set up a date for coffee and the rest is history.
We had traveled to Colombia to celebrate our six-month anniversary. I wanted to go to Hawaii or Fiji, but she insisted on Bogotá. Another red flag. I think that when it comes to compatibility in relationships, where you want to spend your vacations should say a lot. For example, do you want to go where you can scuba dive and drink Mai Tai’s? Or would you rather go where kidnapping is a government-sanctioned sport? On the same token, would you rather buy papayas and coconuts from flower laden street vendors, or dodge rocks and beer bottles from ether sniffing street urchins? To me, the decision seems easy. But hey, she is adventuresome and I respect her for that. I want you to know I have nothing against Bogotá or the people of Colombia. Colombia is a beautiful country, as I can attest to from running through it all night, and it may seem like a comparatively safe place to a guy from, let’s say, Calcutta, India. It’s just not the safest place for a guy from Calcutta, Ohio. But I have to say that Bogotá and my hometown do share some similarities that have made it a little easier to adjust. For example, Colombia has over 400 different species of poisonous snakes. Ohio has three. Colombia exports about 550 metric tons of cocaine to the US a year. I’ve seen cocaine. Colombia is the home of FARC-EP; the Revolutionary Armed forces of Colombia, a Marxist-Leninist guerilla organization, which employs such tactics as bombings, assassinations, extortions, and hijackings to intimidate the Colombian government. Last year our volunteer fire department beat the chamber of commerce in a charity softball tournament. So as you can see, we are not all that different.
It’s funny, one time she drove a bus for the Special Olympics, and I thought, “Wow, this girl is perfect.” Later I found out she had been drinking Robitussin and popping Quaaludes for the past four days, then had kicked the blind shot putter off the bus and made him hitchhike to the venue. Not appropriate, right? That’s what I thought, but in her defense it was St. Patrick’s Day. Who doesn’t get a little rowdy on the “Mighty 17th?” I mean she is Ukrainian, but everybody is Irish on that day. I know I’m Mexican on Cinco de Mayo.
Anyway, she left me in a Papillion-esque cell in the middle of the jungle. So, meanwhile, I made friends with a tarantula named “Action,” and a pack of noncommittal roaches, “The Sharks,” who seemed to respond whenever I whistled or snapped. I gnawed through the duct-tape on my wrists and I got free. I was hungry, but the plate of Medellin dung beetles they’d left for me to eat made me sick to my stomach. I jumped for the bars overhead, the ones that offered the only light into my cell. The bars gave way like a guilt ridden Hassid against a blond haired Shiksa. I used my anti-posturepedic bed to launch myself up into the windowsill and worm my way out.
Jungle. Gotta love it! Wet, open, free … filled with things that can kill you if you lick them. I made a mental note to jot this moment down in my journal so I could be cool for my kids if I ever had any. Then gun shots. As if I hadn’t had enough drama already. I thought about my love. I thought about blankets on sandy beaches close to civilization, I thought about ice cream cones and late night movies. Then I thought about Garl Tannon, the tight end, and my girlfriend, (well not technically, because at the time we had only been seeing each other exclusively for four months) running “plays” in the back seat of her father’s Peugeot. So I ran.
A one-eyed jeep fixed its high beam on me, so I dove into a patch of mud. That’s when I thought about ditching the undies. The rain came down in wet braille. I Shawshanked it. I ran where the path lead me, like Jack T. Colton, without a machete. That’s when I slipped, grabbed with my left arm, and simultaneously saved my life.
Now, I wish I had gone with Cindy Lausdenburg, the girl from middle school who had braces and a lame hip, but who ended up a reality television supermodel. I’ll bet her boyfriend hasn’t ended up on a cliff in a third world country.
The last blood I have in my body is being diverted to my forearms and fingertips. I’m thinking right now that I might be able to pull a Greg Lougains cliff diver maneuver and miss the rocks. I wish I had love. Love could save me. That, or Pink Floyd’s flying pig.
A rope drops down next to me. I can’t look up, but I recognize the voice that comes with it. It’s the leech dropping, jeep dragging, in front of the family emasculating, Colombian sympathizing, “Goonies” hating, looks good in a dress, kisses me like I’m her king, cooks me dinner, massages my feet, does my taxes, searches out movie nights, and has the plane tickets girl.I test the rope. It holds. I wrap it around my elbows and wrists and find footholds in the rock. I climb to the top. We kiss. We embrace as if we are the only two people in the world. I take her hand in mine. We look deeply into each other’s eyes … and then I throw her off the cliff. I’ll find my own way home.
Originally hailing from Los Gatos, CA, Tyler Moore was forced into the lower regions of the state to pursue higher education and better weather. He holds a B.A. in Theater from UCLA and is the head writer for the Los Angeles based sketch comedy troupe The Lost Nomads.
Hands Holding Onto Cliff, Djin Needle, CA courtesy Art.com
The Morning Routine
by
I can feel her cool blue eyes on my face as I struggle to pull her pressure stockings over her clawed feet, her shriveled calves.
“You’re not very pretty, are you?” she says.
I should have seen that coming, but I hesitate before replying.
“No,” I say. “I’m not.”
She leans all her weight on me as I help her transfer from the bed to the wheelchair.
“You never really were, you know,” she says.
“I know Mom,” I say and kneel to adjust the footrests, position one foot, then the other.
“Although,” she says, drawing out the word, “when you were young, there was something about you . . . something . . . ”
And I cannot keep my eyes from lifting first to her knees, then her belly, her breasts, her face.
Her cool blue eyes have been waiting for me.
“It’s gone now,” she says.
Penny-Anne Beaudoin has worked as a freelance writer for religion and spirituality journals and has had several of her articles published in Canada and the United States. She was nominated for the Canadian Church Press Award in 2000. Her poetry has appeared in The Windsor Review, On Spec Magazine, and Room of One’s Own, and her fiction has been published in Lorraine and James, Writers On Line, Quantum Muse, Ascent Aspirations, Flash Me, FreeFall, and The Canadian Writers’ Journal. She was nominated for the Pushcart Prize in 2005.
The Face of a Woman Carved in Old Weathered Stone courtesy Art.com
Fire Prevention Week
by
Timmy’s father was home a few minutes, and already the shouting had started again. Just as his mother told him, Timmy slipped out through the back door. He took slow, deliberate steps. He didn’t want to disobey her.
At school, his fourth grade teacher, Mrs. Kuhlhammer, huffed and puffed when the class did something bad. Then names were put on board and checks added and even the infamous, “I swear, if you don’t knock it off, I’m going to send every one of you to the office,” might echo through the hallways. Sometimes the boys dared each other to throw spitballs in Lisa’s hair or steal all the chalk from the blackboard ledge. Timmy always accepted this challenge at school, but he behaved himself at home. His mother had enough trouble.
He walked the familiar path to the shed, unlatched the door, and stepped inside. The warm air hugged his body. Timmy closed his eyes and held his breath. He could still hear the voices in the house. Last night, as he lay in bed, he once again asked Jesus to make everything better. It was only a matter of time. “Be patient,” his mother always told him. But why was it taking so long?
He looked around the shed. Except for his bike, it was full of his father’s stuff. The lawnmower and the big green wheelbarrow filled most of the space. The weed whacker hung on the wall. The remaining room held gas tanks, shovels, rakes, electric cords, buckets, fishing poles, gloves, old newspapers, an orange plastic helmet. There were other things, as well, to which the boy couldn’t put a name or purpose. In the corner, though, his eyes spotted something the darkness almost kept hidden—his father’s axe.
Last summer, he watched his father sharpen the blade. They were chopping firewood. He remembered his father swinging the axe high in the air and the thump as it struck the logs. Sometimes the wood went flying. Then the boy would gather the pieces in the wheelbarrow and haul the wood into the backyard.
“When you get bigger,” his father promised, “I’ll let you swing the axe.”
Timmy didn’t want to chop wood. And he didn’t want to help his father. He looked at the axe. In the distance, he heard what sounded like a baby crying. He would have liked to fool himself.
Earlier that day, the school held an assembly for Fire Prevention Week. Every year the fire trucks came and the students filled the gym. The firemen talked about escape plans. They made everyone shout, “Stop, drop, and roll!” This year a fireman wore his yellow uniform, including boots, jacket, helmet, and facemask. He carried an axe and told them about breaking through doors to rescue people. They watched a movie of a firefighter saving a woman from her burning house. They even had a chance to try on the jacket.
Timmy looked at the axe in the corner. He thought one day he’d like to be a firefighter.
The boy stepped through the shed and stopped in front of the axe. He placed his right hand on the handle and lifted. The axe came away from the floor for a few seconds, but its heavy weight told him that he was still too small to swing it. “Be patient,” his mother always told him. “Good things come to those who wait.” He walked through the mess and back to his bike. He’d have to wait a little longer.
Aaron Sinkovich teaches American literature at a small high school in northeastern Pennsylvania. He holds an M.A. in English from the Ohio State University and a B.S.E. from Mansfield University, where he spent two years as editor of the university’s literary magazine. His current project is a collection of stories about rural Pennsylvania.
An Axe Cleaves to the Center of a Wooden Log courtesy Art.com
Dense
by
They said the place couldn’t be surfed. Too dangerous. Anybody who tried was a fool. Perfect. Just what he needed.
He jumped into the ocean and navigated shallow reef, shifting current, chronic whitewash. After a brutal paddle, he reached calm water and straddled his surfboard. A crowd had gathered on the bluff. He couldn’t tell if she was among them. Could only hope.
A set stacked on the horizon. He floated in the channel and studied it from a distance. Waves broke in shallow water, thick and hollow, with minimal room to maneuver before the reef ran dry. It might be surfable. Might not. He didn’t know and didn’t care.
He glanced again toward shore, the bodies packed and milling like seabirds in some coastal rookery. She’d left last week amidst false allegations and righteous huff. Would not listen to reason. She was pretty and smart, but dense sometimes. Fucking dense.
Another set arrived, yanking him from thought. He let three waves pass unridden, stroked into the fourth, hopped to his feet, and freefell down the face. He survived the drop and leaned into a turn. His fins hit rock and he tumbled forward, pulled over the falls and slammed onto the reef once, twice, three times. Barnacles tore through his wetsuit. The surfboard shattered over his head.
His lungs burned for oxygen as he flailed underwater. Finally he surfaced, coughing and gasping. Waves pushed him toward a cave and certain death. He fought the current, managed a last burst onto the beach.
He crawled onto the sand, vomited saltwater, and struggled for breath. His body stiffened from cold and pain. With some effort he stood, collected the remnants of his broken surfboard, and trudged up to the bluff.
The crowd loitered about, maybe fifty people. They stared at him blankly. As if perhaps they’d just witnessed a modest accident in which they had no stake. He scanned the faces. She wasn’t there. Remained entrenched in her stubborn bunker, unreachable. In three days, she’d leave the country for good. If he didn’t get to her first.
The pain vanished. He just felt numb.
“That was stupid, man,” a friend said. “Really fucking stupid.”
He shrugged.
“And irresponsible.”
This from a guy who’d never held a paying job, and at thirty still lived with his parents.
The crowd began to drift off.
“Why don’t you just call and talk to her,” the friend said over his shoulder. “Before you kill yourself.”
Yeah, simple as that. He grunted in exasperation and watched bodies shuffle down the dirt path like refugees. Soon he stood alone on the bluff. The sun sank into the Pacific. He admired it for a bit, then gathered his broken board and limped home beneath the twilight, plotting his next surf. A spot up the coast, more brutal than here.
Maybe she’d show.
Tom Mahony is a biological consultant in central California with an M.S. degree from Humboldt State University. His fiction has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize and has appeared in Flashquake, The Rose & Thorn, Verbsap, Void Magazine, SFWP, The Flask Review, Foliate Oak, Decomp, Spinnings Magazine, Long Story Short, Flash Forward, Six Sentences, Laughter Loaf, and Surfer Magazine. He is currently circulating a novel for publication.
Color Storm Surf courtesy Art.com