Writings

Colors Moving Still by Kathryn Hegarty

Penny — Fri, 01 Aug 2008 21:49:31 +0000

Open your eyes to visions
that calm the raging wars
to sing the melodies of freedom
of the lands that we call home.

For the eyes can burn the ember
the heart can flicker the flame
the lips can caress most anything
but the truth it stays the same.

Sip from the chalice of wisdom
the water within the tide
Release the message from the bottle
there’s no place left to hide.

For the eyes can burn the ember
the heart can flicker the flame
the lips can caress most anything
but the truth it stays the same.

Close your eyes to feel it
Let the sands of time do their will
To constantly change and fashion our souls
And keep our colors moving still.

For the eyes can burn the ember
the heart can flicker the flame
the lips can caress most anything
but the truth it stays the same.

Kathryn Hegarty has published poetry, is working on a YA novel about faeries. She is currently a Senior at Goddard College in their Individualized Studies B.A. program.

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Seasons by Kerrie Hutchinson

Penny — Fri, 01 Aug 2008 19:51:07 +0000

Forgiveness,
Love,
Passion,
In the dark
Of one’s heart,
In the back
Of one’s mind.

Shame,
Pride,
Regret.
A lover’s kiss,
On fresh tears,
Flowing,
Down,
Flushed cheeks.

Forgotten
Memories,
Dug up,
Like a
Forgotten
Grave,
Inhabited by
Lost lovers.

Remember,
Vows,
Spoken,
Unspoken
In our hearts,
Mended,
With love,
By aging hands.

Marriage,
Separation,
Divorce,
Reconciliation,
Our love,
Cycles,
Like the seasons.

Kerrie Hutchinson is a library technician in hiatus. She writes poetry and short fiction reflecting the shimmering dirt of being a woman. She lives in Arizona with her husband, and two children. http://feathersnstones.blogspot.com/

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The Spices of the Heart by Nancy Lee Shrader

Penny — Fri, 01 Aug 2008 18:11:50 +0000

Granddaughters spice up the day.
They brings giggles
in pink toenails,
tea parties
in dresses oversized.
Cheers you each day
with two pom poms.
Heals you
in a homemade nurses cap.
Loves you
with a heart overflowed.

Grandsons are spicy too.
They brings laughs
in muddy shoes,
tea parties
with real food.
Cheers you each day
with a laugh and a smile.
Heals you
with a homemade stethoscope.
Loves you
without regret.

Spices sweet, spices bitter sweet.
So much alike, but
they are different too.
One kisses
with colorless sweet lips,
while the other
holds your cheeks with dirty hands.
Each tender kiss
fills a grandmother’s heart
with so much pride
and much more love.

Nancy Lee Shrader resides in Beckley, West Virginia. She is author of three books IS IT NOW? The End of Days! IS HE MESSIAH? Messianic Prophecies Revealed! And The Curse of Mayweather House Nancy Lee also writes for Amazon.com. To her credit, she has twenty-one Shorts to date on the Amazon website. She is a member of the West Virginia Writers’ Union, Appalachian Writers’ Guild and belongs to a Writers’ group at the Raleigh County Library. Web: www.freewebs.com/booksbynancyleeshrader

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The Spice of Life by Norma Amis

Penny — Fri, 01 Aug 2008 06:44:28 +0000

Sugar and spice and all things nice
is what I thought the good life was all about.
Having babies is very fine, but what a sacrifice.
Sleepless nights, bottle feeds and feeling all worn out.

When you’re feeling blue and are about to crumble,
the sound of a chuckling baby, cheeks just like a rose;
the sweetness of the child you can’t resist a cuddle
Children are the spice of life playing in the meadows.

But what about the holidays - two or three a year
India, Spain and Turkey - sunshine rain and snow?
These are spices of the world that will never disappear;
the sunshine and the golden sands, everything aglow.

Children splashing in a pool, making castles in the sand.
Life is full of spice, like walking in the woods.
It keeps the child within us if we visit Euroland.
What is the spice of life? It’s everything that’s good.

Norma has been writing for several years and her work has been published in anthologies produced by her writing college. She enjoys writing autobiographies and murder mysteries.

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José by Brigita Pavshich

Penny — Fri, 01 Aug 2008 06:42:15 +0000

That summer
of long shadows
and warm winds,
it stirs me still.
I squealed with indignation as your ball
landed on my beach towel.
Your shimmering eyes,
with hair
that impossibly matched
the sun and the sand.
You brought me a gift of a conch
and seaweed,
held my hand when boys pulled my pig-tails
and I cried.
I caught you peeking
through a hole in the privy
and told on you.
Confusion of love pulled at me
as you stole my kiss
behind the beach hut.
The sun dipped into the surf
as you waved wide-eyed
through the back window of your parents’ car.
Gentle spots of rain
gather in your lost footsteps
in the dunes.
That summer
of long ago,
it fills me with grief
for things lost, left, loved.

Brigita Pavshich lives in Slovenia. She has published short stories and poems in All Things Girl and Your Messages collection. She works as a literary translator and is currently finishing her first novel. She can also be found at her website: http://www.pausesbetweenthenotes.com

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Rip it Up by Ali Hollands

Penny — Tue, 01 Jul 2008 09:24:53 +0000

In through my feet and
Out through my fingers;
Energy flows, explodes
Scatter bombs of light and sound.

Pulse beats out
My heart marks time
Rhythm gains pace
And my body obeys.

The slave to the rhythm
The swing and the sway
The mood and the passion
I am music: Dance me free.

Ali Hollands: A girl of 35, mother to two, wife to none. Growing up at my age is hard, but it had to happen eventually. I am making the best of it, as my mother would say. If you would like to read more of my work it can be found here: http://velvetsnow250706.blogspot.com

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wall flower girl by Trace Sheridan

Penny — Tue, 01 Jul 2008 07:45:08 +0000

she was standing
on the sidelines
of life and time
waiting for the right moment,
a raison d’être, a sign,

a wall-flower girl
too awkward to take the floor,
left without, alone,
afraid, five seconds
from the door

hypnotized by the brilliance
of a twirling glass ball,
the flickering flashes
of light, sparkling façades

how much longer
could she cower and hide
the longing to let go
abandon reason, resign

to leave safety’s side
the bench so cold and hard
to twirl the skirt,
feel sweat upon her back
break in the shoes,
she’d bought for that
small possibility
courage would emerge

she’d listen to the sound
the song she’d always heard
but this time respond
to the music of chance

break free from what held her
and respond when asked
why, yes…
I’d love to dance.

Trace Sheridan’s prose, poetry, and photography have been published in the US and UK and can be found in journals 55 Words, BluePrintReview, Nerve House, apt: a literary journal, Mud Luscious, Cautionary Tale, Static Movement, and Libbon, to name a few. She is the co-founding editor of 34thParallel, a quarterly print magazine that features fiction, poetry, photography and interviews with new and emerging writers and artists. Currently completing a MFA, she lives in southern California with her husband and young son. Website: http://www.34thParallel.net

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The Other Side of Grief by Tamara Palmer

Deb — Tue, 01 Jul 2008 06:58:33 +0000

Stanley couldn’t stomach another social interaction with the First Congregation of Christ tour group. First it was the Indian museum, then a drive with the whole lot out to some gorge, and now he was just plain sick of people. Feigning tummy trouble, he left them for the peace and quiet of his hotel room, but after twenty frustrating minutes of channel surfing Stanley slipped on his beige jacket, his Ohio State ball cap, and cringing at the pain in his hips, bent over to tie his shoelaces. His youngest was always notifying him of the advancements in clothing for people like him, but he’d be dead before he’d secure his shoes with a Velcro strap.

Stanley walked the square marveling as the tourists in expensive furs and those in sweat-shirts all funneled into the same restaurants, all housed in adobe buildings. The place looked like an Indian village. If this were America, then what was Mexico look like, he wondered. Hungry, but vaguely unsettled Stanley paced the square. Pacing. That was his way of dealing with the empty moments in his life — the ones that Carol would have planned.

On his fifth loop he noticed a striking woman probably his age, but better preserved, pulling her long silver hair into a low ponytail at the base of her neck. He’d always admired women who kept their hair long; they seemed more in tune with the girl inside them. She was sitting on one of the green lacquered rod-iron benches, one leg draped casually over the other as she looked towards the memorial in the center of the square. Stanley approached, and as he got closer he noticed her face was softly leathered from a lifetime of sun adoration, and her eyes a beautiful shade of amber sparkled in the glint of the gas lamps which were warming to life.

“Nice evening,” Stanley announced, staring straight ahead, arms clasped behind him as he rocked back and forth on his heels.

The woman nodded her head and looked at Stanley, allowing a smile to slowly spread across her face.

“What’s that memorial for?” Stanley asked.

“It’s a travesty,” the woman shook her head.

“A what?” Stanley raised his voice while his nose wrinkled and he focused more intently on the statue.

“It should be taken down.”

“It’s not that bad. A little plain, maybe. Who’s it for? I wanted to look earlier, but I didn’t have my reading glasses with me.”

“It pays homage to the men who served in the Federal Army,” the woman’s eyes lowered as she shook her head. A whiff of her perfume traveled up to where Stanley was standing and he drank it in.

“Hum…,” before Stanley could ask what war it was for, the woman interrupted.

“It’s for the soldiers who “fell in battles with savage Indians.” People keep protesting, but the city says that it’s reflective of its time. Hooey, I say!” The woman’s vitality intrigued Stanley. Although he hated all the politically correct crap, hell he grew up playing Cowboys and Indians, and Indians were always savages, even if you weren’t supposed to call them that anymore, he couldn’t help but wonder why she was sitting alone and hoped she wasn’t waiting for someone.

“You live here?” Stanley asked.

The woman nodded yes as she moved to the side to allow space for Stanley.

“Umm,” Stanley began, crouching onto the bench, his body aching with every bend of his joints. Stanley felt up his jacket pockets for his pain pills, but then realized he’d left them in the room.

The woman smiled in camaraderie at his jerky movements.

“I didn’t think people actually lived here the first time I visited, either,” she scooted a bit more to allow for Stanley’s robust frame. “Where are you from?”

“Cleveland. I’m here on one of them tour group thingies.”

The woman smiled and nodded her head as if she could tell that just by looking at him.

“Where’s your group?”

“I ditched them,” he smiled at the genius of what he had done. “I’m playing hooky!” Stanley exclaimed. “The name’s Stanley, Stanley Kamenski,” he extended his hand to shake hers.

“Maria Vandarosa,” she offered, placing her hand in his. The sensation of their palms touching sent a ripple up Stanley’s spine. How long had it been since he’d touched an attractive woman? The widows in his group didn’t count. They were like sisters, all having raised their children together and hugging hello every Sunday morning at church for over forty years.

“That’s quite a name? Italian?” Stanley asked, emphasizing the “I”.

“Spanish. My husband was from Spain.” Stanley shook his head and held the palm of his right hand over his eyes. “I just lost my Carol. It’s only been a few months. Breast cancer. Beast of an illness I’ll tell you. Goddamn Beast.” Stanley wished he’d not cursed, but Maria didn’t seem bothered by it, so he didn’t apologize. “This trip was a present from my kids. You know, trying to heal me and crap like that. The whole group is packed with widows and widowers. Sad lot we are. I shouldn’t complain. My kids are good to me.”

“Thank goodness we have our children.” Maria took Stanley’s hand in hers and squeezed it tight. Again he felt an awakened stirring inside. “I came down here about a year after my Cristo passed. He and I would vacation here. I always wanted to retire to New Mexico, but he didn’t like the heat.”

“I like the heat,” Stanley confessed. “Carol hated it.” Since her death, every time Stanley uttered her name a rolling sadness made its way through his body, but this was the first time it didn’t lead to tears. “Where were you from?” he asked.

“Mostly New York, but we moved around a bit when we were first married. My kids are all in New York — two girls and a boy. All married with kids of their own.”

“I have the opposite – two boys and a girl. The boys are married, but the girl isn’t. I worry about her — Jenny’s about to turn thirty-five. She keeps telling me that I’m old fashioned, that lots of folks these days aren’t getting married until forty. It’s all a bunch of cuckoo if you ask me. She’s a doctor and says she doesn’t have time for marriage!”

“My youngest daughter was like that,” Maria smiled. “We didn’t think she’d ever settle down. Not like in our day when we all married young. Sure enough someone stole her heart and less than a year later she was married and starting a family.”

“I sure hope that happens to Jenny ,” Stanley turned to face Maria. Her peaceful smile seemed to assure him that everything would be okay —that life didn’t have to end. He saw in her a free sprit, an essence he never found in Carol or any other woman for that matter. He saw in those twinkling brown eyes someone who’d made it to the other side of grief — life, round two. And for the first time, Stanley wanted to go there.

“Would you care to join me for dinner?” Stanley was surprised to hear voice to his thought. Was he really allowed to “date?” How many decades had it been since he and Carol were at the diner sharing a malt on their first date.

Maria giggled, “I’d love to, Stanley.”

“The night’s not getting any younger,” he offered her his arm and she laced hers through his. The drifting swoosh of falling leaves, and the pervasive smoky aroma of grilled peppers entwined them. Together they headed towards the restaurants that were now beginning to empty, as night wrapped itself tightly around Santa Fe.

Tamara Palmer knew she was going to be a writer before she could even write. She would play elaborate dramas out with her Barbies for days,even weeks,on end. As she got older the stories made their way onto a typewriter and as the story goes… Tamara is actively seeking publishers for her two completed novels, Missing Tyler and Finding Lancelot. Her work has appeared in edifice WRECKED. She lives in Boulder, Colorado with her husband. You can read more of her work at www.tamarapalmer.com

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Olympia by Robin Crane

Penny — Tue, 01 Jul 2008 06:54:26 +0000

The crooked holding back of her smile,
A simultaneous desire for glory and
Annihilation.
We, me and her, were always doing something
Self-defeating,
As though we couldn’t help it,
telepathically whispering “hey, watch this,”
and pouring a pan of grease all over
a long worked-on party ensemble.
We did it because it was funny
To each other,
We did it because we were both ruined anyway,
Two white middle class girls –
Who on t.v. would understand why this ruined us?
Because it’s the shape and smell of mediocrity
And just enough safety to prevent
Full-fledged deaths.
But what about bruised ribs
And broken teeth?
Always doing things the wrong way,
Half on purpose,
Wanting a type of Woody Guthrie life,
To be a wanderer, to have interesting stories
And no more petty cares,
But instead just winding up the girl in the song,
the girl who loses her good looks
In “Like a Rollingstone” –
we’re invisible now,
we got no secrets to conceal.

Why do anything?
For glory,
In spite of ourselves.
For lives that’ll be hard but magic.

Robin Crane: I am a twenty nine year old fiction writer and poet, born in Los Angeles, currently living in Philadelphia, on a street sometimes occupied with horses; it never ceases to surprise me. Works of mine have been published in Olympia Literary Yarn, Newtopia, Poetry Superhighway, All Things Girl (”Dating Show,” published a few issues back) and the anthology ‘Zine Scene.

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Up to My Earlobes in Basil by Patricia Wellingham-Jones

Deb — Tue, 01 Jul 2008 06:51:17 +0000

Each spring I tuck inch-high plants
into trenches fragrant with manure.
All summer I snip basil sprigs
to sprinkle on baked potatoes, salads, meat,
on trays of sliced tomatoes fresh from the garden.
Basil goes in at least one dish every night
for three months, or more, of each year.

In September the plants look scraggly,
the steady drip of winter rain plays through my mind.
I can put off that set-aside day no longer.
Prepared for the siege, I set the radio on the kitchen counter,
tune to a classics’ station, keep mug and tea close at hand.
Send husband away for as long as he’ll go.

Early, before the sun crisps the leaves,
I harvest the crop. This takes twenty minutes.
Flat baskets spilled on newspapers present my day’s work.
Gazing at the brush pile heaped on the table top
I hope I left the mice and lizards outside. For the next five hours
my fingers pick individual leaves from their stalks.

Two big bowls of leaves later, I flat-press garlic, remove skins.
Crush walnuts from the old tree by the road. Pour olive oil
into the blender, add handfuls of leaves, garlic and nuts.
Press the mass down with my mother-in-law’s wooden spoon,
puree. Do it again. Repeat, and repeat. The pesto-making
takes only one hour.

Ice cube trays filled with next winter’s meals
congeal in the freezer. Vermicelli bubbles
in a pot of boiling water. I pull out the parmesan cheese
for the scraps of pesto left in the bowl, pour a glass
of California chardonnay and toast myself, thankful
for the harvest. Thankful that I’m no longer
up to my earlobes in basil.

Patricia Wellingham-Jones, a former psychology researcher and writer/editor, is a three-time Pushcart Prize nominee. Chapbooks include Don’t Turn Away: Poems About Breast Cancer (PWJ Publishing) and Hormone Stew (Snark Publishing). She just won the Palabra Productions Chapbook Contest with End-Cycle, poems about caregiving. Her website is www.WellinghamJones.com .

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Rosé by Kathryn Hegarty

Penny — Tue, 01 Jul 2008 06:44:53 +0000

The thin label of mesmerizing typography, almost torn off,
has been stroked many more times than one.
The open glass bottle, of a cerulean tint,
tempts me with its fragrance.
Silent juice erupts into a bouquet complete
Wood textures and fruity features tease the tongue.
A cascade of passionate remembrance follows
Dancing persists, words slide, bodies merge
The small cork cap is placed back atop its perch.
Tomorrow I shall play this tune again.

Kathryn Hegarty has published poetry, is working on a YA novel about faeries. She is currently a Senior at Goddard College in their Individualized Studies B.A. program.

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Husband Catching Chicken by Patricia Wellingham-Jones

Deb — Tue, 01 Jul 2008 06:42:40 +0000

I sent the recipe to the historical society
in response to their call for a cookbook,
figured twenty years of marriage
gave it history enough.
I made it for the first time
as an experiment for friends
then changed and fiddled and
simplified what worked.
Apparently I got it just right
the night he came to dinner.
Put the pinches, dabs and cups
of things in balance:
wine and tarragon,
mushrooms and garlic
blended with bird and onion.
Champagne
before dinner
didn’t hurt.
Over the years we celebrate
with husband-catching chicken
(our private rites, not public holidays).
Always with a laugh, a wink,
we think of where it led us—
dining room to bedroom,
gold ring to teething ring
to bedroom. Excuse me,
I’ve got to go fix dinner.

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The Spice of Life by Christine Atkinson

Penny — Tue, 01 Jul 2008 06:42:13 +0000

The spice of life, a lovely thought,
what does it really mean?
It adds a dash of something good,
lights up a dismal scene.
It’s the ginger in your pudding,
the cinnamon in your cake,
the nutmeg on your custard,
the good things that you bake.

That isn’t quite the answer,
there’s more to life than that
It could be when a baby laughs,
or buying a new hat.
It’s just that happy feeling,
when life gives you a lift
A little word of kindness,
or an unexpected gift.

As we all move on forward,
through the stresses and the grief;
It’s that one tiny moment,
that gives us some relief.
When God, bestows a little smile,
we taste the magic flavour.
It lights the path, and keeps us strong,
so that, we never waver.

So when someone is down and out,
when someone’s feeling blue
try giving them a little spice,
it may just pull them through.
You never know, the day may come,
when you are in some need
someone may add some ginger,
spice you up with a good deed.

Christine Atkinson lives in Cheshire and has been writing for many years. She has a particular fondness for poetry and has been published in an anthology called “Speaking Volumes”.

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Simple Pleasures by Kathryn Hegarty

Penny — Tue, 01 Jul 2008 06:35:20 +0000

The satin petals dance in a vibrant harmonization
Magenta eruptions foam to the top merging with whitened heavens
Lanky viridian tendrils creep silently, wrapping around my index finger,
And I am pulled deeper within this synthesis of everlasting joy.

The warm grass beneath me supports time and memories
The abrupt wind changes the chemistry of what was to what can be.
I lean; powerful muscles support the weight upon wrists;
With my head lifted slightly, I examine the sky and passing clouds above.

Inhaling gentle air, the wisdom of generations surges in my veins
Wisdom of others who have lived through situations much harder than my own;
Famine, hunger, freedom, wars, crisis, turmoil, adventure.

Children dance with colorful balloons that lift off suddenly to the open atmosphere,
searching new regions and new children to bring smiles to.
Parents and their pets run with little kids flying kites (that the dogs chase), or
kick around soccer balls that bounce and flip past tall oak trees, older than us all.

I sit relaxed and in awe of the spectacle before me
And how just one small moment can be the revitalization of one’s soul.
I sit awakened to the spirit of the simple pleasures that are abundant,
If only I (and those around me) are open to the possibility of their secrets.

If I am quiet, the words will be spoken,
They will slip and bleed along the page,
In a language universal.
A truth, for those willing, is available,
A truth beyond compare.

Kathryn Hegarty has published poetry, is working on a YA novel about faeries. She is currently a Senior at Goddard College in their Individualized Studies B.A. program.

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Random Acts of Kindness by Nancy Lee Shrader

Penny — Tue, 01 Jul 2008 06:32:25 +0000

Everyone is looking for the spice of life in one way or another. There is one way we can all spice our lives in a way that will bring joy to not only ourselves. Spice it up by committing yourself to doing just one act of kindness for another and that random act of kindness will always come full circle. Some people say a random act of kindness is to pay it forward—and on and on it goes. Random acts of kindness come in many forms, from helping an old woman cross the street or just an occasional smile. Think about the people you pass though life every day. Do some seem unhappy, afraid, or just plain sad—smile at them and see their mouths tilt in an upward motion. Sure there will be many who will frown and look in the opposite direction or even cross to the other side of the street, but the ones who smile back at you are the ones who have had their day brightened in just that short moment it took you to smile. Now that you have learned to smile; go out into the world and spread good cheer. Such as in the story of the old woman and the school boy who reached out to lend a helping hand.

School had let out on the South side of the city. It was a rough neighborhood with gangs theorizing its citizens daily. Many of the older people remembered when it was a quiet neighborhood of caring neighbors who watched out for their fellow man. Children were well behaved then, not like the punk kids that ran the streets, making their once quiet neighborhood a warzone.

Kathryn Landers usually didn’t venture out of her house this late in the afternoon, always steering clear of the hoodlums that roamed the streets threatening shopkeepers. She usually kept herself barricaded inside her little house, one of the oldest houses on the street. Her walkway used to be flower clad during the spring and summer and the scalloped window boxes under each window were graced with a rainbow of colored flowers. So many things had changed over the years. The window boxes had been replaced by metal bars on all the windows and three deadbolts on both doors. Why today of all days had she spent that extra time in Wilson’s fabric shop? Why did she stop at Frank’s fruit stand on the way home? She barely had enough strength to carry the bag of fabric she had purchased, not to mention the bag of yarn. She had just turned the corner onto her street when she heard a young male voice over top of all the hollering from Main Street.

“Ma’am may I help you carry your bags.” Said a young lad of about fourteen who had noticed Kathryn struggling with an armload of perishables, she had purchased at a corner fruit stand. Kathryn kept walking, hoping that the boy would get tired of following her and join his ruffian friends back on Main Street. She was almost home; her house was just across the street, but she was having difficulty walking with a cane in one hand and her other hand lugging her packages. Kathryn’s first impulse was dread, but fear soon filled her mind. She feared this youth who was dressed in a fashion that didn’t appeal to a woman from her generation—then he smiled. It wasn’t the leering grin she was used to from the neighborhood hoodlums; it was a gentle smile. She looked into those bright young eyes and somehow she knew that he wasn’t to be feared.

“Why yes, young man, I could use a hand.” Kathryn said and relinquished her packages into his strong young hands. With his other arm he assisted her in crossing the street. Then he stood holding her bags as she unlocked the three deadbolts and then carried her bags inside. She opened her purse and offered to pay him for his good deed, but he backed away refusing her money.

“Ma’am, I was just glad to be able to help. You see I have a grandmother who lives far away from here. I hope that someone is helping her as I helped you today.” He turned to leave and then turned back and said. Ma’am, I will keep an eye on your place and make sure no one bothers you. I will watch for you whenever you are out shopping at this time in the afternoon. You will always be safe when I’m around.” She thanked him again and he left, but waited outside the door until he heard all three deadbolts click.

Besides the good deed this young man performed, it was the smile that began the trust between them. If everyone could find it in themselves to extend to others a smile and single act of kindness, what a different world this would be.

Other acts of kindness that will be remembered by others are saying please and thank you during a normal conversation. Stepping aside and allowing someone with a disability to move to the front of the line, and then offering to carry her plate to the table. Someone who forgot their bag lunch; you offer to share yours. You are in a long line of traffic and you see someone trying to turn in the direction in which you are traveling and you safely come to a stop and motion them to pull in front of you. There are so many ways a person can show a random act of kindness. Remember each time you show kindness to others; it will have a ripple effect and that person just might do a kindness for the next person that cross their path. Now just imagine that every person in the world decided to do just one act of kindness each day. That ripple effect will turn into a flood of kindness and goodwill and soon you will be meeting smiles everywhere you go. Just imagine.

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Spice of Life by Nancy Lee Shrader

Penny — Tue, 01 Jul 2008 06:28:47 +0000

Spice up your life
In the dawn of the day
Wake to the passion
Love’s sweet bouquet

Find the spice of life
In an afternoon glow
Speak words of love
See his love grow

Spicer yet
In the evening tide
Hearts beat fast
As planets collide

Spices comes full circle
As dawn sings its song
Spice up your life again
All the day long

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Stewed Prunes and Chocolate by Penny Luker

Penny — Tue, 01 Jul 2008 06:07:04 +0000

There are days of low fat meals,
skimmed milk and bland crispbread.
Cravings for apple crumble
change to stewed prunes instead.

Those testy scales are laden
with feet hidden by the flab.
No mirrors in the bathroom
reveal the clothes, so drab.

Chocolate’s in the drawer,
a silent hidden treasure,
so rich and darkly smooth.
The taste of it’s a pleasure.

Adverts promote thinness
as an ideal woman’s form
but I suggest that chocolate
should be everybody’s norm.

Penny Luker is the assistant editor for the writings section at ATG. She writes poems and short stories and her work is being published in an anthology, called, “Flights of Fancy”. Web:
http://www.thewritingroom.fastmail.fm

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Time of Life by Penny Luker

Penny — Tue, 01 Jul 2008 06:03:44 +0000

Stolen kisses behind the school,
and a slurp of gin in the juice,
banned cigarettes and peppermints;
could these be the spice of life?

Marry the man who churns the heart
and laugh with children, so precious.
Attend school plays and wipe any tears.
Could these be the meaning of life?

Keep a family home, open to friends.
Spend time in the garden and read.
Cuddle the cat, debate with your man.
Could this be the time of your life?

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Manic over Organic by Wendy Reichental

Penny — Tue, 01 Jul 2008 06:01:15 +0000

The other day while perusing a popular Women’s magazine, I came across something that cast a cloud on my otherwise sunny lunch hour disposition. There on a page featuring how to make quick and easy healthy snacks, I became transfixed on a recipe for deliciously moist nut bread. I scrolled down and read some of the ingredients; organic sugar, organic shortening, and something I have never come across before Organic cage-free eggs!! Are you kidding me? It’s enough to make me go a little non-organic bananas! Suddenly, I got this urge to give this organic stuff a whirl and so I decided to make a list of meal ideas for one week and shop in a natural food store buying only plucked from our raw mother earth products. Cage and roaming free yet still unsuspecting lean chicken here I come! Hey I said I was going organic not vegetarian!

I enter my local health food store with an open mind and wallet and am immediately enamored with my rainforest protected bamboo basket. The store smells lemony fresh, or is that my Clinique “Happy” perfume? No matter, I’m eager to begin. The store appears divided by aisles and aisles of vitamins and supplements of every kind known to man, with names I’ve never heard of, for ailments or deficiencies I never knew existed. I skip the section with personal skin and hygiene care products; ok wait a minute a safe paraben free long lasting lipstick made with bee-friendly flowers, beeswax, manuka honey and cactus extract! I can’t pass this up – my lips are always so chapped and dry! So, I take my time selecting the most perfect color a Sedona rocks soft red. I add this to my basket and move on. I walk past the canned foods as I’m not too excited with the prospect of putting heavy cans in my bamboo carrier and adding more weight to my already growing weight of guilt that I haven’t looked for any actual food yet. Time to get serious!

In the frozen section I find an organic pizza with fresh button organic mushrooms, serves 2, $15.99. One meatless organic plum tomato and soy lasagna, serving 2 - 4, $39.00. Three free spirited self-sacrificing turkey patties $9.25. To wash this down we’ll need a bottle of the much revered acai berry juice, found only in the deep dark jungles of the Amazon, known as the Incredible Hulk of antioxidants, $7.99! For dessert I found some gluten free brownies $11.04, suddenly wishing I was glutton free myself, I decided to wrap up this shopping spree but not before grabbing some organic Bing cherries, $14.99 and some Fair Trade Coffee noted for being Bird Friendly, Rainforest Alliance Certified, Medium Roast, 1 lb $35.50. It promises “a luxurious velvety body”, which is what I’m gonna have to promise my husband to keep him distracted from the price of these beans and me being certifiable to spend this much on them! And though I enjoy a little texture in my java, I make the decision to forego the highly recommended creamy organic milk suckled straight from happy grazing on pesticide-free pasture Vermont cows!

I empty out my purchases, feeling slightly nauseous, anxiously awaiting the 20something cashier with fabulous looking and naturally still smooth skin to tabulate my items, when she casually mentions “it will be $158.26 cents!” She then reaches for a soft eco-friendly organic cotton bag which she mentions is mine to keep because I’ve spent more than $50!!! Meanwhile, I’ve gone into an organically induced stupor picturing myself trying to explain to my husband how I spent our grocery money on a few solitary items! I imagine the all natural occurrence of my husband’s head erupting into various shades of fiery red! As I leave the store, I realize that while going organic sounds ideal and noble in theory, in order to afford this kind of luxury and lifestyle, you better approach it in moderation or be prepared to have or be making lots of dough and I really don’t mean the organic unbleached buckwheat flour kind.

Wendy Reichental: I work as a secretary by day but at night I’m an avid reader and aspiring wannabe “life/humorist” writer. I hold a B.A. from McGill University and worked as a Reflexologist before returning to my day work as a secretary in the Dean’s Office of the Centre for Continuing Education at McGill University. Website: http://surewoman.com

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Panty Raid with Sartre by Ann Tinkham

Deb — Tue, 01 Jul 2008 04:32:25 +0000

All was quiet at the Delta Gamma house on the University of Michigan campus. It was 9:30 on Saturday night. Most of the girls were twisting and bopping at sock hops, necking and gum cracking at drive-in movies, or slurping and munching at burger joints.

At 9:35 pm, the Beta Theta Pis crept through the back alley of the quad, across the freshly-cut lawn, to the spiral fire escape at the back of the Delta Gamma house. The underclassmen started climbing the fire escape with Schlitz in their hands. The upperclassmen jeered from the lawn.

“Get Bitsy’s bra; she’s so stacked, you could use it as a hammock!”

“Yeah, and Kaki’s panties; I’ve heard they’re leopard skin!”

The frat guys knew that the way into the house was through the smoker—the room at the top of the house. From the smoker, they could infiltrate the four flours of the house for their panty raid.

Some Betas had wanted to serenade the sororities, but they lost the vote during the weekly house meeting between panty raids and serenades. The cool cats thought the song and flower routine was for sissies. Tink voted against the serenade, not because he liked panty raids, but because he couldn’t carry a tune to save his life.

Tink’s mission, as plotted by the social director of the Betas, was to raid the smoker’s panties. The social director drew a map of the layout of the smoker and its closet with built-in shelves.

Following his orders, Tink ventured into the dark closet in search of bras and panties. Whenever guys chickened out and didn’t get their assigned panties, they were hazed for weeks afterward. One guy was given a knuckle sandwich between the eyes by the social director during the panty loot count. He became a cookin’ panty raider in no time. Legend was that he could slide down fire escapes with dozens of panties in tow.

Tink reached up to grab the lingerie from the built-in shelves, when he thought he heard the panties gasp. Then his arm swiped something warm–like human flesh. As he rummaged through the lingerie, he discovered a leg. He removed the clothes and uncovered the rest of the girl hiding in the shelves. She had been trying to read Sartre in the dark. She looked incredibly uncomfortable crouched on a shelf. All he could see was her face, and her bobby socks and saddle shoes.

“Shh-hh. Don’t say anything.” She held her index finger to her lips.

“What are you doing up there?” he whispered. He sported a red-headed flat-top and a U of M letter sweater.

“Please go away and, for Lord’s sake, don’t take my panties. I don’t want anyone to know I’m here.” He stayed. In the dark, she looked like a brunette Rita Hayworth with a bright-white Pepsodent smile.

”Would you like help getting down from there?” He extended his hand toward the shelves.

“Of course not. How do you think I got up here, silly? Guess you fellahs are cruisin’ for a brusin’.”

“Not me. I’m not.”

“If I didn’t just see you going through my panties, then you can call me Jack Rabbit.”

“You’re too beautiful to be called Jack Rabbit. Why are you reading Sartre in the dark?”

“Are you writing a book, or what, mister?”

“Just curious, I guess.”

“I’m a philosophy major.”

“What’s a pretty girl like you doin’ confusing your mind with that stuff for?”

“My mind is already confused. No harm in confusing it more, I figure. Besides, who wants to study home economics with advice like: ‘Take 15 minutes to rest so you will be refreshed when your husband arrives. Touch up your makeup, put a ribbon in your hair and be fresh looking. He has just been with a lot of work-wary people. Be a little gay and a little more interesting. His boring day may need a lift.’ Home Ec is for old fashioned girls. Me? I’m a modern gal.”

”Right-o.” He stuffed his hands in the pockets of his dungarees and shifted his weight. He suddenly felt uncomfortable in the presence of a girl, her politics, and her panties.

“Listen, if you’re taking me for fast, you’ve got the wrong girl, mister. Just because I’m hiding in the panties during a panty raid, doesn’t mean that I’m ready for back street bingo. I’m serious about my studies. I just transferred from Smith. It wasn’t that I couldn’t hack it; it was just that I didn’t like those East Coast snobs.” She jumped down from the shelf with ease, as though it were a daily practice. She stood between Tink and the panty shelves, wearing a tight-fitting blouse tucked into capri-length dungarees. She sported a virgin pin in the upper right-hand corner of her blouse.
“S’pose I should mind my manners and ask you your name,” Tink was wondering how he’d get the panties now that he was flirting with the panty owner.

“Just because you ask, doesn’t mean I have to tell you.”

“Ok, then. I’ll just call you…Rita, my favorite actress,” he winked and grinned.

“Oh, that won’t do. Ok, it’s Miss Schirmer, if you must know.”

“Miss Schirmer, do you have a first name?”

“Maybe yes. Maybe no.”

“If you tell me, I’ll take you for a ride in my rag-top.”

“You have one?” Her eyes sparkled as she hugged her Sartre book to her chest. A stirring occurred in the smoker–laughter, smoking, and commotion. Tink hoped no one would track him down. He was hoping for a kiss from a pretty girl, rather than panty inventorying with the guys, by the end of the evening.

He knew the drill well enough to know that once the guys were in possession of the goods, they would exit out the fire escape. Of course, they could
have left through the doors, but it was a more dramatic escapade to climb one-handed and panty-fisted down the fire escape.

Miss Schirmer pulled Tink into the hanging dresses and skirts and they stood eye-to-eye with the hangers, hearts racing. Tink caught a scent of her rose perfume, and wanted to make a pass at her amongst the dresses, but thought she would think he was fresh. They heard some brothers agitating the gravel. That was their cue. She and Tink emerged from the closet into the smoky smoker.

Tink could now see that Miss Schirmer was tall, shapely, and dark-skinned for a white girl. She had cone-shaped breasts and snow ball of fire red lips.

“It’s Marilyn,” she said as she placed Sartre on her desk next to a towering stack of books, and grabbed an indigo silk scarf to tie around her hair.

“Then a convertible ride it is.” She offered him some Blackjack chewing gum, but he declined.

“Suit yourself, then.” Marilyn unwrapped a piece of Blackjack, folded the stick of gum in half, and daintily placed it in her mouth.

“Don’t do that kid stuff.” She rolled her eyes. He produced a Camel cigarette and a lighter, produced a small flame, and inhaled deeply. Smoke wafted through the smoker.

“So, what’s your name, anyway?”

“Tink.”

“Oh, I’ve heard of you. You’re the jitterbug guy. Radioactive with some of the DGs.

“Maybe you’ll dance with me sometime.” He did some fancy footwork with an imaginary partner, waving his Camel in the air.

“I don’t dance. I’m too busy studying to twist the night away,” Marilyn turned up her nose.

“I guess they taught you a thing or two at Smith,” he said, noticing the elevation of her nose. He was digging in his pockets for his keys.

“Why, yes I learned excellent study habits there,” she straightened her back and lifted her chin as though the study habits and perfect posture went
hand-in-hand.

“If you can judge a girl’s study habits by her stack of books, I’d say you take the cake.” He noticed the Sartre book placed next to the towering stack of textbooks. “I must say that I’m glad to see that Sartre isn’t coming with us on the convertible ride. It’s a bit too breezy for taking in philosophy. Better for taking in the stars and moon.”

“Yes, I suppose you’re right. But no funny business. It’s just a convertible ride.”

“Just a convertible ride.” Tink imagined himself at the wheel and Marilyn by his side with the summer breeze blowing in their faces. He pictured their wind-swept looks when the ride was over—the moment he would lean down and experience eternity in a kiss.

“Tink, did you get the panties from the smoker?” Tink and Marilyn nearly jumped out of their penny loafers and saddle shoes. Tab appeared from nowhere, a late straggler. Tab was equally surprised to find Tink in the company of a girl.

“Tab! Funny meeting you here. I don’t think it’s proper to discuss panty matters in front of a lady. Do you?” Tink was stalling to give himself time to devise a clever answer to the panty inquiry.

“What harm will it do? Guess what I got? Leesy’s poodle underwear!”

“Poodle–huh?” Tink was sweating; he had nothing to show for himself and he thought Tab’s behavior was utterly inappropriate in front of Marilyn. She walked over to her desk, picked up a book, and handed it to Tink. He took it reluctantly with a furled brow.

“If we could ask the dolly here to divert her eyes, you could show me what you got!” He seemed genuinely flipped about comparing panties.

“There’s no need to divert my eyes, mister. Tink confiscated panties of all sorts—poodle, leopard, Valentine—you name it. But we struck a deal. He did much better than panties; he got Sartre.”

Ann Tinkham is a writer/instructional designer based in Boulder, Colorado. She has written over 40 online courses in subjects ranging from emergency preparedness to energetic healing. Ann has completed a nonfiction book, Climbing Mountains in Stilettos (SourceBooks, 2007). Her fiction has appeared in Apt, Double Dare Press, Edifice Wrecked, Hiss Quarterly, Lily, MotherVerse, Stone Table Review, Syntax, Thirst for Fire, Toasted Cheese, Wild Violet, and Writethis.com. In addition to writing, Ann has talked her way out of an abduction and talked her way into the halls of the United Nations. She hitchhiked up a mountain in Switzerland and worked her way down the corporate ladder. Ann has flown on a trapeze and traded on the black market in Russia. She cycles up steep canyons, hikes to glacial lakes and mountain peaks, and blazes her own ski trails.

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My Brother by Emina Ademovic

Penny — Thu, 12 Jun 2008 14:34:05 +0000

“Why?” I rubbed at the crinkly fabric on my arms. “Why do I have to?” It was blue and felt like plastic. A lot of people here wore it.
“You want to see the baby, right? Then you have to wear it,” Nana said. I flared my nostrils and tried to look at them. I couldn’t really see them, and it made my eyes feel funny.
Shelves of those blue dresses were around the room. Did they really need that many? The weird shower-cap-like hats were in a yellow box with red stripes and big words I couldn’t read.
I scrambled up on the bench and looked at my sneakers that stuck out from the blue.
Nana fiddled with my hair, and pulled it back in a ponytail. I squirmed. I hated it when my hair was tied. It made my neck feel cold.
Before we had come here, Daddy had sat me up on the big bed at home and talked to me.

“Know what we’re naming the baby?” he asked. I stared at the wall across from me. My feet dangled off the edge of the mattress.
“No.”
“It’s a boy.” I didn’t say anything. “He’s a small little thing.”
“I wanna name it Michael… Or Jack?” I stared up at him. His mustache was big, and he told me days ago that he liked it that way.
“Mom and I already named him Bobby.” He reached a hand up to rub my head, but I ducked.
“Can we change it? I like Jack better,” I said, annoyed that they had named him without asking me. I focused in on the picture of my family on the side table of my mom and dad’s bed.
“No, sorry. Your Grandpa’s name is Bob. Did you know that?” I shook my head, and let my braids whip at my neck. “We named your brother after him.”
Grandpa lived far away in a country called Italy. I remember going there two years ago. The McDonald near his apartment had the same food as here and that made me feel better when I had been far from home.
“Okay.” Silence. “Are you going to see him again?” The baby was born last week, and Mom and Daddy have spent the entire time at the hospital. Nana stayed with me every day and night.
Nana had come from Arizona a few weeks before the baby was born. She was going to help my Mom out in our house. Dedo stayed in Arizona, though. He had to watch over his and Nana’s house and go to work.
“Yes, but you and Nana are coming with me this time.” I couldn’t help the huge grin that spread across my face.
“I miss Mommy.”

“You two ready?” Daddy opened the door. I crawled off the bench and took Nana’s hand. My tummy made me feel dizzy.
“Of course we are.” Nana smiled her it’s okay smile. I let out a breath.
“Alright, Kate?” Dad asked me. I nodded, gripping Nana’s hand harder. My mouth did not want to talk.
We trudged through the hall, leaving the room with the plastic dresses. I saw nurses and doctors in green pants and shirts pass us.
The last time I had been at the doctor’s, my chest hurt a lot. I don’t ever want that to happen again.
When we got in the room, I thought I was at a birthday party. Balloons said, “It’s a boy!” and “Congrats!”, and there were lots of pretty flowers in vases.
A nurse with a Winnie-the-Pooh shirt smiled at me. She had orange hair and freckles. I gave her a tiny smile and Nana unwrapped my fingers from her hand.
I stood looking at the nurse and her shirt while Nana kissed Mom and something that wiggled in a fuzzy yellow blanket.
“Want to see your new brother?” The nurse still smiled. Her teeth were white.
“Yes,” I squeaked, surprised at my voice. She held out a hand and I took it. It was soft. I let her lift me onto the edge of the bed and Mommy’s face turned to kiss my forehead. I threw my arms around her, but hands pulled me away.
“Don’t squish Bobby,” Mom said. Her voice was just how I remembered; creamy like the chocolate pudding we had at home in the fridge.
“Bobby.” I repeated the name to see how it sounded. “Bobby.”
A small pink hand reached out from the bundle in Mommy’s arms. I touched it with my finger, and it closed over me. I giggled.
“See Kate? You’re now a big sister.” I laughed when Mommy said that. Angie was my big sister and I was her little sister. Now I’m a big sister and a little sister.
Angie was away at a place called University. She only came back for holidays and for the summer. I didn’t miss her much. She had always yelled at me when I’d go into her room.
The baby squeezed my finger and started crying. Loudly. I pulled my finger away, and it started wiggling and screaming louder.
“Mommy-” I gripped her sleeve. “He’s hurt.” The nurse’s smile disappeared, and she started to pick me up again. “Mommy!” I screamed, and clutched her arm.
“Kate, you can’t be next to Mom right now,” Dad said. The nurse moved and Daddy picked my up. I felt Mommy’s arm slide away, and my feet in the air.
“But she’s my Mommy!” I curled my hands into fists, and kicked out with my feet.
“Bobby needs her. He’s just a baby; he can’t do anything for himself yet.” Dad set me on the floor and began to pull me from the room.
“Kate.” The nurse bent to me. She was so close that I could have counted her freckles if my eyes weren’t blurry. “You know how much you need your mother? That’s how much your brother needs her too.” I stopped sniffling. “He’s just like you, but he’s a baby.” My legs stiffened. “He’s sick too.” A tear slid down my cheek.
I hit her.
* * *
That night, at eleven-thirty, Mommy was having problems. I was at home with dad and Nana when the phone rang and woke me up. Dad was talking really fast on the phone, then whispered some things to Nana.
He left the house quickly.
When he came back in the morning, he was crying. Nana pulled out our family phone book.
They spent a long time calling people and telling them something about Mom and the baby.
Then, Nana pulled me onto her lap while she was sitting on the couch.
“Mom got really sick, honey. She died early this morning,” she told me, hugging me.
I didn’t understand.
Her tears fell onto my face, and my hands started shaking. She was scaring me. Why was she crying? Was she hurt?
I didn’t see any cuts on her and I didn’t notice any blood.
“Mom had a heart attack, Kate. She was upset over Bobby‘s surgery. She died.” Again, the tears streamed down as Nana wailed.
I fidgeted. Mommy died because Bobby made her upset?
“When is she coming home?” I pulled on Nana’s sleeve.
She cried even more.
“When is Mommy coming home?” I demanded in anger.
“She’s dead, Kate. She’s not coming.”
I pushed away from Nana, but her hands were holding me tight.
“Let go of me!” I hit her arms. “I don’t want Bobby to live here. He made Mommy upset! Tell dad that he can’t come.”
“Kate, Mom is never coming back.”
I froze, too scared to do anything more.
“It’s all Bobby’s fault!” I cried, curling my hands into fists. “He took away my Mommy!”
I didn’t notice I was crying until I tasted the salty tears on my lips.
I wanted Mom to come back. She had promised me she would be back soon.
She lied.

I am from the suburbs of Chicago, and this is the first time I have contributed to ATG. Writing has been a part of my life since I stepped into middle school. I have written two full-length novels and a handful short stories, which I hope to publish in the future.

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Seahorse by Cathrine Lodoen

Penny — Wed, 11 Jun 2008 15:47:52 +0000

Years have passed, but the images linger. Specks of sand that irritate my inner eye.

A helicopter. A mother. A father. An ocean. Too many waves. Too much water.

It’s too quiet. It’s just too still. I am higher up on the beach, but I can sense the panic. Overwhelmingly loud and quiet panic. There are clenched teeth and screaming horrors on internal screens. There is taste of iron on tongues. It is hard to swallow. It is hard to see.

On the beach a bucket and a spade.

On the beach a sandcastle, lacking only the seaweed she wandered off to fetch. ‘It will make a beautiful woods for the prince to ride through’, a last thought as she glanced at the shells that made up the windows from which she would wait for the prince. Each secured firmly in place by her fingerprint. Safely in their place.

‘On a horse.’

She wandered to the water on her wobbly three year old legs. Singing: ‘Mummy, mummy see me. Mummy, mummy see me.’

A last walk down to the sea for the desired woods. The deep woods. The thick woods.

Mummy’s woods of longing.

Two days later the helicopter returned. This time it hovered lower. Closer. This time it was there to spread her baby ashes out over the sea.

‘Mummy, mummy see me. Mummy, mummy see me.’

Two days later there was no castle to see. No window shells. No prince. No ride through the woods. No princess. No princess indeed. No fingerprints.

Only mummy’s woods of longing.

Only mummy’s woods of longing and a beautiful princess seahorse.

Cathrine Lodoen: (37) lives in Moss, Norway. cathrinenorway.blogspot.com/

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Point of No Return by Brigita Pavshich

Penny — Tue, 10 Jun 2008 11:06:20 +0000

She aligned the napkins, then re-aligned them. It had been a long time since she last cooked for a man at her house. Her friends kept telling her Nelson was not the man for her. But who were they to know that? As far as she knew there were no post-graduate studies in managing your friends’ relationships yet. She knew she’d apply if the program existed. She sighed.
“Table set, dinner ready, dress fine” – she craned her neck to see herself in her living room mirror – “hairdo, too,” she enumerated under her breath.
The door-bell rang and cut short her inspection. Nelson was early, he was eager. She opened the door with anxious expectation and a smile on her lips, but it died quickly as she saw the face in front of her.
“What are you doing here?” she choked.
“Hi. I came to see you.” He was dressed in those familiar jeans and a pullover, wearing sneakers. His car was parked on the sidewalk, just beyond her garden gate, she saw. He stood in front of her like he had last been there yesterday and not nine months ago.
“You have no right to be here, Jake,” she squeezed through her teeth. She pushed the door to close it, but he put his foot into the opening.
“Please. I just want to talk.” His brow creased into lines that hadn’t been there when she last saw him.
“I’m expecting someone.”
He raised an eyebrow. “A man?”
She shrugged. “Why not? You think no one’s interested?”
He didn’t laugh as she had expected. “Why would I think that? I was interested.”
“Ha, you’re a joke,” she laughed with a mad voice, like a bird frightened out of its nest.
“Come on, let me in, Jen. Just to talk.” He extended his arms towards her in a strange, pitiful plea.
She was staring at him, hesitating, hating, perplexed. Her pressure against the door didn’t diminish, but his eyes, shy but tenacious, made her reconsider.
“All right. Five minutes. I don’t want Nelson to see you here.”
“Nelson?” he squeaked. She didn’t answer.
She left the door for him to close and returned to the dinning room. She sat onto the sofa, carefully smoothing her velvet skirt and then clasping her hands in her lap, hiding their shaking. She didn’t look at Jake or invite him to sit down. He stood at the door, looking over the room, the elegantly set table, the woman on the sofa. She was older, there was a mallow sadness in her eyes, one he could swear hadn’t been there before. Nine months was a long time.
“So?” she cut through the silence.
His eyes returned to her face. “What?”
She rolled her eyes. “You wanted to talk. Let’s hear it.”
“Don’t be like that,” he said.
She looked away, fixing the silk shawl around her neck. He pulled a chair from the table and placed it in front of her.
“Are you serious with him?”
Her head snapped to him. “What?”
“I’m just asking. You’ve prepared everything so nicely, he must mean a lot to you.”
“None of your business.” Her artificial locks danced around her oval face when she emphasized each word with a jerky move of her head. That was a newly developed habit, Jake thought.
He sighed and leaned back in his chair. “Maybe it is my business.”
She coldly stood to her feet. “You know what, I think this talk is finished. Please, leave,” she said, pointing towards the door.
He stepped to her, taking hold of her arm. “Jen, please. I didn’t mean it like that. I just want to …”
Her stare was a challenge.
“I missed you in California. I came all the way here to see you.”
She laughed, swatting his hand away. “Let me remind you, you also went all the way there to be away from me.”
“I didn’t!” He went through his hair with his fingers, turning his back on her. His shoulders were hunched, his posture less straight than it used to be. “I went because I got a job opportunity. I had to go, you know that.”
She walked to the window and took the pack of cigarettes from the side table. She lit one, staring out the window. The garden was already bare and it was only the beginning of the fall. She had never been much of a gardener. The house and the garden with it hadn’t been bought to grown things in the backyard. It was supposed to offer a nice and safe place for their kids to play.
“I know it was a job opportunity, a promotion. I never resented you that. It was how you left that hurt me.”
“What do you mean?”
His surprise went unnoticed by her. She was picking at her nail, the smoke of the cigarette was weaving forgotten into her face till her eyes started to sting and she blinked.
“You never asked me how I felt about it or if I maybe wanted to go with you.”
She looked him straight in the eyes and he made a step back, bumping into the chair. The wooden legs scraped like a scream on the tiles. He sat down and lowered his face.
“You never thought about me that whole time, from the moment you got the offer till the moment you asked me to drive you to the airport and you hugged me half-heartedly because you were already late for your flight. You organized parties for your co-workers, for your family and friends. You went on a shopping spree, buying stuff you’d absolutely need in California. You searched the net for surfing schools, for Chrissake. You couldn’t live in L. A. and not know how to surf, you said.”
She came closer to him, but he still didn’t raise his head. When she inhaled the smoke from her cigarette, she could feel the smoldering butt reaching her fingers. She inhaled one more time before she crushed the butt in the ashtray on the coffee table. She took it into the kitchen and emptied it. Then she opened the window to get rid of the bitter smell.
“Where was I in all those plans? Huh, Jake?”
When he didn’t say anything, she stepped to the table and again rearranged the glasses and cutlery, trying to find a perfect position for everything.
“I didn’t think you wanted to go,” he finally said.
She looked incredulously at him. “Ever thought about actually asking me that?”
“You never said anything. I kept bringing it up, my move to Cali. All the time. At work, when we went for lunch, in the car, here. But you never said anything.” He spread his arms. His eyes were reproachful, somewhat confused.
“What was I supposed to say?” she yelled at him. “Please, Jake, I love you. Stay for me?” she snorted. “The way you behaved, I thought you didn’t give a damn about me! And I should degrade myself to begging you?”
Breathlessly, she put her hand to her chest and closed her eyes. “You must be insane.”
“You loved me?” he asked quietly.
Her eyes pierced him. “That’s not the point, is it?” Her voice cut like a scalpel. She sighed and checked the clock on the wall.
“It is for me. I didn’t know, all right? How could I, if you didn’t tell me? I cared about you, Jen. You have to believe me.”
“You didn’t know?” She touched her lips with the tips of her trembling fingers, giving him a long look before she continued. “You didn’t know. The fact that I was always there for you wasn’t telling enough? That I covered your back when you messed up that last deal before you left? That I did everything you asked of me, that I forgot all your insults and careless words? Why do you think I did all that? Because I loved you, you–” she raised her voice, her eyes filling with tears.
“I’d loved you for years, but you just never saw me as a woman, did you? I was just someone who was always conveniently there when you needed me. And then, just before you got your promotion, you fucked me and then left me. I lost my co-worker, my friend and the love of my life, all at once. And now you think you can just come here and ask me what … that I forgive you?”
Tears smeared her mascara that was creating clownish traces on her cheeks.
“Look at what you’ve done,” she said forlornly when she wiped at her wet face. Her high heels resonated hollowly on the floor as she walked down the hallway.
“Oh, no,” she moaned when she saw her face in the bathroom mirror. Everything was ruined. Nelson would be there any minute and she didn’t have time to fix her make up. She wet a paper towel and dabbed at her face, trying to remove the black streaks without making her skin become red. The more she tried, the more she felt like crying.
When she returned to the living room, Jake was still there.
“Haven’t you left?”
“We haven’t finished this discussion yet,” he said stubbornly.
“I have nothing more to say.”
“But I do.” He propped his hands on his hips.
“I don’t want to hear it,” she insisted and stepped back.
“Jen,” he pleaded.
“Nelson will be here any minute.”
“So? Are you afraid he’ll be jealous?”
She widened her eyes. “Of what? You?” She laughed shortly. “Oh, he knows precisely how I feel about you.”
“You two talk about me?” Jake made a step towards her like seeing her face from up close could erase his doubts.
“Talked. He proved to be a lot better friend than you.”
“Oh, that must’ve been very convenient for him. He got my position at work and what he’d always wanted – you.”
She was playing with the buttons on her blouse, checking the clock every few minutes.
“Don’t talk about convenience, Jake,” she said reproachfully.
“What? Don’t you think he used the situation to his benefit?”
“Lower your voice,” she warned.
“He just happened to be at the right place at the right time, huh? I bet he was all willing to comfort you if you really missed me as much as you say,” he mocked.
“If I missed you?”
He didn’t answer. “What gives you the right to call me a liar after what you’ve done?” Her calmness was threatening.
He closed his eyes for a short moment. “Then tell me, how can you be with him?” It didn’t sound like a question. “If you had really loved me, you wouldn’t have forgotten me so quickly.”
She was left with her mouth gaping. She stammered before she could form a meaningful sentence. “I’m trying to go on with my life, Jake.”
The corner of his lips twitched in disbelief. “If you had loved me …”
“Then what? I’d have to die of misery? Is that what you want?”
He shook his head no, but she didn’t let him speak.
“That’s the only way I could show you my love? You’re a selfish bastard, you know that? All you know how to do is demand, but you’re never ready to give anything. You couldn’t even tell me how you felt, Jake. So don’t blame me for trying to cope with your shadows. I can’t be in pain for the rest of my life just because that would make you feel better. I’m not willing to give anymore.” Her voice became a shrill cry and tears were again unleashed down her face.
“Jen …”
“No! I don’t want you here. Just go!”
He grabbed her arm, pulling her closer, but she pushed against his chest and made a step back.
“We can fix this,” he said soothingly.
The room became quiet like the sky calms down after the colorful din of fireworks subsides – first Jake’s words, then their echo, then nothing. Jennifer stood still, her mouth open in a grotesque, disbelieving smile, tears still falling from her wide eyes like she had no control over them. Jake was taken aback by her eerie silence. He feared she was experiencing a panic attack with her trembling hands, erratic breathing and ashen face. He reached for her hand. She didn’t resist.
“Fix this?” she said with a brittle voice.
“Fix this?”
He nodded perplexed.
She shook her head and turned her back to him, pressing the root of her nose with her fingers. She faced him as she said, “We can’t fix anything, Jake.”
“Why not? If we …”
“No,” she said loudly. Their breathing was echoing through the room. She sniffled.
“I was pregnant. And I lost our baby because you left me.”
She wiped her tears with her palms. When she took a deep breath her face lost the tense expression. There was only sadness left.
Jake stood still, his breathing labored. His arms fell at his sides like they were filled with lead.
“Pregnant?” he forced out.
“You should leave. Our discussion is over.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” He grabbed her shoulders and shook her. Her face remained impassive.
“If I had told you about the baby and you stayed, I’d never know whether you stayed because of the baby or because of me.” The clock ticking almost drowned her soft voice. “I thought I could do it on my own. It turns out I couldn’t. I miscarried because of the stress.”
“Oh, Jen … You should’ve told me,” he whispered. He cupped her cheek in his palm. She didn’t react for a long moment.
“Well, maybe you should’ve asked.”
She turned away from him and walked towards the door. She opened it and waited for him to leave.
“This isn’t right,” he argued and tried hugging her, but she stopped him with a firm gesture of her hand.
“It was wrong from the beginning, Jake.”
“Don’t say that.”
She shrugged and looked outside past him. Dusk was beginning to shroud the street and the silhouettes of the neighboring houses and the trees along the sidewalks were outlined in a bluish tinge.
Jake waited for her response, but she remained silent. When he descended the front steps, he turned once again to look at her. Her face was sad but determined.
“Goodbye, Jake.”
It wasn’t his fault, she now knew. It wasn’t anyone’s fault. It was all one big misunderstanding and a lot of useless sacrifices. It was life.
She stayed in the doorway to see him drive off. When the car drove away from the curb, a cat was startled in the bushes by the fence. It jumped onto the gate and remained there staring after the car that had awakened it.
Jennifer returned inside and closed the door.

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Nostradamus’s Revenge Wins Second Place in the Symbolic Return of Hubbard’s New King by Theresa C. Newbill

Penny — Tue, 10 Jun 2008 09:49:05 +0000

An enormous disk advances at prodigious speed and almost collides with a dwarf moon moving around the Earth. There is a distinct shock and then the vehicle starts to fall. A meteor bursts into flames while noctilucent clouds foretell of his arrival.

Two bull’s eyes, and four projecting ribs obscure the obviousness of his oval skull. Challenged by his civil status and misty ideas about his identity card; they would take photographs of his face from three angles, strip him, examine him for scars and other marks, weigh him, measure him; compiling information, assigning him a unique identity.

He walks into the Tea Room. The chains of glass balls that hang from long metal threads catch his eye. An alcora china bottle rests on the table decorated with the figure of a young Bacchus. Hallucinogenic tea becomes part of a four- hour ritual intended to connect with God.

He contemplates his new bondage and with fatalistic calm, he drinks. The evil tea snakes whip away inside the virgin martyr in terrific flurry as he experiences the first wayward tug of a human destiny.

Theresa C. Newbill is a is a self described free spirit and former elementary school teacher turned writer. Her work has been widely published in various print and online magazines and she has received numerous awards for her writing.

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Beautiful is the Night by Theresa C. Newbill

Penny — Tue, 10 Jun 2008 09:09:00 +0000

In a remote village of Kenya, a tall, broad-shouldered man tills the soil. A little bird is perched on the rooftop of the nearby hut where a fair skinned woman pants in pain. Coals of fire have turned an animal carcass earthen brown, a product of her husband’s early morning hunt. The battle breathing jingle of her tender mind and body beckon his return. He had made her his own when he loved her, long before she was marred by the miscarriages. Their home was stocked with provisions but those home-things wear thin when love is amiss. Sharp were her sighs, the result of an infant’s call whose birth had brought her to this. With affections and enthusiasms numb, she holds the baby close upon her. The child’s cries hasten her husband’s swift steps as he makes his way back home.” You’ve indeed come back”, she says turning to him when all was done. And she gave him her thin hand, which he ignored. Curious, he crept closer. She pitied his sorrow, which grew on her with every glance he gave her. “Kinless woman, you bore me a girl”, he said with disgust before he turned to walk away. “Call me by my name”, she replied softly. “You’ve deserted me!” The male voice rang… The lines between the stars are straight as she drifts through space in sleep. In her is the end of breeding. There is poetry in her death, sustained upon style alone.

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Borrowing the rib by Elizabeth H. Barbato

Penny — Sun, 01 Jun 2008 20:27:37 +0000

Because Eve never asked
why she was bone and Adam
clay and where names come from,
I wrote a poem for Nyla,

my little fish in darkness,
my secret little perfect tiny girl,
my one letter in alphabet soup,
lollipop sandwich, left in a bucket.

I saw you at no weeks,
and then at two. You
were a dime, not even a quarter.
I picked you up off the ultrasound

and folded you in my pocket.
Nobody saw. Security was lax
that day, I guess. I splintered
my heart into bone and no-one knew,

not even the dolphins that swam
in yellowing seas on the ceiling
following no compass rose, carved
in amniotic wax, carved in omission.

Elizabeth H Barbato is an English teacher born and raised through her college years in New England. She ended up in New Jersey, where for fourteen years she has taught writing, drama and music to every age from kindergarteners to high school seniors. She’s spent the past several summers finishing her doctorate, fishing in VT, and going to northern Scotland to check out the Picts (there aren’t any left). This summer she’s sailing to the Galapagos. She has poems in current or forthcoming editions of Apple Valley Review, Poetrybay, The Litchfield Review, Foliate Oak, and Stride.

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Hotel Paris by Alexandra Ernst

Penny — Sun, 01 Jun 2008 19:13:44 +0000

(The Suite Frederic Chopin)

Inside the great composer’s eyes,
circled in lines and sweeping contours,
a storm rages.
From the very pigments
brushed darkly around
his temples,
time spirals backwards.

He considers history:
the life of a woman
passionately loved
in this city that is not his own.
They are young,
very young and very much in love.
Who can protect them?

Music of bodies
undulating and pulsing
as the monument outside
stands taller and taller
on this spring afternoon.

Their love grows bolder
and more pronounced with
the shadows that come
before evening.
Faintly dizzy from the
feeling of such space
and the need to be free,
they do not fall off the edge
of the world but almost…

They catch each other
and hold tight.
It is that simple.

Alexandra’s poetry has appeared in IO Magazine, The Minetta Review, and The Anthology of New England Writers. Though she has lived in Paris for the past fifteen years, she spends each summer hiking with her husband and two small children in the Adirondacks and in her former home state of Vermont.

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