WritingRaw Fiction

She looked at the calendar, following all the crosses leading to the one perfect empty square. The answering machine on a loop, his voice rolling over and over, the words simple, devastating. She put the calendar back on the wall, reached for a wine glass. At a third full it felt light, so she emptied the rest of it. She sipped as the machine itself grew tired and flickered into silence. The silence grew, a film in the air around her, until she pushed against the wall, unable to breathe, the tears forming heavy enough to push her gently to the ground.

She crouched down, beaten by the loneliness for a long time. When she pulled herself up the glass was almost empty, her legs pulsing with light, electric blood. She walked over to the telephone, pulled a menu from behind the receiver. She ordered without thought, walked away, back to the middle of the room, listening to the fizz of the receiver as it hung from the wires. No more calls, no more words infiltrating her. She walked over to the window, her view of the city and sipped from the glass, the tears drying, the last of them rolling from cheek to chin, filling up the near empty glass.

The city was full tonight, each building flickering in and out of life, the planes drifting lazily in the sky. The low hum of families, lovers, people. She looked out into the sprawl and thought she could see the faces of these people, each one of them disconnected and filled with everything she no longer possessed. A car horn roared over the bustle, followed by a rumble of laughter. She turned away, walking into the mist of silence toward her bedroom.

She looked through the closets, the drawers. Gifts he had bought her. She ran fingers through the dresses, the underwear, somewhere in each of them a trace of his fingerprint, his breathing, when his fingers were hungry, his eyes eager. When all a night was to them was movement, over her, into her, being everything to her until the morning. She took a summer dress, held it against her. Her own body, still trim, still toned, still desirable. She remembered times when she wore the dress, walking the park in Sundays, late afternoons as she read and the boys played their games. Running past and smiling as she looked up from unread pages to smile back.

She slipped off her clothes and let the dress slip coolly over her body. She smiled at the feeling, being caught in warm summer rain. She ran her palms down her sides, enjoying the sounds of the silk brushing against her. She moved outside of herself then, away from her loneliness. A woman she knew she could be. The doorbell rang far away and she made her way to the door, past the mirror, catching a glimpse of a woman, the past and maybe the future.

She invites the young man in, walks away from him slowly enough for him to watch without being caught. There is distance and enough silence for him to take her in. She reaches into her purse, puts the money to one side. She stops to pour more wine, looks down. Tomorrow she will be divorced. Tonight she will act. She who was faithful, she who loved. She hears a voice offer the boy wine, coffee. He is dressed smartly; he is handsome in a fresh way. He is awkward, which she likes. He is not one of those boys who acts like a stockbroker or a pimp or a jock; the real children. He is unaffected.

She hears her voice talk to the boy, listen to his polite, earnest responses. She feels her lips move, accentuating words, and rising in the curves of the corner of her mouth to be playful, to smile and to tease. She makes him smile, snatch glances of her. She feels herself move within reach, then closer. She hears the motion of her hand reach into his midriff, then down. She summons silence with her actions, so there is only the sound of her against his trousers, his belt. A gasp of his breath, another man's breathe, in her apartment.

She raises her other hand against his shoulder, steadies herself against her own action. But then she feels the woman slip for a moment, feels her own head tilt against his shoulder. Her other hand slips away. She returns to herself, finds her head buried in a strangers shoulder. She begins to cry.

"It's okay." She hears the man say. He shushes her and puts his arms around her back, repeats the words over, over. She cries and then forces herself to stop, to return to herself. She coughs edges away, her fingers to her eyes. He backs away slightly, reaching down to himself and she can't help but laugh and he smiles awkwardly, blushing. They stand a foot apart, crying, blushing and smiling in the same second.

"Why are you crying?" He asks her and his voice is different now, aged with concern and free of being uncomfortable.

"I don't know. I'm just…"

"I'm lonely too." He interrupts, to save her the unease of her situation. She smiles.

"You're too young to be lonely." She says, trying to make light of his words. But he looks earnest, unfazed.

"No. not really. I don't know. I think maybe it's harder to be lonely when you're young. Everyone expects you to have friends." He adjusts his shirt buttons and she wonders how long he's been waiting to say that.

"Are you a long way from home?" She asks.

"I guess. Just finding my feet, or something." He sips from his wine." You? If you don't mind me asking." He adds hurriedly.

"No I don't. Thank you. Tomorrow I'm getting divorced. I got confirmation of the date tonight." She sips from his glass. "I've felt lonely with him for a long time, it's just…"she would go to work tomorrow, go for drinks afterwards. She is strong enough to continue, not rebuild. She is her own life.

"I'm just going to miss simple things. He'd text me goodnight, each night if we weren't together. So simple, so stupid. But he never missed it. I guess I just liked the idea of someone thinking of me before they slept. And now that message, tonight…that's the last one I'll ever get from him."

She looks up. The young man reaches over, pours wine into her glass, pulls a chair out for her to sit on.

"I thought manners died out years ago." She says, sat, her eyes drying.

"I'm bringing it back." He sits opposite her, smiling. She imagines this is how he is in company he can trust. She lifts the bottle to his glass but he puts his hand over the top.

"Driving." He says.

"My god, I've tried to seduce a boy scout." She says. She looks down. "Do you want some of this food? I think I should probably eat."

"I hear the king prawns are good." He says tapping the far box.

"But let me guess, you've never tried it." She rolls her eyes. "Are you for real?"

"You should know." He says, trying to hide a smile. She laughs, going red. A real laugh. She wonders; when was the last time?

"So, a chink in the armour. At least I almost cheated on him with…ooh, two hours to spare." She pushes the carton over to him, hands at chopsticks. They pop the lids, shared out servings.

"I think of a place sometimes." He says, breaking a cracker, dipping it, looking over. "My place is pretty crappy, small. So I think of a place I've been, or where I'd like to go, that takes me away." He stops, checking himself, realising he's going to reveal a secret.

"Please." She says, waving him on with her chopstick.

"I imagine going to Italy. All the cobbled streets and the alleyways. Seas blue like the play paper I had at school. I tore out a photo from a travel guide, stuck it to my wall. But it's weird…I never dream of it. No matter how much I think of it, I never dream…But it helps."

They sit for a while, both thinking of that place. They move from plate to plate, he sips his drink, coffee, she the wine. There is a moment when they look to calm themselves and they smile at the wonder, the absurdity of the situation they've found themselves in.

"I guess mine's not a place but a time. I don't know…when I was happy I guess. My back garden when I was a girl. Helping my dad with the seed packets. He used to steal them, slip them up his sleeve. I used to think it was the most dangerous thing. Leave his finger in the Venus flytrap, pull it out just in time. I use to get so scared for him.

There was a small aquarium. Cheap really, plastic deep sea divers and coral rock. The fish were so beautiful, the way they'd shimmer, fluorescent, close to the light bars. And the algae were so ugly and creepy I'd have nightmares about it. And we'd walk in the dark reading the plaques and I used to daydream that the glass would crack on each cabinet and all the waters would burst forward and we'd just be submerged with all these beautiful creatures, the plaques drifting by in gold. That place. That time."

"It sounds perfect." He says, sipping his drink. "So you've got something now." He raises his cup.

"Something from the past." She says, raising hers.

"Something you can keep. Now you got to work on the future, like me." They chink glasses.

"Would you like another cup? Or do you have to go?"

"Sure."

She rises and puts the kettle on. She takes a cup for herself too. She looks back, sees him collecting the cartons.

"Don't even think about it, scout." She points at him with a spoon. "It's my place. If I want junk about for a while, then that's what I want."

"Yes ma'am." He says with a salute.

"What is your name, anyway?"

"Noah. You?"

"Sarah." She walks back. She passes one cup to him, curls both her hands around her own. She sits back down and they begin to talk, gently, the sound of their voices filling the room, gently overwhelming the city and all its sounds. And midnight passes as they talk, of things past and what is yet to come.

Preview of

Bobby and the Mutt

Bobby walked until he was out of the door and into the street, the cold air hitting him like a shot to the gut. He sneezed and shivered with the cold. He was coming don with something. He turned left and walked down Main Street, into the crowds and the brightly lit shops. He tried to remember why he became a cop. No family ties, no friends on the force. His father was a baker, his mother a housewife. For the first time in his life he was glad they were both gone now and not here to see him fall so hard. He smacked himself on the side of the head for no other reason than the fact that hurting was the only thing he could still seem to feel.

He turned down the long path to his road when he saw it. At first he thought it was an old toy, thrown out to make space for the new Christmas toys, but then he saw it twitch, then hop onto one leg. The closest thing to a dead dog he'd ever seen. Bobby walked towards it for no better reason than he couldn't quite believe how bad it looked.

Its paw was raised from the concrete, so it was hopping constantly. What fur he had, was in tufts, so there were long hard streaks where his skin was visible. Then there was the face. The crown of its head had dry squares of skin, like it was built from clay, down to its eyes. They were bloodshot, red the way Bobby's used to be after a three day drunk. Except he was pretty sure, this poor son of a bitch had never even come close to a good time at any time recently. Bobby crouched down and peered into its face, the way he did at crime scenes.

"You come to take away that mutt?" Came a voice from above. Bobby didn't look up, but saw the dog flinch. "You take it away or put a bullet in it or something. It's been round here for days, limping along, eating our trash! It's a goddamn vermin!"

Bobby finally looked up; saw a fat man in a small vest looking down at him. He didn't like the way the man was smiling as he was talking, like he was enjoying the dog suffering. Bobby looked at him long and hard and the man didn't look away. In fact, he looked like he was looking to start something.

"No-one's putting a bullet in him," Bobby called back, lifting his badge out of his pocket. He nearly fumbled it, after not carrying it for the two weeks. He held it out high and wide, letting the fat man get a good eye of it. He came as close to shrinking back when he saw it and Bobby drew up to stand, sensing the fear.

"I figure someone in the neighborhood might have called animal services or something, rather than just peering down on it for days." Bobby flipped the badge back into his pocket, watching the fat man trying to edge behind the curtain; it didn't work. Instead he just waved Bobby off and turned back to his room. He knelt back down to the dog.

"Just you and me, huh, mutt?" he said. The dog looked at him shivering. He'd be dead before the end of the week with the cold, he figured. There were numbers he knew, a friend he had at the pound who owed him a favour for turning a blind eye once or twice. He had people he could call, he knew, even as he pulled the jacket from his back. There were people who could handle this, he almost said out loud s he wrapped the dog in the coat, letting himself be lifted the way a baby would. This is a mistake, he whispered up to the building, the curtains of the fat man's apartment shut now and dark.

"Yep," was all Bobby actually said, as he started to walk home, with the shivering mutt in his arms.

That night he set the dog down on the floor of his apartment. He laid down a blanket which the dog took to straight-away, sparking into sleep almost immediately. Bobby sat a few feet away from him, watching his ribs rise with each breath, the sound of his wheezing breath. Even that was something. Even that was a comfort. He sat resting against the wall for a long time, watching him. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the red lights of his answering machine flickering in and out of life. He didn't get up to eat; he didn't get up to make coffee. Instead he reached down for the other blanket and wrapped himself in it, until he slipped away into sleep, slowly tumbling onto the floor, a few feet from the dog.

He woke up stiff and pulled himself up; the dog was still out for the count. His head felt heavy with the cold and his nose was starting to block. He went to the fridge and began to make himself food, flicking the answer machine button down as he walked past. There were two from Jenny, the first hurried and uncomfortable, the second slow and simple, like the way she used to talk when they were getting ready to get out of bed on weekend mornings. He listened to her explain things, the papers, the amount of signatures needed on which set of forms. By the time she had finished explaining he had a cup in his hand and was drinking. He saved the message, like he did all of them, working out he could keep this one for twenty three days before he lost her.

After he made breakfast, he walked over to the dog, patted its ear as gently as he could. Even that made him jump into life. Jesus, some asshole had really done a number on him. Bobby put his hands out flat and peaceful like he did with any victim and gently talked to it. He put down a plate of food, not too rich so as to make it puke, but something that might at least help repair some of the damage. The dog carefully went at it, eating more as he went on, until the plate was clean. Bobby took it away and then patted his leg, trying to lead him towards the bathroom, as he turned on the tap of the bath.

It was his sole perk; a bath. Not a kid's bath, not a midget's bath, a bath he could rest in. After Jenny had gone and the house was nothing more than photo's, he had to get a place; it was a crash pad, little more than a hostel room, he knew that, but he had his one luxury: this bath. He had it three quarters to the top and then lifted the dog in. He had braced himself for a fight, but the dog just let himself be lifted in. Slowly Bobby massaged in the shampoo, the soap, cleaning away as best he could, careful not to cause anymore damage. This bath should be in a house. This creature should be a child. This life is a mistake and the real one is lost. Bobby thought these things and watched his hands shiver for a while. He pulled the dog down onto the floor and padded him down with a towel.

"It's a start," Bobby said, wondering if he had somehow made the dog looked even thinner by washing all the dirt out of him.

He went to the local shop and bought more food. Not dog food, but just more of what he already had; what the hell; if I like it, the mutt should, too, right? He thought as he put things in the basket. That night he fed him and put him in the blanket, setting a box by his side for his business that he took too straight away. Someone, somewhere, had once trained him; Bobby thought and wondered how it had come to be left in that state, abandoned. He patted him once on the head and then headed for the door, looking back once and waving, before he closed the door.

"So you just took it in? What about rabies and disease? That thing could be carrying anything, man." Bobby looked back to his partner. His eyes were wide open, waiting for an answer.

"He's got no more filth in him than who we meet every day out here." Bobby said, looking back out the window. The streets were quiet now, the cold taking people off the street and free to carry out god knows what behind closed doors.

"People are gonna think you're crazy, Bobby. Don't go telling anyone else that, okay?" his partner jabbed a finger onto Bobby's arm, just the way he hated.

Someone had sprayed fresh graffiti on the wall; 'merry crisis and a happy new fear.'

His partner reached across him and took his paper cup of coffee.

"Maybe," Bobby said, bringing his eyes back to the car. He looked at the clock on the dash. He took a couple of painkillers for the cold, feeling his throat tightening up with each breath he took.

"Happy Christmas eve, Bobby," the other man said, as he sipped his coffee. Bobby took his own and raised it in a toast. And the two managed to laugh, as the cold dipped again and they started to see their breath in-front of him.

Bobby's soon to be ex wife turned up on his doorstep just as he was showering the mutt down. He was starting to look half-way close to living. Bobby opened the door smiling and nearly fell back when he saw her standing there.

"Good to see you smiling again, Bobby," she said, taking a step back. She held out a box, with a big red ribbon tied round it. He took it and invited her in, standing to one side to let her get by. He caught a trace of orange in her hair, maybe strawberry too.

They sat in the kitchen with the dog between them. When he was done telling the story she put her hand up to her mouth, smiling again. He shook his head, patted down the mutt's head.

"You got a name for him yet?" She asked, pushing her cup to the side.

"I figure Hendrix." He said, waiting to see what she thought.

"It was only ever going to be that or Dylan, right?"

"I like those names," he said, feeling foolish.

"I know," she said and the two of them looked away from each other. Baby names, play fights in bed. All gone now.

"Thanks for stopping by," he said, standing after her, feeling his heart sink.

"It's not anything to get excited about, Bobby," she said, winking. He had already posted the book to her new apartment. "And thank you for my gift. And take something for that cold, okay?"

"Next year, it'll be a chandelier, like we promised," he said and smiled. But he knew how sad his smile was, how it must have looked to her and before he could control anything, she was already at the door. For a second he saw things, a year from now and she was gone, out of reach and out of his life. He coughed into his fist, allowing himself a few seconds to settle before he spoke.

Bobby and the Mutt by Chris Castle

Custom Built

The sky sang in revolutions of orange flame, a frayed twilight bleeding indigo shadows. The wind whispered secrets to the gathering of excited spectators, a gentle caressing consciousness in the way of those who desire the rave of an awareness, the purity of an affected miracle, a dream made substance and given the wide-eyed expectancy of a wonting crowd.

The clearing was secured by the pines and the briar scrub of a sylvan wild, the only egress a footpath, dusty, well traveled and foretelling the end of the trail.

Sable Style stood poised in the center of the clearing, surrounded by the denizens of Houghton Common. He smiled and paced the clearing, back and forth, back and forth. The crowd tittered in anticipation and Sable screamed, "Tis in the company of dreamers and saints, by the lords of magic and the love of those who dare to embrace, watch and be amazed!" He crouched in readiness and then he threw himself to the ground. Plumes of dust flew up around him as he beat the dirt with his flailing limbs. The crowd swayed and whispered as Sable grunted and convulsed. Finally, his excited condition abated and he, once again, stood before them. The crowd oooohhhhhed and ahhhhaaaaaed for a moment as Sable stretched his arms upward. His checks were smudged with dirt and he had grown a pair of horns, twelve inches each. His cloths hung in tatters about his frame. "The blessings of Houghton be tenfold with the mystery of the horned angel; you'll prosper and the needs of a generation shall be met." He sang in softly sibilant tones. The crowd hungry for the promise hoisted the demon onto their shoulders and carried him in bond to Houghton Common.

In the rise of Sable Style, Sunday gave notice and the town's fathers, the merit of a generation in desperate need, unbosoming wont, were tried as common criminals and taken to the gallows post. Sable, in reflection, spoke to himself in conclusion, "They found the law of beast and demon for the wont of a moment, a breath of fire, a living sin at the cost of their souls and the wont of a generation." In retrospect he realized he was custom built by the age of ignorance.

The Darkness Near Aerial

Consigned to the conditional, rare circumstance, Aerial found himself in a barren expanse of mud, fallen leaves from the late fall season and the deep inky darkness that sleep and the advent of death reveals. He wrapped his arms around his shoulders and sighed cool puffs of dank air. But what for the dream, he had aspirations, intended futures in drama, were they written in sand? What would Amy do without him? Sweet, sure in poise and beauty, sweet Amy, his love, his breath in frigid airs of disarray.

The sorcery had gone in divergent paths of darkness; here all darkness and shadow, there bleeding a sliver of scarlet light, to move ahead, toward the crimson horizon, the impossible crack of light. He stepped into the shadows from shadows, from silhouettes in darkness unto deeper darkness; the sorcery and dear Amy, the love of his life. How had he done it, how had he brought the black caste of infinity to the land?

"Carry me to the gates

Of Shemar, he had said, by a

Tear drop of blood and the spit

Of a dead man he had sung."

The sky had receded to form a blanket of ebony cotton, an apex reaching upward in distant rungs, by Jacobs Ladder and Jacks bean stalk, up and away. How would he return the sun or find it again?

The sorcery had done the deed. He was distraught, shriveled by the sorcery. Aerial pushed toward the orange beacon in the distant sky and prayed, burying the sorcery and a piece of himself in the cool mud that squished between his toes. Taboos and visions of dark laughter, "bury the sorcery." he said aloud to the sprigs of ragweed and leagues of lichens, moss and sodden earth.

His arms flailed forward as he reached into the pitch-black misunderstanding, the awareness of a reconciled sorcery, the betrothal of night eternal and depths of confusion. Aerial moved forward and finally the velvet veil lifted revealing an unfinished landscape, tinged by yellow sunshine and lined in fading inks. Unfinished, a prospect of future dreams, unfinished. Aerial stepped forward to meet Amy and the dawn of a new day, with love and heartfelt character, the chaos gone, dreams in place of the darkness and empty vials of liquid hell, behind , forever forgotten, for his Amy, for his sanity and the sake of mankind.

Twilight Mess

The sky was born in the aftermath of tempests and dark thunderheads. Bleeding in slivers of scarlet through the edges of a terrible mountain in puffed shadow. There had been hail the size of golf balls. Vic Law surveyed the twilight mess, the piles of leaves blown up against the three bedroom clapboard ranch. Overturned pines lay scattered about the one acre yard. The tornados had come as a triplet. The first one had followed the rush river taking out boat ramps and wrecking ruin with the marina. At some point it had veered off toward Miffin High taking out the south side of the gymnasium.

The second tornado had pulverized Toms Used Car lot and little else. The vehicles stacked like twisted scraps of sheet metal were a total loss for Tom, Smashed windshields and tiny mountains of fiberglass, tires and torn leather seats.

The third had hit the residential area known as the commons. Lany Harper and Bertha Breen had been planting flowers near the northern side of the tiny two bedroom cottage, summer tide blossoms for the love of nature Lany had thought. She had been planting a bouquet of marigold shoots when she heard the sirens fire up. She thought, for just a moment, of bombs and mushroom clouds. Wiping the sweat from her brow and glancing at Bertha, she said, " Better get inside Bertha, bad weather coming." Bertha nodded and stood.

A moment later, a space of ten seconds, they heard the monster, a freight train in wild screaming approach. The house disappeared before their eyes in a commotion of upward beckoning. Lany grabbed the basement window frame with one hand and Bertha with the other.

The tornado tugged at them in determined call. Lany found herself at an upward angle, it looked as if a cable were attached to the two women pulling them up and away from the basement window. A moment later their cloths disappeared into the tempest, an absurd thought found Berthas consciousness, she thought for a moment about her nakedness and the possibility that she would be seen by her neighbors, never realizing that the houses around them were airborne and a shattered disarray.

It was over a few seconds later as they fell back to earth, Lany still holding the basement window frame. Lany prayed in thanks for the miracle that had rescued them. The marigold she had planted stood unscathed in perfect conclusion to the senseless winds.

All and all Vic knew one hundred or more had died, according to the radio the early estimate was one hundred and five dead. Vic felt blessed by the twilight mess, a sense of fates tempted and the crazy turn of a bothered breeze avoided by the luck of those who had survived to tell the tale.

Butterscotch Bond

by Steven Liebowitz, ED.D

Chase English stepped closer to the candy display. He delighted in the undeniable expectation of savory sacrament and sugary desire. His hands, small, grasping in secret treaty with the sinful pleasure, he wiggled in the pile of amber hued butterscotch candies. A secret touch of stealth and the act, he looked in both directions, the isle was empty to the left and the right. Chase unraveled the muss, the bother, the call to sweet ecstasy as he unwrapped the butterscotch and popped it into his eager mouth. Tender dreams and great sugary delicious, he smiled and rolled the candy across his tongue.

He was blinded by the excellent perfection of syrupy seas and nascent suns given secret prayers of yellow glow, and in commune with childhood bliss, he didn't hear the bell at the front of the five and dime. A jangling hollow announcement, Leo Oak entered the store and headed straight for the candy isle. Chase held the partially melted butterscotch in his mouth, startled by the old mans appearance, pretending mute innocence as the aged countenance of fully grown decades and aged lines slowly shuffled up the isle.

He passed the rows of baseball cards and sniffed the air, "Ahhhhhhaaaaa" he mumbled quietly. He regarded the distance between the small boy and himself for a second and tugged the front of his shirt, pausing in speculative interest. Chase stepped away from the candy shelves and stood toward the center of the aisle, paper gliders and licorice whips in glossy red plastic behind him. He looked as old as his grandfather, maybe older. The candy stuck to his tongue, melting sugar and butterscotch sin.

Leo stepped in front of the boy, he wore a look of innocence, young with curly blond hair and curious blue eyed interest. He'd have to be quick, impressionable at that age, he thought. With his back to the boy he snaked his hand into the butterscotch bin. Just one, he thought. Unwrapped and heave hoe into the gullet; the taste of golden drama, clean butterscotch sugars; he stood with his shoulders stooped wagging his tongue in circles about the treat.

Chase watched as the old man moved back up the aisle past the baseball cards and gummy worms to the front of the store. A few seconds later the jangle of the front door bells filled the store. Chase smiled and remembered the quarter in his pocket. Pausing to grab one of the small brown paper bags beside the shelf of candy, he picked out a handful of butterscotch and grinned an eternal exclamation for things bidden sweet.

The Rise and Fall of Dave

by Mahalia Solages

There was a vendor on the four-way intersection where I bought my Sunday paper that intrigued me because he looked like someone I knew from years ago. Albeit faded, his pressed navy t-shirt clung to his pear shaped torso as he proudly paced military style anticipating the next honk. His life beaten, hardened face and dull gray eyes reflected recovery, still, he always winked when he said thank you. A trademark I remembered.

I saw him strolling down the sidewalk one day in the same faded shirt appearing not to have a list of appointments to tick off by noon, unlike myself.

"Great looking dog." He said approaching me.

"Thanks." I replied noticing his wide genuine smile and if he was who I thought, was perhaps a decade older than I was.

"I had a dog like this named Pepper." The man said squatting briefly in front of my dog.

"That's a neat name. This is Miss Eleanor." I said smiling softly as the statement confirmed my suspicions.

"You buy the paper from me every Sunday." He said as if in disbelief, pushing a sun kissed curl behind his ear.

"I do." I made a note of another of his idiosyncrasies.

"I'm Dave." His hand came out of his pocket seemingly out of reflex, but he pulled it back slowly.

"Dave, I have to go now, but can I bring you a coffee on Sunday? You appear to have story I would like to hear."

"Sure."

I left quickly, ashamed of what I knew.

I brought two mugs from home and a thermos in a picnic basket just after sunrise to the intersection a few blocks from my gated community to find Dave already set up, sitting on an upside down crate, awaiting his first customer. I watched him prepare our coffee, handing it over with grace.

"I came here twenty three years ago from Sebeka, Minnesota." Dave said after he took a sip, not looking at me. "I used to sift soil, compost and harvest asparagus on a farm. I had a girlfriend named Shelley. She was nice, but sitting by the murky lake together holding our soil caked hands, worn as leather, was not the lifestyle I saw in my dreams." Dave moved quickly to a car at the light and came back.

"After graduating high school taking my gift money for gas and rent, double shift pizzeria income for bartender school and my graduation present, I drove here. I lived by the boardwalk on Hollywood Beach in an artist studio with my dog Pepper. My front yard was a sandlot with panoramic views of water waving relentlessly. I used to watch the sunset as I studied my index cards, formulating drinks." Dave smiled reminiscing.

"I absorbed the life. I worked at a café until I finished bartender school and immediately got a job at Ricky's dive bar on the beach. I was quite the lure back then with the body I had." Dave winked in my direction before he strutted to another car. I refilled his mug swallowing the lump in my throat.

"I was popular with the drinks I invented. I had 'amore please' and one called 'panty dropper.' I then got a job at a nightclub. With the type of money I was making, I treated my parents to a Bahamian weekend. My VIP lifestyle also brought a lot of attractive girlfriends." Dave shook his head. "Why would you want to hear this story?" He finally asked me.

"You looked like there was more to you than a homeless man who got a newspaper job as a part of a recovery process."

"Wow! It's almost inspiring to know that there is still some glimmer." Dave took a sip. "By the time my dad passed, I had been in the 'biz' for fifteen years diligently pushing all nighters, drinking and partying in all forms when I met Vivian."

"Oh my." I kept watching Dave's sun cured profile, anxiously curious as to how his road ended here especially when I too remembered Vivian.

"Vivian fine tuned me. Vivian showed me class. Vivian helped me change directions from being the cool bartender to manager of the year, three years in a row at the Caves steakhouse. Do you know it?" Dave asked.

"I do. It's still around. It's still the fanciest one on the beach." How could I not, I remembered silently.

Dave cleared the workspace with his forearm, dumping tickets, used creamers, trays, and employee cups all over the rubber mat.

"Please leave this prep station clean and clear, just like the hostess stand. If that is the only thing you do right tonight, let it be that. You know that is my pet peeve. Thanks everyone." Dave said as he walked along the coffee station to glance in the bathroom.

"Dave, relax man!" Calvin said in a nervous laughter picking up a creamer. "So, you trying to get me kicked out of my apartment with that station you gave me? What's up with that?"

"Calvin, the last time you requested a larger station, I fixed three tickets and comped two meals." Dave rolled up his sleeves to his forearm bending to review the tickets in the kitchen.

"Those people were idiots!"

"Customers Calvin, that pays your rent. You get too weeded and I need my customers happy the first time, not after I've fixed the issue."

"I can handle it!" Calvin raised his chin, hands on his hips.

"I'm leaving it as it is. Melissa you need fresh blue cheese on your filet. It sat here too long!" Dave called over Calvin's head; walking off, addressing an issue the hostess had.

Calvin clenched and seethed with every shift. "Dave was probably a has-been surfer whose uncle got him a real job and now we all have to suffer from his delusion of grandeur." Calvin rallied by the dumpsters smoking cigarettes with the bus boys and the hostess, Jennifer. "I think someone should just kick his ass for thinking he's charming." Calvin fumed.

"That would be funny." The bus boy giggled.

"I can't stand him. Doesn't he ever make passes at you when you close with him?" Calvin prodded Jennifer. "He could be your dad, that's gross."

"We joke around, nothing creepy. No big deal anyway, I start school soon."

"What does that have to do with anything?"

"My parents don't want me to work when the semester starts." Jennifer said.

"Especially if you have to close with Dave and he makes passes at you right? He could get fired." Calvin prodded.

"It's more the hours. Dave's really nice to me." Jennifer said.

"Really." Calvin flicked the butt into the dumpster; igniting an idea.

"I plated my wit, presenting it with a side of humor to charm the silver haired early birds. The kids, well servers, liked me I think. I ran that place like it was my own. I loved being a manager. It improved my quality of life. I was dedicated. I felt empowered." Dave was staring at me.

"So, I don't get it." I shrugged facing the traffic.

"I don't know. One day I walked into work, forced to walk out. My boss received a letter from a law firm in regards to a harassment investigation of a female employee. Charges pending based on my resignation. My life ended there."

"Was it true?"

"No. I was over ten years older than most of them!" Dave said with disgust. "But it didn't matter to the jobs around town I couldn't get anymore, or the friends that didn't want to get involved. I hired a lawyer, but nothing ever came of the investigation. My finances dried the more I drowned myself. Despair, depression made everything disappear."

"Why haven't you gone home?" I asked.

"Once I can afford it, I'm there."

"Thank you Dave." I said as I gathered my things.

"No, thank you Miss?" Dave patted my picnic basket.

"Jennifer." I shook his hand, bought a paper leaving before he could see me crying. I got home remembering the one time I visited the restaurant after I left.

"Did you hear about Dave? He had it coming." Calvin said sardonically.

"What did you do?"

"He'll never find out from whom. He was so freakin' charming anybody could have sent in a letter, right?" He confessed.

Little Girl Lost

by Lo-Arna Collins

The wind was warm and fresh, bringing with it delicious smells and a general content feeling. The birds were singing and the sunshine was shining brilliantly. Today is Carmella Boyd's wedding day. The happiest day of her life, only one thing was missing to make her day less than perfect. The same thing that had been missing since she was7 years old. Her father.

Ever since Carmella was a little girl all she wanted and all she'd wished for, was her Daddy's love. It was the only thing she had been desperate for her whole life, and it seemed to be a hopeless battle. She had come to accept the fact that there was no place in her father's life for her long ago, and although it still stung and cut her deeper than she cared to let on, she had also come to a closure of sorts but this was her wedding day, where he should be giving her away. Instead she was walking herself down to greet her adorable fiancé.

Carmella fortunately had an unconditional love and deep connection with Andrew, but never had the pleasure of Father/Daughter bonding. It had always been absent from her life, not even a stepfather to fill the void. She had spent the better part of her teenage years insanely envy of her friends relationships with their Dad's, although she would never admit it. That was one of the things she was looking forward to with marrying into Andrew's family. His mother and father were still together and going strong after 25 years and she loved the family bonding that went on between the Bentley's during family gatherings.

Underneath it all, Carmella Boyd was just a little girl lost, looking for a way to her Daddy. And a way for her Daddy to love her, treat her as his princess.

"Are you ready to go to the hairdressers yet?" Carmella's mother's voice brought her out of her daydream.

"Sorry Mum, I was zoning out!" Carmella smiled, shaking her head.

"That's ok. You're the bride so I suppose that's allowed, but we better get going now" Leanne smiled proudly at her daughter. She had grown into such a beautiful, caring young woman.

Carmella sat silently staring out of the window in the car, watching the trees hurry past.

Leanne glanced nervously over at Carmella. Must be nerves, she thought.

"It's a magnificent day today, not a cloud in the sky!" Leanne beamed, looking through the windshield.

Carmella turned to look at her mother and smiled shyly.

"Melly" Her mother said and then paused.

"Yessy?" Carmella asked, avoiding her mother's eyes.

"What's the matter is it nerves?"

"No, I'm not really nervous. I've been waiting for this day for so long it's a relief to have it here" Carmella laughed a silent laugh.

"Well then, what's wrong?" Leanne asked awkwardly.

Carmella took a deep breath. "It's Dad"

Leanne looked winded for a moment.

"Oh" she finally managed to mutter.

"Yeah" Carmella returned in the same tone, returning to the scenery outside the window.

"What are you thinking about him for?" Leanne asked after a few moments silence.

"Why not Mum? It's my wedding day!" Carmella said, exasperated.

"But....he hasn't bothered with you for 20 years! Why would you even give him a second thought?"

"Oh geez, I don't know maybe the fact that he is my father! No matter how hard he tries to pretend he isn't, he still is!" Carmella exclaimed.

"I'm sorry honey. I guess I just didn't realise all this still bothered you so much. I mean, you never talk about it" Leanne was fighting to get that foot out of her mouth.

"Well it doesn't always" Carmella said after a long moment.

Leanne looked at her daughter, curiously and patiently.

"Every now and again, he comes back into my head and I get sad or angry. And a day like today I just can't get him or his rejection of me out of my head!" Carmella said, honestly.

"Oh Melly, I don't use the word hate often but I do so hate that man for what he has done to you!" Leanne's hands gripped the steering wheel.

"I know, I do too. But let's just forget it. We're about to get our hair and makeup done and in a few short ours I will be Mrs. Andrew Bentley and that is the most important part about today and all we should focus on" Carmella said, smiling widely.

"Ok Carmella. I love you so much and I am so proud of you. It's his loss honey" Leanne reached out and squeezed her daughter's hand.

For the next two and a half hours, Carmella, Leanne and Carmella's three bridesmaids were pampered and fluffed over. Not one bit of skin left unattended. Carmella even felt beautiful when they were through with her.

"Oh! Andy's going to have a heart attack as you walk up to him!" Sarah teased, gulping down the rest of her champagne.

"Andy and Melly are all grown up, they are getting married!" One of her other bridesmaids, Kate said with a twinkle in her eye and happy colour in her cheeks.

"Feeling the effects of the champagne there girls?" Carmella quizzed, raising an eyebrow.

"Oh shit. Better stop, don't want to fall over in those heels!" Kate said, putting her glass down and slopping a little on the hairdresser's station.

Carmella went off with the girls to get ready and said she would see her mother at the ceremony; Leanne had some last minute things to attend to. The girls helped Carmella into her dress, ensuring not a hair on her head moved out of place and helped her touch up her make up at the last minute. Carmella got into the spirit with the girls; this is what she had been waiting for, a long time. She and Andrew had been dating since high school, over ten years! They hadn't rushed into the marriage idea; they had travelled first and partied hard, purchased an investment property and now their own home. Next on the list would most likely be a baby and Carmella knew that Andrew would love their future children in the way her own father always should have. Carmella knew she would never get those years back with her father, in fact she didn't even know if she would even personally like the man. But, she knew she could create the kind of family with Andrew that she had always dreamed of and make sure her children never suffered. That would help her find the ultimate peace with the situation with her father.

"Ready Mrs Bentley to be?" Sarah asked with a big goofy grin from ear to ear.

"Ready as I'll ever be" Carmella was sure she was wearing the same goofy grin.

At the gardens, all the guests in place, Carmella felt some small nerves creeping in and was taking some deep breaths. The girls started walking out and Carmella knew she was next. Why didn't I ask my mother to walk me down to Andrew? She scolded herself. She was the one always there for you, dummy. Playing the role of mother and father.

Carmella shook her tension free. Stop worrying, everyone out there loves you and Andrew and won't think anything strange about you walking on your own. It shows you have a strong character. Well, that's what Andrew had told her the other night when she was having a mini panic attack about giving herself away. It shows independence, he'd also said.

Carmella took another deep breath and forced her right foot forward. This is the first day of the rest of your life as Mrs. Andrew Bentley, she thought. A big grin breaking out, she almost giggled she felt that giddy.

"Carmella!"

Someone calling out her name urgently stopped her dead in her tracks and she turned.

The man was running towards her, flustered.

Her Daddy.

Her Daddy had come to see his little girl become a married woman.

"Dad?!" Carmella called out, shell shocked.

He was standing in front of her now.

"Oh thank goodness, I thought I was going to be too late" He said, trying to catch his breath.

"How did you...? Never mind, what is it? I am kind of going to be late to my own wedding" Carmella said, stealing a quick peek at her bridal party and the wedding waiting for her. Everyone was in place, some guests were looking around, maybe wondering if she had a done a runner.

"Melly, I've come to give you away if you'll have me" He said, nervously.

Her eyes widened at him in surprise, but she didn't say anything.

"I know I am about 20 years too late" He countered.

"Got that right!" Carmella snapped.

"But I want to make it up to you. Starting today"

Silence from Carmella. She didn't know what to make of this, and damn what timing he had! What a moment to discuss his 20 year absence and repeated rejection of her, right when her wedding was waiting on her arrival!

"I realise it will be a slow process Carmella. But let's just do this now; let me do this for you. And for me, it's such an important moment I don't want to miss it. I know I don't deserve to be a part of your day or your life, but you deserve to have your father give you away" He was pleading with her. Puppy dog eyes and all.

"Well come on then. My fiancé is probably wondering if I am having second thoughts about getting married. It's not like the wedding can go on without the bride" Carmella said, nonchalantly. But secretly, she was thrilled with his speech.

"Or her father" she added, after he looped his arm through hers.

As they made their way down to Andrew, she noticed a few peoples shocked and surprised faces, and a few murmurs among the crowd. Andrew had a cautious and concerned look but soon broke into a delighted grin when he caught his bride to be's expression.

Their vows were their own, and deeply moving most guests breaking out the tissues.

When they were pronounced husband and wife, Carmella thought she might burst with the pride of becoming Andrew's wife.

"Can you believe my Dad came?" She whispered to Andrew as they posed for photos as newlyweds.

"No, but I am glad he did. About time he did something for you" Andrew said, kissing her hand tenderly.

Carmella sighed, contently. She felt this day could not get more perfect. She knew it was going to be a tough and slow process getting to know her Dad and building a relationship with him, trust would have to be built on both sides and twenty years was a lot to catch up and maybe they would never get around to having a close relationship but at least she had the option now, she felt as if the ball was in her court for once and even if it did never amount to anything past today, she could always look back on the one perfect day, when all her family were together and as the day her and Andrew started their own family.

Carmella caught her mother's eye and Leanne winked at her. She knew then, her mother understood her more than she ever thought. And that Leanne knew she needed her father, today of all days and that if today was all she had with her father, then that was okay because, this contented feeling was her closure.

Carmella was no longer a little girl lost, but a grown woman who was loved and exactly where she wanted to be in life.

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The Dream Group

Chapter 14

Magda's blood had boiled over last night, just as it had eight years before in Cali. And in spite of her vow not to, she'd given in completely; swept from soft surrender to exhilarating power by the vision of riding her slave steed, Paul.

Even in the cold morning light, as she imagined him naked, fully aroused, waiting on hands and knees for her to mount him, Magda's nipples erected and hot juices oozed from her vagina.

She'd asked, no commanded him, and he'd said no.

What was she to do now?

They'd played such games before. She the aloof queen, he the chivalrous knight. Those had been the sweetest orgasms. Better than straight sex. What had gone wrong? She was only trying to please him. He'd said he wanted to serve and worship a goddess, well here she was, his goddess. Why hadn't he served and worshiped her? Why hadn't he obeyed?

He'd wanted to. She knew that. He'd been sorely tempted.

She'd begun the seduction by being withdrawn and slightly aloof on the drive home to her condo; complaining about how exhausted she was and how badly she needed a rest. He asked her opinion about the meeting. But she said nothing. Instead she stretched out her hand and rested it possessively on his thigh.

"Amor, Amor," she said languidly, stroking him, feeling his muscles jump and ripple. "I'm so tired. You might have to carry me upstairs. You wouldn't mind that would you?"

"Pobrecita," he'd said, all seething compassion.

She made it upstairs on her own, but as soon as Paul opened the door, she went to the wicker throne-chair in the living room and seated herself regally, arms on arm rests. He approached, bent to kiss her and as his nose touched her cheek, she turned away. He groaned.

She stared deeply into his disappointed eyes. "Bring me a cup of hot tea, darling."

He turned, started towards the kitchen, then hesitated.

Sitting more erectly on her throne-chair, Magdalena watched his eyes widen as her pose struck a responsive chord. She leaned forward.

"Don't keep me waiting, Paul." Then, in a softer tone, as he began to turn, "I'm so-o-o weak, darling, hurry." And, in a lighter higher pitch, as if encouraging a puppy, "Hurry, Paulito! Go fetch. Bring my tea!"

Paul fell into role almost automatically. As he trotted off to do her bidding, Magdalena arose, kicked-off her shoes then slipped off her sweater and pants.

When he returned with her tea, she was wearing only her black bra and panties. He stopped a few feet from her, almost dropping the cup. She felt the air caress her exposed flesh. Paul's mouth gaped. He sucked in his breath. She watched the contrast of her soft bare skin and her strongly dominant pose short him out. His eyes widened and darted about finally coming to rest on the red polish gleaming on the toenails of her dainty foot as it tapped impatiently.

Leaning back on her throne-chair, Magdalena graciously accepted his open-mouthed homage. She watched the bulge in his pants grow to salute her, crossed her legs and squeezed her thighs together deliciously. She felt Paul's yearning eyes caress her; felt his desire flow into her and merge with her own in a surging torrent. His eyes glazed, he sighed and she felt him melt into her will. It is my wish you be hard. She stared into his hungry eyes. I decided, not you. You belong to me. You are mine, to do with as I will.

She blinked and he stepped forward offering her the steaming cup. She shook her head.

"I want you naked," she said softly.

He half grinned; didn't seem to understand.

Her voice was firm. "Get naked, Paul. Kneel here, at my side, and offer me the tea."

He hesitated.

"Go back into the kitchen," she explained as if to a child, "take off your clothes then return and serve me the tea on your knees, like a good slave-boy."

She could see he wanted to. He started to turn then stopped.

"No."

"What?" Her youthful breasts jutted out as she leaned forward, gripping the arms of her throne. "You defy your Queen?"

His eyes devoured her glowing curves. She could almost feel his heart thrill to her demands.

"Why are you hesitating? Obey!" She commanded him again, haughtily, chin jutting, eyes aflame, power surging through her.

He didn't move.

"Do you refuse to obey your goddess?"

"Please, Magda." His voice was soft and sad. "Please, not now. No games. Don't do this." He sounded as if his heart were breaking. "I love you."

"Then obey me!" The commanded was harsh. But seeing his tortured face, she softened her voice. "It's not too late, Paul." The gentleness bellied the power coiling within her. "You may still please me. Here." She tapped a bare foot on the floor, directing his gaze to it with her eyes. "Kneel here. Show me the love you feel. You may bring the tea later."

"I can't."

"Why not?" She crossed her gorgeous legs and leaned back luxuriously. "I know how you love and want to please me."

"I do."

"Then serve me! Here." She tapped her foot again. "Kneel at my side and I will be pleased. You want to, Paul. I see it in your eyes and there." She lifted her foot and gestured to his crotch. "Now show me, Paulito; before I lose patience with you. Get naked and come to me on your knees!"

"I can't." His voice was growing stronger. "That's not love and you know it. Please, Magdalena, let's talk, you need to take advantage of what's happening. We both do, it's like a miracle."

"You are mine, Paul, and your thoughts are mine. That's the miracle. Now serve and obey. Forget everything but your desire to please me. Get naked and come to me on your knees, slave!"

"Magda, stop. Stop or I'm leaving."

"I am not pleased, Paul. Why do you do this when you know all you want is to please and serve me? Why do you struggle? Come, Amor, give in. Obey me. Get naked and come to me on your knees."

Instead, he put the tea on the table, took his coat and left the apartment.

She sat on the wicker throne, mind adrift, pent-up sexual heat keeping her warm. After awhile, her inner heat cooled and the chill in the room made her shiver. Putting the pants and sweater back on, she saw her heavy coat where she'd thrown it on the arm chair, barely fifteen minutes ago, and put it on, too. Then, heading out the door to find someone, anyone, her eyes fell on the family picture in its nook by the door.

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The Dream Group 14 by Steven Liebowitz, ED.D

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The Dream Group by Steven Liebowitz, ED.D

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One Woman, Three Kings

The Story of Deborah, Saul, David and Solomon

by Steven Liebowitz, ED.D

Chapter 10

Yael would be so pleased, Jereboam thought. Not only am I here with Devorah, but she looks like she's going to give birth any day now! I must find a scribe and try to get word to her.

"Jereboam, thank you," Devorah was saying. "You and your cousin and indeed your whole family are the kind of people who make my duty worthwhile." Devorah sighed and shrugged. "Of course I serve all our people, but…."

"No need to explain, Sar," he said respectfully. "You are human; with likes and dislikes as we all have." She looks so good, and healthy, Jereboam thought. Vigorous, bold, yet soft and cuddly. At one with the new life filling her belly. She is truly a blessing!

Lappodoth came in and nodded to Jereboam who was a stranger to him.

"Husband, this is Jereboam. He is a Judean and was recently released from the fortress of Charoshet after being tortured."

Lappodoth frowned and embraced Jereboam. "I am so sorry kinsman," he said.

"It is what is, Lappodoth. I have been a soldier of Israel for thirteen years." He turned to Devorah. "Sar, I have come for two reasons." She nodded to him. "First, I beg you on behalf of our people and with all the judgment and experience of my years of military training - call the tribes to battle. It is time."

"I agree, Jereboam" she said. "And so does Barak. Your second point?"

"We can have weapons of iron. The ore can be obtained overseas from the same sources the Canaanites use, and we have skilled blacksmith among our brothers of Mannasah."

"Yes. Thank you. We are aware of that. We have asked Eli of Asher to outfit a ship, lay-up trade goods, olives, oil and grain, and go to Macedonia where the ore can be obtained. Barak now has three blacksmiths from Mannasah with him on Tabor. They have raided Acco and have a sufficient amount of iron ore for 1,000 swords."

Jereboam was ecstatic. "That is excellent news!" he said. "Why have we not heard of this?"

"It must be kept secret from the Canaanites," Lappodoth replied, "for obvious reasons. We cannot afford to provoke them, nor do we want them to ask the Sea Peoples to help them find our ship." Jereboam was nodding. "They know about our raid on Acco, of course, but do not know exactly how much ore we have taken."

"Jereboam," Devorah said, "you have shown yourself to be a brave and intelligent man. May I ask you a spiritual question?"

"Please, Sar."

"Devorah. Call me, Devorah."

"Thank you, Devorah."

"Our ability to win in battle against the Canaanites, given the facts, is non-existent."

"It would take a miracle," Jereboam agreed.

"I believe a miracle is possible, because I believe the One God is everywhere equally present - in us, the sky, the clouds, rain, in the Canaanites, the hills, the forests." Jereboam nodded, not having any difficulty with what Devorah was saying. "I believe that the power we call God is a natural power like lightening or the wind, and that just as we may use the wind to sail our ships or run the pumps that bring water up from our wells - once we have learned its laws, so can we use the power of the One God within us to connect with the power of the One God that surrounds us."

"I feel what you say is clear," Jereboam said, "and perhaps even true. But it is not what the priests say."

"I feel God, Jereboam; commune with him. Don't you?"

"I do; with no need of priests and ceremony."

"Yes!" Devorah said. "Yes! That is God. But as you said, the priests are not happy about that. I would have the priests be happy before I call the tribes to war. Half the tribes are already doubtful. The priests might provide the last excuse they need not to fight. If I am a blasphemer, how can my call be honored?"

"But you are not!" Jereboam exclaimed.

"In their eyes, perhaps I am. No ritual, nor ceremony, nor priests do I require to be righteous and serve the One God, our people and myself. And I think I have done a pretty good job of it."

"You have!"

"The personal experience of connection is more powerful than any ritual. In fact, that is what the rituals, ceremonies and priests are intended to do, to make that connection and help us experience the One God in and around us. Yet now the rituals have becoming a purpose in and of themselves and people are pining for the lack of true connection.

"General Barak is one such. He has the skill and intelligence, but he is unconnected and without faith. He feels alone and in danger. If he had an experience of his connection with the One God, he would be unbeatable. I will have to supply that connection for him.

"It is the fact of our connection - our Covenant, our belief and faith in it - with or without the rituals, that will sustain us and bring victory. The priests believe in a god that is little more than an idol, like the gods of Egypt and our neighbors. Yes, we make no graven images. But the priests' god lives in the ark in the temple and can only be approached through ritual and ceremony."

"That is not the god I experienced in the torture chambers of Charoshet," Jereboam said. "Yes I sang praise, but that was not to invoke him, for I felt him first, within me. I sang the Shma for the joy of the feeling in my heart; for the sudden realization of the truth of my being and connection to him even as they broke first one arm, then the other."

Devorah nodded. Lappodoth came and put his arms about her, kissed her on the cheek and turned to Jereboam. "We are few, Jereboam, very few. Devorah would call the tribes to rally to her, but what of the priests?" Jereboam nodded in agreement. "And besides," Lappodoth said, patting her belly, "I think we have five or six weeks to go, then a few weeks of recovery before Devorah can be actively involved."

"Need she be 'actively involved'?" Jereboam asked. "What of Barak?"

Devorah shook her head, sadly, "Barak, as we have said, has little faith. I will have to be with him."

"He is a good tactician and general," Jereboam said.

"Indeed," Lappodoth said. "Many admire his skill and will join with us because of him. But his heart is not in it."

"It is not that, exactly," Devorah said. "He can not over look the odds against us. He can not imagine how we can triumph, even under the best of conditions. He wants more men, iron weapons, cavalry and a few chariots. I do not blame him. I want them, too. He knows we must fight and soon, but he can not see a way to win. A stale mate is the best he can see.

"I do not see a way to win, either. But I know we shall. We must plan and take the steps we can then trust in the rightness of our cause. A battlefield is a fluid place, is it not Jereboam?" He nodded. "Much can go wrong," Devorah continued. "The weather, for one, can be quite treacherous." As if on cue, masses of heavily laden rain clouds darkened the sky. She smiled. "Our opportunities will arise and we must be prepared to seize them. We have what we have, what we've been given. It is good and enough. Let us make the most of it."

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One Woman, Three Kings: 10 by Steven Liebowitz, ED.D

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One Woman, Three Kings by Steven Liebowitz, ED.D

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Spring Break 1970

by Alice Graves

I sit scrunched between two frat guys and one ditzy education major in the backseat of a rusty blue Rambler, my feet teetering precariously on the hump, the snap of my jeans digging into my stomach, and sweat dripping under my bulky winter parka. But I don't care. All the way home I think about Eric. It is nearly a year since we broke up, and I want more than anything to see him over spring break, even though I am determined not to give him the satisfaction of even one phone call.

When I finally get dropped off at the exit ramp of the Long Island Expressway, I walk home slowly to get the blood flowing in my legs again, my green plaid suitcase bumping rhythmically against my legs. In ten days I will get picked up at exactly the same spot. I know I'll get the hump again. I'm always the smallest.

Tonight Queens smells of car exhaust and clouds, and the moonless sky threatens rain. I've gotten used to the whispering mountain air of Mohawk as I walk across campus to classes each morning. That is, when I go to classes. Lately I spend most of my time at the student union, listening to The Who blaring from the juke box, smoking cigarettes and playing endless games of Crazy Eights with whoever is around.

Last year I spent every minute of spring break with Eric. I was still in high school and Eric was in his first year of college. We spent afternoons at the Modern admiring the Henry Moores with their smoothly curved surfaces, or walking in the park and eating pizza at Tony and Joey's Primo Pizza on Jewel Avenue. Evenings we tuned to grainy old movies on the tiny black and white set in his room and made out. If his parents weren't home, we'd go all the way. On Easter Sunday we went to the Be-In at Central Park, where we chased a red Frisbee on the emerald lawn and I smiled as he placed a golden daffodil in my long brown hair. Take it from me. When life is too good to be true, it's too good to be true.

Eric dumped me so he could hitchhike to California. He said it was to find his true self, but he was always more into acid than introspection.

As I pass Eric's corner I peer up his block. The street is deserted except for the streetlamps casting a misty glow on the cars parked neatly along the curb. Looking up, I notice that Eric's bedroom window is dark. My legs go numb, I feel lightheaded, as if my veins were filled with water, and I wonder if this is what death feels like-this incredible loneliness and loss of all feeling.

When I get home, my mother is overjoyed to see me, even though all we ever do is fight. The apartment feels oppressively hot with the radiators working full steam. My stepfather, a man I hate and fear, watches Walter Cronkite in his boxers. I can smell meat being overcooked, and the windows are all shut and steamed over.

We sit down, the four of us. I look at my brother and all I can feel is pity. He's in ninth grade and doesn't give a damn. He wants to be a rock musician. "I like your hair," I tell him, searching for something nice to say. I know my parents never say anything nice to him. They never said anything nice to me.

He smiles, and runs his fingers through his golden brown Jewfro.

"He looks like a girl," my stepfather says.

I'm not very hungry so I only eat a baked potato but I load it with butter. The meat smells like it died a slow and painful death. Then I go to the phone. I have to get out.

Barb was in my English class senior year. Now she goes to the community college. We sit on her bed with the pink and white striped comforter and she tells me all about her new boyfriend. She is bouncy and bubbly and happier than I've ever seen her. She even likes school.

"Did you change your hair?" I ask.

"I lightened it. Do you like it?" She rotates her head, like the Breck girl, so I can get the full picture.

"Barb, you're getting so bourgeois." She takes this as a compliment.

Afterwards, I take a walk through the neighborhood. The air is thick and heavy, like a huge hand pressing on my head. Soon I am in front of April's house, sitting on a bench and looking up at her sixth floor windows. The kitchen light is on; that means her father is home.

I miss April even more than I miss Eric. April was my best friend all through junior high and high school. A few days after school ended, she packed up and moved to Santa Fe. She couldn't stand living alone with her father who never talked. All he seemed to do was sit in the living room and listen to Italian opera. Her mother had left home, gone to live with her boyfriend in Florida.

"At least you have a father who loves you," I told April, but it didn't comfort her.

I don't know why I didn't go with April. I seem to gravitate towards order in my life, and going to Santa Fe without any money and where I don't know anyone would surely be too chaotic for me. I chose instead one of the state colleges, the one farthest away from New York City, a mere 20 miles from the St. Lawrence River. Mohawk is alien to me in its own way. I am used to subways and folk music, not keggers and snow in May.

The next afternoon it's drizzling when I walk to Sara's house. The misty air seems to open my pores and make my skin come alive. Sara's mom answers the door and warns that Sara has bronchitis, but she points the way to her room. I can hear Joni Mitchell singing "Both Sides Now," and I silently agree that love isn't all it's cracked up to be. Sara is sitting in her bed wearing a blue satin nightgown, smoking cigarettes and drinking cough medicine from a bottle. No spoon.

"It's prescription," she says. "It really gets me stoned. Want some?"

"Why are you smoking?" I ask, taking a cigarette from her pack.

She shrugs. "It's okay. The cough medicine keeps me from coughing."

"How's school?" I ask. She lights my cigarette with her lighter.

"I dropped out. I'm going to work at my father's store as soon as I feel well enough." Her father owns a furniture store.

"Want to go out? I think the rain stopped." I have a problem with claustrophobia. The window is shut, her room is smoky and it smells of sickness.

"I don't want to get dressed."

I sit on Sara's bed and finish my cigarette. She used to be a lot more fun when we were in high school. She painted delicate watercolors and played the guitar and the three of us-April, Sara, and I-tried to duplicate Joni's diaphanous voice. We rode the subway to Manhattan, balancing between the cars and smoking cigarettes, and we snuck into the Woody Guthrie Memorial Concert at Carnegie Hall without tickets.

Graduation seems to have destroyed us.

"Have you heard from April?" Sara asks.

"Yeah. She has some job pushing papers. I may go see her this summer."

"Tell her I said hi."

"Yeah," I say, crushing out the last of my smoke.

Spring Break 1970 by Alice Graves

Page Content |

Season 2 is Here!!!!!

S2, Episode 2:

Et tu, Beatrice?

really BAD Shakespeare is a new adventure in storytelling. Based on the concept of the penny dreadfuls from the nineteenth century, really BAD Shakespeare is a black comedy based on the "end of days" in the fictional town of Potter's Field, Illinois. Published bi-monthly and containing less than 1,500 words per episode, this experiment in creative writing will allow writers to expand their storytelling skills while pushing the plot further.

Be sure to read this issue's episode of

really BAD Shakespeare

Click here to read the complete

Season One of "really BAD Shakespeare"

Click here to watch the YouTube trailer for

"really BAD Shakespeare"

Everything Above Concrete

I wake up and reach for her but she is not there. I turn and look around the room. I look to the clock, 403. I look over and see her nightdress hanging on the open door, where her clothes used to be. I take the ashtray and walk over to the open window. I take a deep breath and light the cigarette.

I met Clementine on Christmas Eve, a collision course in a bar. It snowed as we left was it. That's how it started. She leaves. Sometimes an hour, a day, weeks. After a while I rebuild my life before I met her, then she returns and takes me back to where I want to be. A mess wrapped up tight on the floor. I look round and see her fingerprints on the cheap lamp and I look out to begin searching for her.

Clem was born into weather. Let me explain. Her mom was a weather forecaster on the radio. Pop was a meteorologist. Everything in that mans life started and ended in the sky. He loved her, but he sure left his imprint on her too. She'd wear everything only after she looked out of the window. First thing, only thing she bought to my place was binoculars. Heels to sunlight, clouds for moods, lipstick with humidity, eye make up for temperature. Everything co-coordinated. Anything, everything, earrings in the thunder and the lightning, everything from the concrete up.

Forecast for a storm: a 'roof ripper'-mom. Phrase for every situation; showers-window rattlers, heatwave-bodydroppers, etc. the day of the storm, everything dropped, air fell away, clouds faded, rain dissolved in on itself, all that was left was a sky the colour of dirty emeralds. We sat tracing the sky with her binoculars until I fell away. Woke up to this almightily boom. Looked over, Clem was naked by the window. Darkness, sound of rain falling, skidding and soaking her skin, into onto her. The light of the storm would illuminate her, the explosion would…I don't know, announce her. And she'd didn't flinch. Didn't move a flicker. Like it was the most natural thing in the world. And hours later it passes and she just turned round and just eased back under the covers like it was nothing.

She lay next to me, rain drying into her skin, the storm settling in her limbs and she kissed me. And it just….tasted like havoc and chaos, the crispness of the rain, the jarring bolts, like she was transferring it into me or something. And we moved over each other and I looked into her eyes and that was it. They weren't true blue any longer. Filled with I don't know how many shades, slivers of rain, sparks of lightning, torn spikes of tornadoes and winds.

She would lead me on other days to the parks, show me all the sunbathers shot down in the park, lying prone and defenseless. I would try and look through her eyes and not see people enjoying their lazy mornings but bodies struck weak by the elements. She would lead me up clock towers in the middle of these storms and we would watch the people running for shelter, to hide and protect themselves. She would show me all this, form mists to fogs to snow and how people would run in ignorance, in fear and in shame.

Did I believe all that if I were to tell a friend, then no. it would sound ridiculous and I would start to laugh after a few minutes. But the. If I were to watch as the same friend listened to Clem telling the same story, using the same words, I'd watch them drink in every word of it.

I look further from my window to the still empty streets. We would look from here, try to figure the exact moment the night turned to day, when stars and the sun and the skies connected and separated, but we never did find it. Clem was sad when we failed in this, but I was pleased because it meant more times to try, more time to keep form sleeping, losing time among ourselves. I wanted to find something unobtainable; that's why I stayed with Clem as she told me the story of RC Sullivan, the park ranger hit by lightning seven times, who committed suicide because of it. The shock survivors group, LSESSI. Clem who told me of her dream to be inside a weather satellite, looking down at Quibido, Columbia, the wettest place on earth.

The night is starting to fall away now, the day nearly ready. I'll look out of duty for the moment it happens, but I'll not find it. Soon I'll drink coffee, ready for work, fall into the patterns of all the things we have to follow and wish we did not. All the things Clem keeps me from doing by being by my side.

A plane soars overhead and I wonder if she's on it, trying to touch the clouds from her window seat. She loved flying and daydreamed of a life on a jet, never landing and forever circling. Footsteps pass my door. Doors rattle open. I splash water on my face, ready myself for the city, in amongst the crowds, the din, the dirt and the roads. I'll look for her as I make my way, but I know I won't find her. Instead I'll feel the breezes, the rain, wait for the shift and change of the weather. And then I'll look for her, in the sunlight, the clouds, the skies and everything above the concrete.

Preview of

October Sun

Magda walked back form her cigarette break and returned to the foyer. She looked at her watch. One hour left. She went behind the reception desk, checked the computer. Everything seemed to be in order. She saw herself in the computer screen and shook herself, trying to not look as sad as she felt.

"Hey Maggie!" She jumped, looking up. She started to smile, even though she was shaken.

"You made me jump! What are you doing here, Maisy?" Maisy was her fellow receptionist; her number one girl; she helped Magda with her English, took her out some Saturdays when they were both free.

"Well I was just coming in to collect my timesheet for next week, but seeing how you're here and finish in an hour, I guess I could go for a drink and a bite to eat." She swung behind the desk, smacked Magda on the behind as she went out to the back desk.

"I don't think so, Maisy, not today…" she followed her to the back, to the quiet.

"Well in that case, we definitely will. My Maggie needs cheering up, I think; wine, my treat…meet me in the Hub in an hour. Okay?" she pulled down the sheet, looked up and smiled. "Fuck! On the weekends again."

"Such language…okay, crazy-Maisy. I will meet you in one hour." Someone walked towards the desk and she turned to see a couple walk towards the desk. Maisy brushed past her and headed out, waving to her over the shoulders of the man and woman as they came closer.

"There she is!" Magda looked over; saw her friend sitting in the corner of the bar, a bottle and two glasses before her. She smiled and walked over. She liked this place; it was quiet and had spaces between the tables to talk.

"You've been here for long?" she sat down. She always seemed to arrive in bars later than her friend, with bottles already opened. She said thank you as her glass was filled.

"Now why the long face, buster? I've seen how sad you've been looking these last few days. Are you okay? No one giving you a hard time at the hotel?" They raised their glasses.

"No nothing like that…" She sipped her drink; it was cool and tasted fine. She enjoyed and was scared by the way people drank in England; it was as if they needed it as much as a meal or a cup f coffee and a cigarette. She remembered how she felt sometimes after nights out with the hotel people; bad. Very bad.

"You need a man in your life, Maggie. A pretty girl like you could have any man she wants. You should be picking not waiting." She lofted her glass as Magda shook her head.

"No, no man for me right now. Life is simple, life is good." She sipped her drink again.

"Maybe you need a little confusion in your life, Mag. I know at least a few who'd be try…" a group of men walked by their table and looked over briefly. Maisy smiled even as Magda looked to the other side.

"You know the first time my parents went out for a meal together, a man, a total stranger, paid for their meal." She sat back, shrugged. Magda leant forward.

"Really? This cannot be true…" she was weary; Maisy had tricked her before. "You are playing games with me, yes?"

"I swear! My dad went up to settle the bill and the cashier said it was all squared up. My dad explained there must have been a mistake, but the man kept shaking his head. Said that there was a man, dining on his own, looked up from time to time, saw how happy they were and paid their debt. Mum said from then on it was written in the stars they were meant to be together, if even strangers could see it." The sun turned round and poured through the window, making them move out of its glare.

"That is so beautiful, Maisy. So romantic. A story they told at the wedding, I think." Magda moved so the sun rested on her arm, warming her skin.

"It was pretty when she told me. Dad never got tired of saying it. But I always felt a bit sorry for the man who was sitting on his own, you know? Watching other people be in love. I always felt for him, just a little."

"It is two ways of seeing the same story, yes? My grandfather, he was a florist, yes? He spent all his time on these wonderful bouquets; every one complimented him on how beautiful each one looked. And then he showed me, how he had to use metal, coiled it round the throats of the stems to keep them upright for many days, you see. Underneath all that beauty, all this ugly metal. Like you lovers and your lonely man."

"And talking of lonely…" she poured another two glasses, so that the bottle was empty. Magda shook her head at how quick they were drinking, while Maisy pretended to be shocked.

"It is not loneliness…at least not for a man like you say. Today…today is a very sad and…terrible thing that happened in my home. One year ago. Anniversary?"

"Yes anniversary. Jesus, Magda if it's your family, I'm-" She shook her head as Maisy's forehead creased.

"My family are fine. My school. My home town school, a year ago a boy walked into the school and shot seven people with a weapon. A rifle. Seven boys and girls as they sat studying. Then he killed himself too, before the police reached him." She sat back, felt the words move out of her and into her friend's ear. Watched as she turned pale, put her fingers to her lips as if she held an imaginary cigarette.

"God. Magda, that's terrible. Did you know any of them?" her words were small now and the two of them leant close in, as if sharing a secret. Which they were, Magda thought. A sad and terrible secret.

"No. they were four, maybe four years younger than me. But I know two of the families. They were killed where I took my exams. Such a stupid sad thing to happen to those poor people. Before they started their lives, even. So sad."

"Did they say why? Why the man did it?" She watched as Maisy leant back; the colour began to move back inside her, making her angry.

"They have theories, but it is all gossip…rumours? No one really knows. I think in one way that is good to not know. What drives someone to do that would make you mad, I think. My grandfather say it is all the dark in our country; Twilight countries. That it could be something to do with all the darkness." She sat back, shrugged her shoulders.

"I guess there's no real answer when you're faced with something like that." Maisy leant back too, so there was the space of the shaft of sunlight between them.

"There is a saying in the schools and the bars that we talk in two languages and remain silent in both. So many detached souls, you see? Lost from people wrapped in computers until they don't know who they are anymore. So…tragic for all."

October Sun by Chris Castle

Preview of

The Mindfuck Sunrise Sega

by Owen Calvert

Billy lunged forward and carried his fist with him. He managed to hit me right in the jaw; a blow which forced me backwards. My head cracked against the brick which tore the skin on the back of my head. It was all physics and biology... I fucking hate science.

Thinking about it, it was inevitable. I was rinsing him all night, throwing words at him, playing him up.. I was shocked it hadn't happened sooner. That's it though. Once the ket's on the table it's the only thing that matters... And Billy always seemed to have money on him, so it helped. He didn't have a problem sharing either, some Buddhist philosophy... Or was it Christian? At the end of the day it's all bullshit. Do unto others.

Well he certainly did me. I pushed him too far, and got another one in the nose. Poetic justice. This time it was all about alchemy; my taste buds roaring over the combination of my own blood and ketamine. Bitter copper. I won't be forgetting that taste...

***

Sam's house was left to him by his dead aunt. All retro 70's, from the tripped out wallpapers to the bright pink bathroom. It suited him well. He must have let me stay round after the fight. I woke up on the floor with two bits of cotton sticking out of my nose. I started to remember last night... bits of it... but couldn't put anything together. My brain was shot. I guess it's like putting together a jigsaw puzzle with pieces missing. You get the idea, but no specific memories.. Just a haze. I walked with wonky steps to the sink and splashed cold water on my face. After taking out the blood stained cotton I snorted the rest of the crusty clotted blood out of my left nostril. It was all in one big lump. The K does that... I couldn't resist prodding the lump with my finger, leaving a diluted red liquid on the tip of my finger.

I looked zoned out. My eyes were glazed over and bits of dried blood were all over my face. I touched the tip of my nose with my finger, like when those Americans take a sobriety test. It left a red smudge. I tried to cough up some phlegm but choked on what got shot down to my throat and ended up swallowing. It had that chemical taste to it; fucking wrong.

Going back into the living room, I felt dizzy. That fucking wallpaper... I sat down and felt the front of my head hurting. Time for a roll-up. I only had crumbs of Golden Virginia left, and I figured somebody knicked my clipper. This always fucking happens, especially when you really need a cigarette. Tapping my pockets, I felt nothing. Cunt. I let out a sigh and looked around for a light, there had to be one somewhere... But after scoping the room I couldn't find shit apart from a few matches. Half were burned out and black, but left in the box anyway. What was the point of that? Rubbing the top of the match against the rough edge of the box, I managed to light the roll-up after a good third of it spilled out of the top. It burned the paper good, and half of the fucker caught alight. Too dry. Half of it burned with one toke.

I scanned the floor again, and saw a DVD case with a rolled up tube of paper on top of it. I leaned over and looked closer, spotting enough white powder to make a corner's worth out of. I used my Oyster card to collect the grains and form a thin line. After tightening the tube, I snorted the line in one go. It stung the inside of my nose. I love that feeling, it reminds me that something's there. You can FEEL it. The pain slowly increased, and I grabbed the cotton wool and squeezed.

***

Everybody else was still asleep. Bodies littering the floor. I hate tip-toeing around people. They all look dead. Billy wasn't there, just as well. The lion's den. Had to get out of there. The last of my K had gone. I walked downstairs to find a note from Sam: "Gone 2 Brizzle 2 pick up. Back later, EZ." At least some was coming in, should be cheaper than the stuff going round now, but filthy. Bristol is well known for its filthy ket. I couldn't remember if Sam mentioned anything about going - wish he took me with him. The train journey is always better with somebody else, especially if you do a cheeky line or two on the way back. There's something about trains and drugs, they go hand in hand... at least for us lot.

I try and open the door, it took a minute or two until I figured out the mechanism... like Fort Knox. I kept on staring at the knob without moving my hand. I licked my fingers and wiped my nose just in case I had a polo, that stupid fucking ring of crusty powder that sticks on the rim of the nostril. Been caught out like that many times before. Finally, a twist in the right direction, and I emerge only for the sunlight to blind me for a second. I put my hand against my forehead like I'm saluting some cunt, and stepped out to the street.

As soon as I turn and start walking, I see Dan and his dog, Lappy. Suddenly I remember Dan was round at Sam's last night, and must have seen me arrive with the gashed up nose.

"Alright bruv what the fuck happened to you last night? You were fucking out of it... Your nose looked well messy..." He squinted at my face and I felt embarrassed. Even Lappy looked sorry for me, looking up at my face with a curious look.

"Eyyup Dan, yeh.. Billy fucked it right up. Stupid cunt." I took my hand to my nose and wiped the side. "Got any wonkables left? Sam's gone up to Brizz to get some more but he wont get back til later I don't think, and I'm all out."

"Only got persie bruv, a bit spare though - I can sort you out a corner to keep you going.. Park it?" Lappy was wagging his tail at this point, knowing the word "park" very well.

"Yeh alright, let's do it.. Cheers mate, you're a ledge.. Westfields?" Westfields was the park in town where we'd all go to get wrecked. There's fuck all else to do here. The park is at the end of the high street near the river. It's a good scene in the summer, loads of us go down there - in the winter, it's bleak. Deserted. Wet. Miserable. The sun makes it all tolerable.

***

As we walked through the gate, we didn't see anybody. This was a good thing. Others would want to blag a line or two from Dan if they saw him; he always seems to have some on him. Even when there's a drought, he'd have some. I'm sure he saves it up for those times and jacks up the prices for the desperate lot.

"Alright where should we go? What about the spot behind the tree over there; bench and everyphink.." Dan suggested the place we all went to. No CCTV. Hardly any people went there; no tourists, no old folks, not even the drinkers.

The Mindfuck Sunrise Sega by Owen Calvert

A Roomful of Memories

by Barnali Saha

I stand in the kitchen; it is barren now, barren and forgotten like a lonely island. I look around with the eyes of a child, broad and wide, surprised and gentle, hoping to see it all over again, the black-and-white show of the past projected in the barren landscape that cordons me.

An ivy-covered cottage, grainy and rusty with age and experience, standing like a fallen leader on a canalled street in a Mississippi Delta town. I wonder how old it might be, hundred, or may be a thousand years. I never knew how old the house was when I lived in it years ago because neither my grandfather nor my father--the two male fortifications of our family-- knew about the exact age of our home, or, as I believed at that time, they were too embarrassed to talk about it because none of our friends or neighbors dwelled in such an antic lodging. But it is the gray-brown loneliness of our house that I remember most--the white paint crumbling off the walls, the weeded garden, the mossy tree in the backyard and two flour-stained hands. The hands shine with manicured glory. I see them, I see them clearly, I see them as clearly as the dawn. I hear a voice, I look around, it is an echo, an echo of my past. "Today, we are going to make custard, and you will stir," the voice says. The voice is soft and warm, like the smell of pie that always lingers in the kitchen. I answer, "Okay."

The walls of the kitchen used to be yellow, the kind of yellow of sunflowers. There were shelves armoring the walls which held the kitchen utensils, pots and pans. The kitchen cupboard, which is broken now, used to hold our best china.

My mother wraps around me an oversized pale pink housecoat. She has one too, but hers is yellow, like the kitchen wall, with a daisy embroidered on one of the side pockets. The artist must have been on haste because the other side pocket has no threadwork, it yearns for a daisy too. My mother drags an incapacitated foot stool across the black-and -white tiled floor; the dragging noise wakes me from my trance. "Here," she says, pointing at a tray full of bowls, each one holding one ingredient to be used in the custard. I know the exercise: eggs, sugar and milk to be stirred with a wooden spoon. I am restless and hungry, my little body too small to look over the giant table. My mother smiles, she picks me up and places me on the stool. I get to work. I crack an egg nervously. The egg yolk couldn't make it to the plastic bowl, it flops on the floor. "Oh, oh" I say, my mother comes to my rescue. She cleans the floor with an old dishtowel then she picks up the other egg and taps its brown shell on the rim on the table and masterfully cracks it. "See, it is simple," she says, "You just need practice." I begin stirring.

A gracious evening, food on the table: roast beef, green bean casserole, chicken spaghetti, pancakes with warm maple syrup on top, pecan pie dusted with cinnamon sugar. The food is warm, coiling white smoke leisurely rising from the newly cooked food. I hear voices in the corridor next to the kitchen. As I approach the door my maternal grandmother walks in, "Oh my dahling girl," she says "look at you, you are almost a lady." She kisses me on my cheek. I smell her perfume; she has used that same floral perfume for over a decade. Today she is sporting a yellow cashmere striped twin set, her pin curled hair graciously touch her shoulders, she looks pretty. Now I see my parents, they both look tired and excited. My mother is wearing a beautiful knee length floral dress, her tiny diamond necklace sparkles in the kitchen light. My father's mustache is waxed and handsome; he sports a tweed jacket and holds a can of cool beer. I see my paternal grandparents now; they had just returned from somewhere and have mud in their shoes. "Messy weather," my grandfather says tipping his hat to my maternal grandmother. Granny takes of her high heeled shoes and examines her red feet. She is wearing a plain sweater over her red blouse; she doesn't look stylish. She doesn't notice me. "Let's eat," my grandfather says and we all head to the table.

I sit in a high chair. My mother gives me a plateful of pancakes topped with warm maple syrup and melting butter. I am still am with the fork and knife. My father helps me. "You hold the knife in your right hand and the fork in your left, that's easy, you see. You just need a little practice." The others smile at me. "We have missed you, dear gal," they say.

Conversations roll at the table and I listen to them. They talk about food, about pies and dips, about wine and corn whiskey, about slippery social morals, unexploited minds, religious piousness, their bodies' shake up and down with dinnertime laughter. I eat a plateful of spaghetti; I love the melted cheese sauce that coats the vegetables. I lick my fork. My mother sees me, "You want some more of that spaghetti?" she asks, "I have some stored in the freezer." "Yes please" I say. My mother gets up and walks to the jadeite green refrigerator that stands on one side of the kitchen like a guardian angel overlooking our dinner proceedings.

The figures begin to fade, like an unfocussed image in a camera their faces look blurry and incoherent. One by one they begin to vanish; their bodies dissolve in the warm kitchen air like melting candles. The train of memories stop, the kaleidoscope shows nothing more but the vestiges of a series of welcome faces. I see the blurry image of my mother holding a Tupperware of warm spaghetti, she is frozen in time, she is melting like the others, I don't want her to leave, I cry, I try to grab her hand, she fades out.

I find myself standing in the dilapidated kitchen; there is no shred of life around me. I feel lonely; I know I had been dreaming but I wish they dream had gone a little longer. Dejected I sit on the small telephone table that used to hold a giant black phone in a time out of mind. The warm summer air coming through the wrecked window lulls me, I am tired, I get up to leave. As I reach the broken screen door I hear a rustling sound behind me. I turn back; it is a piece of frayed, yellow paper blowing in the wind. I hurriedly pick it up from the ground and shake off the dust gently. The yellow frayed piece of paper holds the curvy handwriting of a beloved lady: my mother. Written in almost illegible ink in the piece of threadbare papyrus is her famous pecan pie recipe.

The Lay of the Land

by Suzanne LaBerge

Eph looked at the old black and white photograph. More soft gray tones than black and white, it showed him and his twin brother dressed in khaki work clothes in front of a surveyor's drafting table, Eph standing with a hand on his hip, Ed sitting backwards in a chair smoking a cigarette. An ancient t-square hung on the wall behind them.

"Ed, I'm fixing to call the Senator again," Eph said . "It ain't right the way they're holding up our pension. We hadn't gotten a damn dime in six weeks."

He dialed the senator's office number. "Morning Jenny. It's Eph. Senator Long around? Well you know why I'm callin'. Ed and me hadn't got our pension for the longest time. Can't he do nothin' about it?"

Eph went outside. Ed sat on the metal porch glider smoking a Lucky.

"Ed, I'm gonna give him a week. Then we'll investigate. We didn't map this county for 30 years without learning a thing or two."

A week later Eph drove the pickup into town, past the bank's white-pillared façade to the drive through teller's window.

"Hey Maxine, how ya doin? Wanna run a balance for me and Ed? We're still looking for that deposit from the state."

The young woman smiled at them, looked down at her keyboard, then looked up with a frown. "I'm really sorry, but it hasn't come through yet."

"That's ok Maxine. It ain't your fault. Remember us to your daddy next time you see him."

Eph pulled onto Main Street. "All right. That's it. He's done had his chance. Next stop is the courthouse. Time to talk to that little gal works for the clerk."

Automatic doors opened silently into icy air. "Damn they keep it cold in this place. Don't know how anybody can work in here."

Eph spied Winnie Ruth Byrum behind the official records counter. "Hey Miss Byrum, how's your mama doin?"

"She's doing good, Eph. Why're you two in town?"

"Reckon you could help me and Ed? We need a copy of the plat for that new place out on the river. What used to be Polecat Point?"

"I sure can." She turned away from them and located the file. "I guess they're going to build some big houses out there, with a clubhouse and everything. They had a picture in the paper. Exclusive Riviera Shores. Let me just make a copy of the plat. How many do you need? Cost a dollar each."

"We'll have two. And how about the deeds that go with it."

"Sure, that's easy now. I can pull up everything that's been recorded. Not like the days when you and Ed had to draw all the plats and file 'em in paper folders in the old courthouse."

They walked back through the fluorescent chill and out to the parking lot, Ed digging a pack of cigarettes out of the pocket of his khakis. They spread the plat on the hood of the truck and matched deeds to the parcels of property shown there.

"Riviera Shores," Eph said. "Well that sure sounds better than Polecat Point. Don't reckon too many people remember when old man Long bought the place and trucked all those barrels of paper mill sludge out there. How long's that mill been closed now? 50 years? Look at these deeds. They're all from the PC Trust to Riviera Shores Ltd".

When they got home Eph dialed senator Long's office number. "Morning Jenny. It's Eph. The senator around? I know you can't do nothing with the bank. That's not why I'm calling. Ed and me heard talk of some kind of pollution out at Polecat Point. Thought the senator should know. Well, tell him I called. Always nice talking to you."

Three days later Eph called the bank. "This is Eph Lowe. I need to check the balance in our account."

"Oh hi Mr. Lowe. This is Maxine. I was just going to call you. Guess what? Your money came in from the state. And they paid a whole year in advance. I've never seen that happen before!"

Eph went out to the porch where Ed sat smoking in the glider. "Ok, that's done. Damn shame what a working man's got to do to get a crumb from the fat cats."

Sinkhole

Unmoved by the edges of the sunken yard, Moody Carol sat in his recliner, feet up and leaning toward the sky. He had hauled his beige Easy-Boy to the center of the depression in the yard; the hole had spread in a perfect circle swallowing the cottage and a portion of Peace Avenue. The lip of the depression revealed a small crowd of neighbors and the shiny red glow of a rescue vehicle. They were shouting down to Moody and pointing to a rope and steel ladder the fire crew had lowered into the incline.

Moody was oblivious, eyes nearly closed, slivers of twilight sky leaking through to fill the void in his mind. He would ride the broken earth, the soils of encroaching perdition. He would sling low, six gun on his hip, breaths of Pabst Blue Ribbon tingeing his lips, a ride on the way to places bidden by dark shadows and bread crumb trails. "Yeeeeeeeeehhhhhaaaaaa," he yelled up as the hole deepened.

The chair swayed in uneasy rhythm with the crumbling earth and he moved down, down to the depths of dramatic wandering pass, the sky becoming smaller until it was nearly a pinpoint of azure beckoning. Down, down and further down, finally he reached the bottom, the base of the depression, the center of the earth and close to the devils hearth. Whereupon a demon, winged in crimson, flew across the gulf and came to rest next to Moody's chair.

"What hath the lot of selfish wont brought you Moody?" Moody thought for a moment before answering.

"A moment to trip up the lot of fate demon, I'm here early for the sake of a distraction and chance, chance before the last peal of infinity, chance for redemption, chance for a pitchfork in your backside devil."

The gentle rush of a beguiling blue light filled the pit and Moody was transported to heaven where he was received in passionate embrace. An angel was heard to comment, "He has the temper of a tiger and the heart of a lion."

Lifeboat

Slippery, the damn rubber boat was slippery. He arranged the bags of alfalfa and wheat germ in neat rows against the side of the tiny boat. Worthy of Eule Gibbons, he thought.

The warmth of the sun was an enduring flower of unwonted apparel. He acknowledged the flock of seagulls floating near the boat with scrutiny. He had two secrets, both named Gucci, two suede and polished leather shoes.

He wished the gulls closer; mind the hope, mind the shoes, a gull in delicious gulps he thought.

He had been adrift for a week. A taste of alfalfa and a spoon of wheat germ, the remnants of his wife's healthy demeanor. Seagull and a flourish of wheat; he considered his predicament. The yacht had sunk like a huge rock. He exhorted, "The Clever Goose, prayers for the lost roar of The Clever goose and her crew." He had grabbed the bags of wheat germ and alfalfa on impulse; he had left the Soy butter behind and in reflective muse he thought about the Canada Sparkle bottles lining the cupboard shelves. He had survived by drinking rain water from the bottom of the yellow boat. He had slurped, pressing his lips against the vinyl floor of the boat. It had rained two days earlier, a lifetime he thought, and the water had evaporated by the next afternoon. The blood of a gull and a thousand tears he thought in mild confusions of thirst.

The shoe was light in his fist as he considered the gulls. Would the shoe float if he missed? A moment later he untied the laces and strung them together; maybe they were a couple of feet long in total. He tied the lace into the top loop of the shoe and stared at the gulls. Butterscotch divinity, brandy bandy and t-bone steak topped with the clarity of seagull a la alfalfa.

Sinful bird, a bargain in desolate hope he thought, just a bit closer, a tiny bit closer. He cocked his arm and heaved with deduced accuracy. The gull screamed, bobbed and floated dead in the ocean current.

The creed of absolute joy, the consent of god's and the drama of hero's lost, a passport to realms of sated test marked by the passing of a seagull he pondered in hazy deliriums of triumph. The gull floated sightless and silent as he tossed the tethered shoe toward it. A moment of peace for my feathered quarry, a quandary in cries of remorse and hunger, the day unto what's delivered by need rather than desire; he ate that evening in bloody sunset survival.

One day he would reflect on the desperate marriage of blood and balance. His rescue and what means he had when they saw the blood smeared smile of the sole survivor, the lone tatters of a man betting the wind for luck and the will to reach another port. Thus the story of a miracle and the mother of necessity is given triumph unto the will to survive, the mind to arrive closer to the edge of tomorrow.

A Wolf Embracing The Day

Christian Forge had traveled from loves embrace to breaths of dry desolation, desert sands to mushroom strewn forests in bloom, from cinder block abodes to straw and stick foundations. He had loved, laughed and sang praises to heaven as well as cursing the demons that lay just beyond the twilight horizon.

Christian disturbed the ease of calm harbors and gentle asylum, preferring the danger in adventure and exploration. The shack was buried by the palm fronds and briar scrub surrounding it. He had managed the tangle of weeds

And the soft squish of swampy morass for the undressed wont of expectation, a secret will, a mistress in fanged trust, overwhelming, never sated with the human condition.

He had entered the tumble with a cautious desire. The herbs and juju the swamp witch had arranged on the patch of dry dirt floor had enticed his passions. He had touched the wolf-like figurine and flinched, a sharp edge tore his fingertip and the soil drank in his blood, hungry, sanguine and in need, in magic allure. Homeward bound, he thought as he devoured the sacred meal of herbs and wolf-thyme. Just a touch of crimson, coppery, salty and sleek as the tear drizzled into the mystic brew. He made a face at the taste, bitter in test, the blood a flavored liquor, a foothold on what was human.

Soon after, he collapsed and dreamed of wild freedoms and carnal delights. The sleep of wolfs and babes. Near evening-tide he awoke to the rhythm of his breath, his even forceful exhalations in wolf bred, magnified sense. His paws flexed and he growled, the evidence of his rebuke lay in tattered

Torn clothing and vesture. He was refined in the enveloping allure of wolf suspiration and he wanted, in tense posture. He wanted the hunt; a whip-o-will sounded and the keenness of his soul elevated him to heights of unbridled desire. From human to wolf, from the certain sustenance of civil

Union to primal forests and the grace of wily need. Christian would know the will of wolves because he was on the heal of evolution, the balance between man and wolf.

A Deep Love

"I'm alive with you baby," Straw Berkley whispered into her ear, " Alive and born again with you my love." She grinned in an askew sort of manner and shifted on the leather sofa. A sticky squishing sound from beneath her shifting figure broke the moment, like Velcro peeling away from Velcro and a mouth full of swishing spit. "My eyes for you darling, my soul and my captured heart baby." Straw said in earnest desire.

The book lay open between them. She sighed and chortled in a strange gleeful passion.

" Everything for you my love ." he exclaimed to her in easy waves of affection. She glanced at the open book between them and a look of fear crossed her face in misshapen dilemma. Straw paused and she said nothing as she smacked her lips and clicked her tongue against her pointed teeth.

The moment was a cool breath between them and as the twilight glow of an ancient sun and the divide between night and day pierced the tiny living rooms dusty window blinds, Straw had a moment of obliging trepidation. She waved her arms in gentle airs of dance , flowing in angled difference to the space that separated them.

The bloody red hue of her gold rimmed irises flittered and swam as she moved her cracked leathery lips. The book, perhaps he had made a mistake. Straw looked at her gelatinous frame and her long flowing strands of hair, silvery corn silk, mirror like, " Maybe we should take our time in this relationship thing." he said having a few second thoughts. Her teeth glimmered razor sharp, dripping a snot like saliva onto the open book.

He considered, maybe his wish, his wish for love and ecstasies unbidden had been a hasty decision.

She opened her mouth and a great spraying geyser of scarlet splashed him from head to the tips of his sneakers. He wiped his face noting the moth dancing near the ceiling fan above them. She waved her numerous arms and screamed a shrill Banshee like scream. Her legs, decaying in degrees, shifted to lift her giant frame and she stood hunched in amorous appreciation for Straw.

As her scaled tongue darted out to taste Straws lips , he understood the depth of his mistake. Screaming in fear he grabbed for the ancient book, the Legend of Demonic. As his fingers traced the skin of the volume in bloody trails of desperation, she embraced him and took him as her husband.

"Baby," she gurgled between his screams, "….my love and my beautiful salvation."

Preview of

Chicahua

by J. A. Williams

Chicahua left the office as the new head of PR for Green Corp. an international corporation that had its factory here in Mexico. She went to the bank, deposited her signing bonus, and withdrew some cash for she had a plan, but there was something that she needed to take care of first. She drove home, parked her compact sedan in the underground parking of her complex then took the Metro to a car lot she knew of. As she sat in the train car, she thought back. Back to the beginning of her journey…

It had been a long road for she had pulled herself up out of the poverty of the lowest class in Mexico. She was a pureblood indigenous woman. She was proud of her heritage in fact, but as a pureblood Aztec, she had fought racism her whole life. The mestizos ran the country for the most part. This did not bother her in itself, they were after all the majority in Mexico, and she was a strong believer in democracy. They were, in definable ways her brothers and sisters, for mestizo means a mix. In their veins, flows the same proud blood as in hers.

Well had her parents named her, for Chicahua, means strong in Nahuatl, her ancestral language. It had turned out to be prophetic. Many indigenous children never get past elementary school, for at times, their families must send them out of the village to a nearby town to go to secondary school. While schooling is paid for by the state, one must provide ones own uniform and transportation. Her family had money for neither, being subsistence farmers, but she was a determined child. She found a neighbour with a tattered, outdated school uniform and convinced her to pass it on. With help from her mother, who had much practice mending, she fixed it up as best she was able. At six thirty in the morning, she set out on the one and a half hour walk to town and the secondary school that was situated there. She arrived a few minutes before the opening bell rang and went inside to register.

"Name and address," asked the kind-faced lady?

She gave it to her.

"For your first year, you will have to pay one thousand, six hundred pesos for your text books."

Her mouth fell open and she found herself unable to speak for a few moments. In primary school, all books had been free; it had not occurred to her that she would have to buy them herself. How could she afford to? She did not have enough money to pay the 25-cent bus fare from the village, much less sixteen hundred pesos for textbooks.

"But we have no money!"

The mestiza lady with the light olive skin looked down at her. Chicahua knew she saw a sturdy, determined, dark skinned twelve-year-old, with an unmistakable, round Aztec face, wearing an old, patched, school uniform. Though worn and patched it was clean and ironed. Like the dirt floor of their hut, it was spotless, and she wore it with pride.

"Well then, we will have to see what can be done. Please go and sit in one of the chairs over there, while I register the other new children. She had pointed to a row of battered chairs near a window. The bell rang, but she stayed where she had been told until the lady had finished with the other children.

The lady crooked a middle finger in her direction.

"Come Chicahua."

She went over to the counter. The lady stepped out from behind it and took her hand, leading her down the hall.

"My name is doña Inés. How did you get to school this morning child?"

"I walked doña Inés," she had replied.

"Walked, it must have taken you two hours!"

"Close to an hour and a half."

"You must walk fast."

"I walk a lot doña Inés."

"Yes, I imagine that you do."

They entered a door, a large closet it turned out. It was inhabited by an ancient man who sat in a corner with a bare bulb hanging over his head on the end of a disreputable looking pair of wires, which illuminated a tattered book that he held beneath it.

He looked up from the book and smiled a yellow smile at the pair.

"Good morning doña Inés," he said as he stood.

"Good morning don Isaac. This is Chicahua. She has no money for books but has walked from Mecayapan village, for an hour and a half to get to school. I think we should try and help her do you not agree?"

"Indeed I do," he gave her an impish, toothy, grin. He put the book down on a crumbling, unpainted, grey, crate, and shook her hand. "Hello Chicahua, it is my great pleasure to meet you."

"Thank-you don Isaac." A question burned in her. "Do you live here in this room?"

He laughed. "No this is the janitors closet, and I am the janitor. I sit here and read until the children are in class while I have my morning coffee."

She now saw a chipped and dented enamel mug beside the book with a sweet roll, which had two or three bites taken from it.

Don Isaac rummaged through some battered cardboard boxes, which were piled in a corner of the closet, he muttered to himself as he dug through them.

"No, this one is far too outdated. Hmm, no, no, this won't do, it won't hold up for the whole school year, it's falling apart as it is, I should throw it away," though he didn't. "Ah, here's one, a little worse for the wear but it will do I think. Here you go Chicahua, your grade seven math book."

He continued his search through seven other boxes, each containing textbooks of different subjects and in varying condition. When he had found all the necessary books, he went to another corner of the large closet, and found notebooks, pencils, pens, a compass, and all the other things she would need for her studies. They were used and the notebooks had pages that had been written on but those could be removed. She found herself in absolute astonishment that some children would leave or lose things of such value. It was an early insight into the wealth some possessed.

"Don Isaac, I don't know how to pay you back for all of this," she said.

He ignored her, putting his forefinger in the air. "Ahh, somewhere… somewhere… I put it someplace, where was that now," he said as he turned, keeping the finger raised as if it was a water-witching stick, searching, searching. "Oh yes, I remember now," he tapped the side of his head. He delved into an untouched corner of the closet. After a few moments, he pulled his head out of an old crate. In his left hand, he raised the most awful, gaudy, florescent green book bag one might imagine. He did a jig, circling and chanting as he did.

"I found it, I found it, I found it!"

Neither Inés nor Chicahua could help smiling at the old man's glee as he danced, circling the closet with the book bag held aloft.

"The girl who owned it," he explained, "hated it, and asked me if I could make it disappear her first day of school. She told her parents that she had lost it and though the whole school searched, it was never found… until now. He gave them both a wink. "That was five years ago… well… goodness, five years ago today!"'

It was the most awful, most wonderful, book bag, Chicahua had ever seen. It had been used part of one day, it was as good as if it was brand new. She broke down in tears of happiness to have found friends like these outside the village, and at that on her first day of secondary school.

Chicahua had problems from the beginning, with the attitudes of fellow students, even some teachers! She was the only pureblood Aztec at the school, and many looked upon her as if she were a piece of excrement… or something worse.

She overheard a soft voice speak from behind her one day. It was a senior boy, talking to another. He spoke loud enough that she could overhear and gave her side-glances to see her reaction.

"No sé porque esa chingada puta, no se queda en su ejido." He asked his friend why the fucking whore did not stay on the farm where she belonged.

She learned to keep her books with her at all times, otherwise they would go missing and end up in the trash. While some teachers insisted that the children in their classes behave, others encouraged the misbehaviour toward her. The usual method was to ignore the miscreants or laugh at the 'joke.' There were times on the long walk home that the path before her was blurred by the tears that she refused to shed at school. When things were at their worst, she could take recess or lunch with don Isaac in the janitor's closet. He found an old table and a rickety chair that had been discarded, and after fixing them up with a few nails and bits of twine, he made room for them in his closet so she would have a refuge and a place to study, under the dim light of the yellow bulb.

Chicahua by J. A. Williams

Spider Trap

by Trevor Hackley

A spider suspended itself in the air by the strong, glossy thread lines of its web. This particular spider was death white, colored with leave like marks, thin leaves like crinkled monkey grass, on its legs. It had a wide, furry head. It suspended itself in a tree .Birds called somewhere around.

There was something that rather appealed to the spider. It was some sort of odd shaped flatter thing, with a bright ruby red, glowing middle. It looked at it rather curiously, tilting its head, its eyes blinking. Curiosity overcame it .It started clicking its feet and shifted itself. It started descending, spinning web ,slowing down every so often as it went down. It touched the ground and all its legs dropped on the ground, and it looked with its front legs, at this strange foreign, unfamiliar object in front of it .Odd! The red center now appeared to be slowly blinking. IT crawled up to it and cautiously, slowly, reached out with a leg. IT got close, then twitched in fright. It blinked and adjusted its footing, and screwed up its courage. He reached out again, slowly, a nd it just about touched it. It was blinking a lot faster and it clicked. The blinking sopped. The spider sat there...it waited.

Suddenly there was a noise of a sudden breeze, and a high pitched electric humming, and a hissing clicking, and suddenly it seemed to pop open. White shot all around him. White surrounded him, and it engulfed him, snapped on him. It was trapped. The webbish material lightly wrapped itself around him. He tumbled a little and started trying to thrash, and break free. Alas, it was to no avail.

Soon, a few giant things came clumsily thumping along, or at least that's what it sounded like tot he spider They came up till they were terribly close, then bent down next to him and took a close look.

"Hey! Look what we have here!"

"A Jack Pincer Spider. Those are hard to find."

"Wow! I'm impressed our trap worked that well!"

"Let's grab it and get out of here!" The other picked up the top of the next and carefully lifted it up. IT thrashed more for a moment, swinging the trap around wildly, then stopped. The spider was a little let than knee high, and about two and a half feet in diameter. The man carried tit to the truck and carefully put it in the back. "This will go well in my son's exotic farm. He's collecting them, been doing it for a few months now.

"Cool."

They climbed in the cab, and started the engine. They headed out of the forest and back to the helipad not too far from here to go home.

Preview of

Rehearsal

by Sandy Steinman

"Do it again." said her mother

"Class 5B2..."

"No. No. No. Louder. You aren't projecting."

"Class 5B2..."

"I still can't hear you."

"Listen to me, Roberta", Mother pounded her tight little fists on the kitchen table, "stop aggravating me." Squinting, she glanced at her watch. "Time is running out. It's Tuesday already and on Friday you'll be standing on the stage in front of the whole school." Her left eyelid twitched. "Everyone will have their eyes on you." She walked over to the stove, high narrow heels clicking across the linoleum, lit a cigarette with a large wooden match from the stove. "Your first time in a school play, first time in your life you're in something."

That's not true, the girl said to herself, what about the fifth grade spelling bee last month? I won it; didn't I? She remained silent.

Mother puffed her cigarette. She removed a tobacco speck from her tongue. "They'll all be watching: teachers, parents, students, the principal," her eyes suddenly brightened, "Why, it's like a debut."

Roberta stared down solemnly at the skinny trail of baby ants crossing the kitchen heading for the refrigerator. She scratched her elbow, spelled debut in her head. D-E-B-U-T, debut.

What's a debut? She wondered.

"Why are you looking at the floor?" Mother called out. "Will you please pay attention and look at me." Roberta looked up into her mother's eyes.

"Now, pretend you're on the stage. Stand up straight. Smile at the audience and speak loud." Mother yelled 'loud.' "Please push your hair out of your eyes." Her tone softened

"O.K. Again."

"Class 5B2 presents..."

Thank Goodness the school play was Friday, just a few more days. Mother had insisted they practice every day for at least one hour.

Roberta was not exactly in the play.

She'd told Mother; "Look," she'd said, "I'm only the presenter. 'Class 5B2 presents.' I'm not an actress in the play. Only twenty-three words. Ask Miss Heymont."

Miss Heymont had told her she was to introduce the play. "That's a very important part, dear," she'd said. She'd chosen Roberta because she was dignified and serious. "It'll set the right mood," she'd said. Before the play started, Roberta was to go to the podium and when everyone quieted, she was to smile wide and do the introduction and then return to her seat.

"The whole school, Roberta". Mother's sighed. Her voice was breathy, the way it sounded when she got all riled up, so you would know not to interrupt or contradict or say even one word.

"All the teachers, everyone's mother..."

Mother was an aspiring actress herself and believed all roles were equally important. "It is crucial to perform as perfectly as you can, Roberta." Better to go along with her; you never know what she'll do if she really gets mad.

In the tiny Brooklyn apartment on Newkirk Avenue, Mother, Father, Roberta and her brother, Stuart shared the one dark bedroom. Stuart, six years old, slept in a baby crib, still sucked his thumb, still wet the bed, even on the nights Father remembered to walk him to the bathroom at midnight.

Roberta slept in a narrow junior bed with side rails. Just above her headboard was the room's one window which faced Newkirk Avenue traffic and Washington High School. She felt lucky to have the window. In pale early morning light, she'd sit on her knees on the mattress, lift the venetian blind slats just a little and peek at the high school kids across the street heading up the wide school stairway. She watched them toss their cigarettes before entering the heavy doors.

They'd not lived on Newkirk Ave. very long, a year maybe, since her father came back. He'd been away for 5 years. "Away" meant "in prison." After he came back, they'd moved here She'd been worrying he'd leave again and it made her afraid to tell him anything except good things, like winning the spelling bee. Spelling was her best subject.

Her mother had been "away" too. Not prison, though. Not one of her aunts seemed to know where she'd had been.

Roberta wasn't allowed to tell anybody about prison. "It's important to keep it a secret, dear," whispered Aunt Ada in her deep, breathy voice. "Don't ever tell anybody. Besides, you aren't even supposed to know where your daddy was."

But how could she not know? Was Aunt Ada joking? It was Aunt Ada herself, along with Uncle Herb who drove her Mother to Ossining that one time for a visit.

Maybe they thought she was stupid? It wasn't until that day that she knew where "away" was. Until that day she hadn't seen neither Mother or Father for two years, not since she was in kindergarten.

Uncle Herb had come to get her early the morning of the visit. Mrs Butler had rushed her through breakfast oatmeal and had briskly braided her wispy hair, first scrubbing her ears raw. At the noisy breakfast table, the five other boarding children called out, "Where's Roberta going? Isn't Stuart going too? Is Roberta coming back?" Stuart began to wail.

"You mind your businesses." grumbled Mrs. Butler in her thick German accent. She pulled the braid too tight, but Roberta didn't even wince because she worried Mrs. Butler would cut her braids off, as she sometimes threatened. "Stop wiggling," Her tone was gruff. "I don't want them to think I sent you out all wrinkled."

Roberta and Stuart shared the long low-ceilinged third floor bedroom with the five other children at the Butler's boarding house.

That didn't count Dorothy, the Butler's daughter. All seven of the boarding children, especially Roberta, were awestruck by Dorothy's pale blond curly hair and patent leather shoes with taps. Roberta wished she had curly hair. Dorothy was the same age but wasn't allowed to play with the boarding children.

Stuart couldn't go with them to visit Father that day. "He's too young to go to Sing Sing," said Uncle Herb. "He is only four; you have to be at least seven."

"What's a Sing Sing?" asked Roberta as they walked down the path to the car.

"There's your Mother, Roberta." Uncle Herb pointed to his car. Mother was sitting stiffly in the back seat. "Go give her a kiss."

Roberta was afraid to kiss Mother. She clung to Uncle Herbs coat sleeve. You never knew what would get Mother angry. And she knew better than to ask her anything, like where had she'd been. That was sure to set her off. Besides, it was foolish to ask her anything because she never answered.

She remembered when her kindergarten teacher gave her a note to bring home to Mother. It was just before Father went away. The note said "Roberta talks in class." She thought Mother would be proud that she could read the note and that she talked in class.

Mother read the note, sucked in her chest, a high whistling sigh coming from somewhere in her throat, and flung her small hand at Roberta's face so hard she knocked her down. She was bewildered, scared out of her breath until speak until the gulps and grunts quieted.

A short while after, Father went away. When she asked Mother "Where's Daddy?" Mother stared at her stonily.

A few weeks later, Mother and Aunt Ada brought her and Stuart to the Butlers. Mr. Butler smiled too broadly at her. His teeth were the color of Gulden's Mustard. Roberta forced a smile back.

Later that day, while Mr. Butler took them to play on the backyard swings, Mother and Aunt Ada slipped away without saying good bye.

It was then Roberta stopped talking altogether in school.

She often lay awake in the boarding children's dormitory at the Butler's, urine smell burning her nostrils and asked herself questions.

"Where's your father, Roberta?"

"Away."

"Where's your mother, Roberta?"

"I don't know."

Years later, when they were all together again in the tiny apartment, in the dark bedroom the four of them shared, she was still asking herself, "Roberta, where was your Mother when your Father was away?"

"Don't ask me, Roberta," she answered herself, "because I don't know, and don't ask Mother because she doesn't answer questions."

It was cold and windy that day when they arrived at the big prison building. A man at the gate made her hand over the chewing gum in her mouth. "We don't allow no gum." He wrapped it in a small piece of newspaper and put it in his pocket.