Welcome To Fail
By April A.
Work, Friday parties, chores, spouses, kids,
Fashion to follow and patterns to be -
Standards of living. And now repeat:
"This is my life as I want it to be".
You think you're perfect, you swear it's true,
But nobody is, you are nobody then.
You're welcome to Fail - population is you,
Enjoy the illusion of freedom, Failmen!
Late in the evening you search for some fun,
Playing net wars of the stupid and lame.
Pressing the button, you load your gun.
Play your reality rather than games!
You think you're perfect, you swear it's true,
But nobody is, you are nobody then.
You're welcome to Fail - population is you,
Enjoy the illusion of freedom, Failmen!
The further it takes you, the further you go.
A plain carbon paper with plain decorations
Is all your damn life till the end of the show,
A pattern that's set for the next generations.
- - -
April A. has been writing for almost five years, getting inspiration from various experiences seen by the eyes of a thinker. The purpose of her creativity is urging people to see beyond the bounds, to be themselves, to speak their minds loud, not to be afraid to differ from the crowd.
She creates to destroy. To destroy the naive beliefs. To destroy the stereotypes.
April lives in St. Petersburg with her beloved one at the moment and hopes to succeed further both as a poet and a songwriter.
By April A.
Work, Friday parties, chores, spouses, kids,
Fashion to follow and patterns to be -
Standards of living. And now repeat:
"This is my life as I want it to be".
You think you're perfect, you swear it's true,
But nobody is, you are nobody then.
You're welcome to Fail - population is you,
Enjoy the illusion of freedom, Failmen!
Late in the evening you search for some fun,
Playing net wars of the stupid and lame.
Pressing the button, you load your gun.
Play your reality rather than games!
You think you're perfect, you swear it's true,
But nobody is, you are nobody then.
You're welcome to Fail - population is you,
Enjoy the illusion of freedom, Failmen!
The further it takes you, the further you go.
A plain carbon paper with plain decorations
Is all your damn life till the end of the show,
A pattern that's set for the next generations.
- - -
April A. has been writing for almost five years, getting inspiration from various experiences seen by the eyes of a thinker. The purpose of her creativity is urging people to see beyond the bounds, to be themselves, to speak their minds loud, not to be afraid to differ from the crowd.
She creates to destroy. To destroy the naive beliefs. To destroy the stereotypes.
April lives in St. Petersburg with her beloved one at the moment and hopes to succeed further both as a poet and a songwriter.
Waiting
By Brian Rosenberger
Summer, temperatures rise, thoughts of ice cream and days spent pool side, cloudless blue skies as you walk to work, the same route 5 days a week, so familiar you could do it blindfolded.
Past the coffee shop, past the post office, past the pet grooming salon you once thought read saloon, past the bench where sits Gus, expressionless, eyes heaven bound. Gus the Gargoyle, Gus the Statue, Gus the Petrified Man. You don't know him, have rarely spoken to him, only a cursory polite Hello or Mornin' with no acknowledgment. He is a stranger in the truest sense of the word. You don't know him. You don't even know if Gus is his Christian name but he looks like a Gus so Gus it is. He reminds you of high school, make out sessions at the movies, your old boyfriend James who loved Judas Priest. The song The Sentinel - "The figure stands expressionless, impassive and alone." That's Gus to all right, a black hole impersonating humanity.
Leaves turn brown and gold and orange. Pumpkins endure carved smiles. The temperature drops. Shorts are on sale half price. Air conditioners fall silent. You dress warmer for the morning walk. No slave to fashion, Gus' clothing does not change. Flannel work shirt, black converse, faded blue jeans patched on both knees. Once you saw him sneeze like the Sphinx hiccuping, like a thunderclap. Gesundheit you offer, getting silence for your politeness.
The first snowfall. Sniffles followed by trips to the drug store for cold and flu medicine. The White Death beckons if you believe the radio. You still walk to work but sometimes are fortunate enough to catch a ride home with a coworker. Gus is still there, a gargoyle sloppily dressed. You wonder where he works, if he works. Snowflakes look like melting dandruff on his broad shoulders.
Spring comes and with it rain. You arm yourself against the elements with an umbrella. You hate arriving at work wet and soaking. For the first time, you realize Gus is missing. He's like your favorite TV show that was canceled unbeknownst to you. You wonder if he moved, bought a car, died, wondering if you'll ever know the answer.
You won't. As the skies split and the Earth cracks and reality as you know it becomes an unlisted number, Gus is forgotten, work is forgotten, all is forgotten as fear becomes the only constant, the prime number, the only zip code left in what passes for existence. Fear and his companion Death. Where walks one, the other isn't far behind.
The bench remains, a tombstone, unmarked. Bus schedules a distant memory.
- - -
Brian Rosenberger lives in a cellar in Marietta, GA and writes by the light of captured fireflies. A collection of his poetry, And For My Next Trick ... is slated for a July 2010 release and a collection of his short stories awaits release in October.
By Brian Rosenberger
Summer, temperatures rise, thoughts of ice cream and days spent pool side, cloudless blue skies as you walk to work, the same route 5 days a week, so familiar you could do it blindfolded.
Past the coffee shop, past the post office, past the pet grooming salon you once thought read saloon, past the bench where sits Gus, expressionless, eyes heaven bound. Gus the Gargoyle, Gus the Statue, Gus the Petrified Man. You don't know him, have rarely spoken to him, only a cursory polite Hello or Mornin' with no acknowledgment. He is a stranger in the truest sense of the word. You don't know him. You don't even know if Gus is his Christian name but he looks like a Gus so Gus it is. He reminds you of high school, make out sessions at the movies, your old boyfriend James who loved Judas Priest. The song The Sentinel - "The figure stands expressionless, impassive and alone." That's Gus to all right, a black hole impersonating humanity.
Leaves turn brown and gold and orange. Pumpkins endure carved smiles. The temperature drops. Shorts are on sale half price. Air conditioners fall silent. You dress warmer for the morning walk. No slave to fashion, Gus' clothing does not change. Flannel work shirt, black converse, faded blue jeans patched on both knees. Once you saw him sneeze like the Sphinx hiccuping, like a thunderclap. Gesundheit you offer, getting silence for your politeness.
The first snowfall. Sniffles followed by trips to the drug store for cold and flu medicine. The White Death beckons if you believe the radio. You still walk to work but sometimes are fortunate enough to catch a ride home with a coworker. Gus is still there, a gargoyle sloppily dressed. You wonder where he works, if he works. Snowflakes look like melting dandruff on his broad shoulders.
Spring comes and with it rain. You arm yourself against the elements with an umbrella. You hate arriving at work wet and soaking. For the first time, you realize Gus is missing. He's like your favorite TV show that was canceled unbeknownst to you. You wonder if he moved, bought a car, died, wondering if you'll ever know the answer.
You won't. As the skies split and the Earth cracks and reality as you know it becomes an unlisted number, Gus is forgotten, work is forgotten, all is forgotten as fear becomes the only constant, the prime number, the only zip code left in what passes for existence. Fear and his companion Death. Where walks one, the other isn't far behind.
The bench remains, a tombstone, unmarked. Bus schedules a distant memory.
- - -
Brian Rosenberger lives in a cellar in Marietta, GA and writes by the light of captured fireflies. A collection of his poetry, And For My Next Trick ... is slated for a July 2010 release and a collection of his short stories awaits release in October.
Double Word Score
By James Marx
Lights were on. You could tell someone was up. I went to the window, where I thought he’d be. I could hear the Clash. It was some acid-reggae Clash. The window was opened about six-inches. I put my lips up-close to the screen, and tapped twice on the glass, “Psst…”. His response was instant, “Okay.”
I walked around, to the gate, pulled the string, and kicked. There’s a unique type of kick that’s used on a back gate, at 4:43 a.m. With the neighbors’ master-bed window so close, there must be some etiquette observed.
He was standing at the slider, behind the screen. He took up the whole length of the doorway.
I always forget how tall he is.
“S’up?”
“S’up.”
It was nice in there. I shut the screen. He locked the screen, and slid the door almost-shut, and pulled the curtain closed. Once inside Jim’s place there was a feeling of calm that always came over me. It’s like, you know you’re safe. There’s a calm about the room. Everything’s ambient and is in it’s place. The lights are on, but it’s not in your eyes. The television’s on, muted. The music’s always playing the soundtrack to the movie that is Jim’s life. The music’s never loud, or in the way. Smoking is ok in his room, or outside. I walked over to his dresser and grabbed the lighter, lit a smoke. I saw the 'tray’. Jim used a Van Halen framed-mirror, about 8x10. It was one of those things you win at the carnival, if you pop a balloon with 2 out of 3 darts. It was perfect. In the grooved wooden frame rested a white plastic pen with the ink-stem gone. It was the ‘straw’. A huge line of crank stared at me. Beneath it was evidence of another, fatter, longer line.
Jim knew I was courteously waiting for the go ahead. It’s just respectful not to assume.
“This shit’s pretty-good”, he said. His back was to me. He was skipping songs. I knew he meant the dope.
“Cool”, I mumbled back, over my shoulder; then, went down hard, for the blast.
Left, right; both sides, one breath. At our level, it was just automatic. No long, noisy, snorts; quick, quiet, and it’s put away. The tray is always kept in arms-reach of where he sits. You could stand right next to it, though, and never notice it. The wood frame was exactly the same shade and type of wood, as the bookshelf. It was a tall, narrow bookcase, full of books. At about waist-height, were tall books; and atop those, just enough room to slide the ‘tray’. The dope had already been put-back in it’s place. Only Jim knew where that might be.
There’s that awkwardness, next, after you’ve done a line of someone-else’s dope. The obligatory ‘thank-you'; as if, you are acknowledging that they have just ‘kicked-down’; and, something, someday, is owed. At Jim’s, though, thanks isn’t messed with. It’s just understood, with a quick nod. Usually, just being jolted into the pain of gagging one down is all the thanks necessary.
Sometimes, I can sound a little awed by him. He's intense. Very warm-hearted, but you can see emotional scars that have healed-over. Some are worn proudly, like a tatoo.
I don't mean to sound so mesmerized. He's not my hero, or anything. He's a sad situation. So much talent, and, nothing. Nothing you can see, from the outside, anyway. From where the normies see it from, Jim's not even on the map.
“This songs so cool” Jim states in a barely audible mumble that maybe 3 in 100 people could understand.
He starts banging on a set of imaginary drums imitating Topper Headon, as ‘Bank Robber’ starts. The volume goes up. It's barely louder than the whispered-grunts and mumbles, that must be made to talk. I figure, someone ‘normal’ could have us on video tape, with a close-up shot of our lips, with the sound turned way up; and, still, not be able to get more than half of what we’re saying. Roseville has no dialect; but, old-school, druggy, white-boys do.
“S’got'sm good drip”, I gnarled-up at him, like I was swallowing acid-reflux. He answered back with a smile, and a nod; acknowledging the compliment. The smile is missing a tooth in front, but it comes so rarely that it warms you instantly. Jim’s smiles are usually with his eyes. His attention to hear you and understand exactly what you tell him are only assumed by those who know his intellect lets very little go by mis-read. When I first met him he seemed like he ignored or didn’t hear me. Then, after a certain part of his music goes by, or he finishes with an off-distant thought, he’ll answer you exactly as you intended to be heard.
The time of night had already been reached, where it was too-late to sleep. Work was only a couple hours away. Besides, the 'shit' was, indeed, good. It's usually good. New, 'good' is just a bonus.
I took my place in the usual 'co-pilot' position. In every room, there's always a place, that's the next-most logical spot to sit. Jim's spot-to-sit was, naturally, the captain's-chair. The captain is the guy who's house it is. He picks the most advantageous spot to be. The room is set up around that spot. In arms-reach of the remote, and tunes, computer-screen, ash-tray, etc. In the garage, the living room, it doesn't matter. There's always that best spot to be.
I lit another smoke and grabbed the mouse. Scrabble would do for an hour when the sun would start to crack. Then, I’d get on the road and mingle-in with the commuters to my place, or to a job if I had one going.
- - -
By James Marx
Lights were on. You could tell someone was up. I went to the window, where I thought he’d be. I could hear the Clash. It was some acid-reggae Clash. The window was opened about six-inches. I put my lips up-close to the screen, and tapped twice on the glass, “Psst…”. His response was instant, “Okay.”
I walked around, to the gate, pulled the string, and kicked. There’s a unique type of kick that’s used on a back gate, at 4:43 a.m. With the neighbors’ master-bed window so close, there must be some etiquette observed.
He was standing at the slider, behind the screen. He took up the whole length of the doorway.
I always forget how tall he is.
“S’up?”
“S’up.”
It was nice in there. I shut the screen. He locked the screen, and slid the door almost-shut, and pulled the curtain closed. Once inside Jim’s place there was a feeling of calm that always came over me. It’s like, you know you’re safe. There’s a calm about the room. Everything’s ambient and is in it’s place. The lights are on, but it’s not in your eyes. The television’s on, muted. The music’s always playing the soundtrack to the movie that is Jim’s life. The music’s never loud, or in the way. Smoking is ok in his room, or outside. I walked over to his dresser and grabbed the lighter, lit a smoke. I saw the 'tray’. Jim used a Van Halen framed-mirror, about 8x10. It was one of those things you win at the carnival, if you pop a balloon with 2 out of 3 darts. It was perfect. In the grooved wooden frame rested a white plastic pen with the ink-stem gone. It was the ‘straw’. A huge line of crank stared at me. Beneath it was evidence of another, fatter, longer line.
Jim knew I was courteously waiting for the go ahead. It’s just respectful not to assume.
“This shit’s pretty-good”, he said. His back was to me. He was skipping songs. I knew he meant the dope.
“Cool”, I mumbled back, over my shoulder; then, went down hard, for the blast.
Left, right; both sides, one breath. At our level, it was just automatic. No long, noisy, snorts; quick, quiet, and it’s put away. The tray is always kept in arms-reach of where he sits. You could stand right next to it, though, and never notice it. The wood frame was exactly the same shade and type of wood, as the bookshelf. It was a tall, narrow bookcase, full of books. At about waist-height, were tall books; and atop those, just enough room to slide the ‘tray’. The dope had already been put-back in it’s place. Only Jim knew where that might be.
There’s that awkwardness, next, after you’ve done a line of someone-else’s dope. The obligatory ‘thank-you'; as if, you are acknowledging that they have just ‘kicked-down’; and, something, someday, is owed. At Jim’s, though, thanks isn’t messed with. It’s just understood, with a quick nod. Usually, just being jolted into the pain of gagging one down is all the thanks necessary.
Sometimes, I can sound a little awed by him. He's intense. Very warm-hearted, but you can see emotional scars that have healed-over. Some are worn proudly, like a tatoo.
I don't mean to sound so mesmerized. He's not my hero, or anything. He's a sad situation. So much talent, and, nothing. Nothing you can see, from the outside, anyway. From where the normies see it from, Jim's not even on the map.
“This songs so cool” Jim states in a barely audible mumble that maybe 3 in 100 people could understand.
He starts banging on a set of imaginary drums imitating Topper Headon, as ‘Bank Robber’ starts. The volume goes up. It's barely louder than the whispered-grunts and mumbles, that must be made to talk. I figure, someone ‘normal’ could have us on video tape, with a close-up shot of our lips, with the sound turned way up; and, still, not be able to get more than half of what we’re saying. Roseville has no dialect; but, old-school, druggy, white-boys do.
“S’got'sm good drip”, I gnarled-up at him, like I was swallowing acid-reflux. He answered back with a smile, and a nod; acknowledging the compliment. The smile is missing a tooth in front, but it comes so rarely that it warms you instantly. Jim’s smiles are usually with his eyes. His attention to hear you and understand exactly what you tell him are only assumed by those who know his intellect lets very little go by mis-read. When I first met him he seemed like he ignored or didn’t hear me. Then, after a certain part of his music goes by, or he finishes with an off-distant thought, he’ll answer you exactly as you intended to be heard.
The time of night had already been reached, where it was too-late to sleep. Work was only a couple hours away. Besides, the 'shit' was, indeed, good. It's usually good. New, 'good' is just a bonus.
I took my place in the usual 'co-pilot' position. In every room, there's always a place, that's the next-most logical spot to sit. Jim's spot-to-sit was, naturally, the captain's-chair. The captain is the guy who's house it is. He picks the most advantageous spot to be. The room is set up around that spot. In arms-reach of the remote, and tunes, computer-screen, ash-tray, etc. In the garage, the living room, it doesn't matter. There's always that best spot to be.
I lit another smoke and grabbed the mouse. Scrabble would do for an hour when the sun would start to crack. Then, I’d get on the road and mingle-in with the commuters to my place, or to a job if I had one going.
- - -
Sleepless Revelations
By April A.
The news has said it's getting better,
But who on Earth believes in it?
Now, when all dreams are bound to shatter,
I laugh at such a lame deceit.
And I don't care this place is dying
Beneath my own fallen sky.
It is your life that I'm denying,
As you have taken mine awry.
I tell myself that spring is near,
But April never comes alone.
It takes me back to vanished years,
It brings the memories, once gone.
My hopes are buried in despair,
As sleeplessness has made me think.
And thoughts do always lead right where
The truth is dwelling. Chances shrink.
I've drawn a land of endless silence,
But certainly, I've failed to flee.
This place of never-ending violence
Will kill me, won't lose touch with me.
The laws of heart are my salvation,
Yet I can never get enough
Of unforgettable sensations.
I'm still alive just due to love.
- - -
April A. has been writing for almost five years, getting inspiration from various experiences seen by the eyes of a thinker. The purpose of her creativity is urging people to see beyond the bounds, to be themselves, to speak their minds loud, not to be afraid to differ from the crowd.
She creates to destroy. To destroy the naive beliefs. To destroy the stereotypes.
April lives in St. Petersburg with her beloved one at the moment and hopes to succeed further both as a poet and a songwriter.
By April A.
The news has said it's getting better,
But who on Earth believes in it?
Now, when all dreams are bound to shatter,
I laugh at such a lame deceit.
And I don't care this place is dying
Beneath my own fallen sky.
It is your life that I'm denying,
As you have taken mine awry.
I tell myself that spring is near,
But April never comes alone.
It takes me back to vanished years,
It brings the memories, once gone.
My hopes are buried in despair,
As sleeplessness has made me think.
And thoughts do always lead right where
The truth is dwelling. Chances shrink.
I've drawn a land of endless silence,
But certainly, I've failed to flee.
This place of never-ending violence
Will kill me, won't lose touch with me.
The laws of heart are my salvation,
Yet I can never get enough
Of unforgettable sensations.
I'm still alive just due to love.
- - -
April A. has been writing for almost five years, getting inspiration from various experiences seen by the eyes of a thinker. The purpose of her creativity is urging people to see beyond the bounds, to be themselves, to speak their minds loud, not to be afraid to differ from the crowd.
She creates to destroy. To destroy the naive beliefs. To destroy the stereotypes.
April lives in St. Petersburg with her beloved one at the moment and hopes to succeed further both as a poet and a songwriter.
A Rough Morning
By Jeffrey Lorow
My day did not start off well.
The very beginning wasn't so bad. I had gotten out of bed on time, ate a delicious breakfast of bran flakes and orange juice (I wait until I get to work to have my coffee, since it's free) and the weather was so nice, the first thing I did when I got in my canary yellow Ford Mustang Convertible was take the top down.
But things started to go sour almost as soon as I pulled out of my driveway. I live in the country, so my commute is rather lengthy--but totally worth it to not have to deal with the boneheads in the city. The first several miles are on winding mountain roads with a speed limit of 35 miles-per-hour, and I got stuck behind an old Buick LeSabre going maybe 30--32 tops. I was patient with them for a few minutes, but I needed to get to work! So I hit the gas, slammed into their rear bumper and pushed the car over a cliff. I mean, come on, who drives below the speed limit in this day and age?
After checking my front bumper for scratches (thank God there were none!), I was almost to the main road when I encountered my second knucklehead of the day. Some lady in a big SUV backed out of her driveway right in front of me! I mean, hello? Did you not see my yellow Mustang coming? Did it blend in with the lines on the road? I think not. Of course I had to slam on my brakes to keep from hitting her. As she started her merry way down the road, oblivious to the fact that I almost died because she never learned to look both ways before pulling into traffic, I grabbed my bazooka from the back seat and sent a rocket through her rear window. Maybe now she sees me?
It felt pretty good watching the back of that SUV get blown to smithereens, but of course those good feelings didn't last long. I made it to the expressway and traffic was moving pretty well. There were a few slowpokes, but always plenty of room to pass and there were a few maniacs who I'm sure were pulled over by the cops not long after they passed me. But this one guy decided to be a jerk. While I passed a semi, this pick-up truck zipped up behind me and was riding about three inches from my rear bumper. Even once I had passed the semi and moved to the right lane, he didn't stop. And I really wish he would have just passed me and gotten pulled over by the cops, because he really got on my nerves. Fortunately, I had my sawed off shotgun under the seat, so I whipped it out and put a couple of blasts of buckshot through his windshield. The truck ran off the road and rolled three or four times. I'm guessing that now he's wishing he had just
passed me without acting like a jackass.
As I got closer to town traffic started slowing down as it normally does at that time of the morning. It's the city and it is what it is. We were just creeping along, but making progress, so I really couldn't complain. Then, after being stuck in bumper-to-bumper traffic for ten minutes, I checked my rearview mirror. This clown on a crotch-rocket was weaving through traffic like some kind of hot shot. Nothing ticks me off more than some guy working his way through traffic like he's so important that he can't wait like the rest of us. So I grabbed my machete from between the seats and when he tried to zip his motorcycle between my Mustang and the orange Golf next to me, I took one swipe out the window and cut off his head. It made a real mess on the front quarter panel of my car, but I'll take it through the carwash later today and it will look as good as new.
With everything slowing me down this morning, I was really surprised when I pulled into the parking lot at work five minutes early. But apparently I was late enough that someone thought they could get away with parking in my spot! The nerve of some people! I pulled into a nearby space, popped open my trunk, grabbed a pipe bomb and used it to booby-trap their little Chevy Cavalier so when they turn the ignition, Ka-Boom! Just like in the movies. I can't wait to hear that blast at five o'clock!
I grabbed my briefcase and lunch out of the passenger seat of my Mustang and headed inside to start the day. My first stop every morning is at the coffee station, because believe me, you don't want to try to talk to me before I've had my coffee! I grabbed the carafe, tipped the spout towards my mug, and waited. Empty. Someone had taken the last cup of coffee and didn't bother to show a little common courtesy and brew another pot for everyone else! Unreal. I knew it had to be Jim. I saw him leaving the coffee station when I came in, and it's just like him to do that! I hate it when people do that! So I threw out the old filter, put in a fresh one and started the coffee machine. Then I went to my desk and waited for it to brew.
- - -
Jeffrey Lorow runs a lot. Friends say this may have affected his brain.
By Jeffrey Lorow
My day did not start off well.
The very beginning wasn't so bad. I had gotten out of bed on time, ate a delicious breakfast of bran flakes and orange juice (I wait until I get to work to have my coffee, since it's free) and the weather was so nice, the first thing I did when I got in my canary yellow Ford Mustang Convertible was take the top down.
But things started to go sour almost as soon as I pulled out of my driveway. I live in the country, so my commute is rather lengthy--but totally worth it to not have to deal with the boneheads in the city. The first several miles are on winding mountain roads with a speed limit of 35 miles-per-hour, and I got stuck behind an old Buick LeSabre going maybe 30--32 tops. I was patient with them for a few minutes, but I needed to get to work! So I hit the gas, slammed into their rear bumper and pushed the car over a cliff. I mean, come on, who drives below the speed limit in this day and age?
After checking my front bumper for scratches (thank God there were none!), I was almost to the main road when I encountered my second knucklehead of the day. Some lady in a big SUV backed out of her driveway right in front of me! I mean, hello? Did you not see my yellow Mustang coming? Did it blend in with the lines on the road? I think not. Of course I had to slam on my brakes to keep from hitting her. As she started her merry way down the road, oblivious to the fact that I almost died because she never learned to look both ways before pulling into traffic, I grabbed my bazooka from the back seat and sent a rocket through her rear window. Maybe now she sees me?
It felt pretty good watching the back of that SUV get blown to smithereens, but of course those good feelings didn't last long. I made it to the expressway and traffic was moving pretty well. There were a few slowpokes, but always plenty of room to pass and there were a few maniacs who I'm sure were pulled over by the cops not long after they passed me. But this one guy decided to be a jerk. While I passed a semi, this pick-up truck zipped up behind me and was riding about three inches from my rear bumper. Even once I had passed the semi and moved to the right lane, he didn't stop. And I really wish he would have just passed me and gotten pulled over by the cops, because he really got on my nerves. Fortunately, I had my sawed off shotgun under the seat, so I whipped it out and put a couple of blasts of buckshot through his windshield. The truck ran off the road and rolled three or four times. I'm guessing that now he's wishing he had just
passed me without acting like a jackass.
As I got closer to town traffic started slowing down as it normally does at that time of the morning. It's the city and it is what it is. We were just creeping along, but making progress, so I really couldn't complain. Then, after being stuck in bumper-to-bumper traffic for ten minutes, I checked my rearview mirror. This clown on a crotch-rocket was weaving through traffic like some kind of hot shot. Nothing ticks me off more than some guy working his way through traffic like he's so important that he can't wait like the rest of us. So I grabbed my machete from between the seats and when he tried to zip his motorcycle between my Mustang and the orange Golf next to me, I took one swipe out the window and cut off his head. It made a real mess on the front quarter panel of my car, but I'll take it through the carwash later today and it will look as good as new.
With everything slowing me down this morning, I was really surprised when I pulled into the parking lot at work five minutes early. But apparently I was late enough that someone thought they could get away with parking in my spot! The nerve of some people! I pulled into a nearby space, popped open my trunk, grabbed a pipe bomb and used it to booby-trap their little Chevy Cavalier so when they turn the ignition, Ka-Boom! Just like in the movies. I can't wait to hear that blast at five o'clock!
I grabbed my briefcase and lunch out of the passenger seat of my Mustang and headed inside to start the day. My first stop every morning is at the coffee station, because believe me, you don't want to try to talk to me before I've had my coffee! I grabbed the carafe, tipped the spout towards my mug, and waited. Empty. Someone had taken the last cup of coffee and didn't bother to show a little common courtesy and brew another pot for everyone else! Unreal. I knew it had to be Jim. I saw him leaving the coffee station when I came in, and it's just like him to do that! I hate it when people do that! So I threw out the old filter, put in a fresh one and started the coffee machine. Then I went to my desk and waited for it to brew.
- - -
Jeffrey Lorow runs a lot. Friends say this may have affected his brain.
The Pearl King
By Ashley Nava
The boy trotted along behind his sister, occasionally stooping to pick up a stone. Finding rocks was his delegated duty; she was busy choosing seashells to weave into her hair. He ignored the hiss of the waves as they washed up past his ankles, and the slithery feel of seaweed over his fingers as he scrabbled for stones. When he found a good one, he ran up to his sister and offered it for her inspection.
After a moment's study, she nodded. “Perfect. Give it here.” She dropped it into a pocket already bulging with rocks. The seams of her thin dress strained from the weight.
“Come on, Deacon,” she called back, when he stopped to poke at a crab carcass. “I'm going to need a lot more stones if I want to reach the Pearl King.”
The gulls had eaten all the meat, anyway. “Fiona, wait for me!”
“Do you remember what to tell Mumma when she asks after me?” she said, when he had caught up to her.
He spoke carefully, wishing to show her just how well he had memorized the words. “You went down into the ocean to live with the Pearl King. You've settled with everything up here.” He hesitated then, but finally asked, “Even with Mr. Voloi? Is that why you were crying again last night?”
Even in the watery, grey light of the dawn, he saw his sister's face pale at the factory manager's name, yet she answered calmly enough. “He wasn't happy with my quitting, but I did it. My uniform's cleaned and waiting on my cot back home. I do hope Lissa hasn't spilled anything on it. If there's even one spot, the bastard will make Mumma pay for it. Ooh, that's a pretty one you've found.”
The first hints of orange tinged the sky when Fiona decided she had enough stones. Her dress, dragged down by the weight, now revealed the ugly scab stamped across her neck and left shoulder blade.
“What happened?” said Deacon, transfixed.
His sister's shoulder twitched, as if the weight of his gaze irritated the wound. “I accidentally burned a shirt while ironing it. Mr. Voloi saw.”
“Did you cry?”
She turned to him. “Not in front of him. Now, how do I look?”
Deacon would remember that moment for the rest of his life, of how the rising sun turned the shells in her hair into gold, and the wind rippled her patchwork dress like sea foam in the waves. She looked like an underwater queen. His mouth trembled.
“I don't want you to go!” He clung to the unearthly creature his sister had become, turning his face to the side so his tears wouldn't fall on her. “Old Mab says the Pearl King is horrible. He lives in a castle of bones made from people who drown. He'll want your bones!”
She gently pulled away from his grip. “No, Deacon. He's already built his castle. Now he's looking for subjects, people who'll live with him at his court.”
“Forever?” He wiped his nose with his sleeve.
She nodded, and squeezed his hand. “You'll still see me. Every time a shell washes on shore, it'll be like seeing my footsteps on the sand. And when you see a pearl, why, that's even better. I'll be right there, looking back at you. The Pearl King lives in all his creatures, even when they're brought to shore.”
“Are you scared?” he said, and for a moment, she looked like his sister again.
“A little. Now give me a hug and wish me luck.”
He watched her wade into the water. Even when the waves crashed into her waist, she neither paused nor looked back. Once, he ran after her, just after her head slipped beneath the surface, but the shock of the cold water sent him back.
He waited until the tide had washed away the last of her footprints before leaving for home.
- - -
Ashley Nava spends most of her time writing and painting her way down the yellow brick road. She currently lives in California's Central Valley.
By Ashley Nava
The boy trotted along behind his sister, occasionally stooping to pick up a stone. Finding rocks was his delegated duty; she was busy choosing seashells to weave into her hair. He ignored the hiss of the waves as they washed up past his ankles, and the slithery feel of seaweed over his fingers as he scrabbled for stones. When he found a good one, he ran up to his sister and offered it for her inspection.
After a moment's study, she nodded. “Perfect. Give it here.” She dropped it into a pocket already bulging with rocks. The seams of her thin dress strained from the weight.
“Come on, Deacon,” she called back, when he stopped to poke at a crab carcass. “I'm going to need a lot more stones if I want to reach the Pearl King.”
The gulls had eaten all the meat, anyway. “Fiona, wait for me!”
“Do you remember what to tell Mumma when she asks after me?” she said, when he had caught up to her.
He spoke carefully, wishing to show her just how well he had memorized the words. “You went down into the ocean to live with the Pearl King. You've settled with everything up here.” He hesitated then, but finally asked, “Even with Mr. Voloi? Is that why you were crying again last night?”
Even in the watery, grey light of the dawn, he saw his sister's face pale at the factory manager's name, yet she answered calmly enough. “He wasn't happy with my quitting, but I did it. My uniform's cleaned and waiting on my cot back home. I do hope Lissa hasn't spilled anything on it. If there's even one spot, the bastard will make Mumma pay for it. Ooh, that's a pretty one you've found.”
The first hints of orange tinged the sky when Fiona decided she had enough stones. Her dress, dragged down by the weight, now revealed the ugly scab stamped across her neck and left shoulder blade.
“What happened?” said Deacon, transfixed.
His sister's shoulder twitched, as if the weight of his gaze irritated the wound. “I accidentally burned a shirt while ironing it. Mr. Voloi saw.”
“Did you cry?”
She turned to him. “Not in front of him. Now, how do I look?”
Deacon would remember that moment for the rest of his life, of how the rising sun turned the shells in her hair into gold, and the wind rippled her patchwork dress like sea foam in the waves. She looked like an underwater queen. His mouth trembled.
“I don't want you to go!” He clung to the unearthly creature his sister had become, turning his face to the side so his tears wouldn't fall on her. “Old Mab says the Pearl King is horrible. He lives in a castle of bones made from people who drown. He'll want your bones!”
She gently pulled away from his grip. “No, Deacon. He's already built his castle. Now he's looking for subjects, people who'll live with him at his court.”
“Forever?” He wiped his nose with his sleeve.
She nodded, and squeezed his hand. “You'll still see me. Every time a shell washes on shore, it'll be like seeing my footsteps on the sand. And when you see a pearl, why, that's even better. I'll be right there, looking back at you. The Pearl King lives in all his creatures, even when they're brought to shore.”
“Are you scared?” he said, and for a moment, she looked like his sister again.
“A little. Now give me a hug and wish me luck.”
He watched her wade into the water. Even when the waves crashed into her waist, she neither paused nor looked back. Once, he ran after her, just after her head slipped beneath the surface, but the shock of the cold water sent him back.
He waited until the tide had washed away the last of her footprints before leaving for home.
- - -
Ashley Nava spends most of her time writing and painting her way down the yellow brick road. She currently lives in California's Central Valley.
The-Man-Who-Married-a-Tree
By Vivian Faith Prescott
October 1879
John Muir kneeled in the grass near the Presbyterian Church counting tree rings. Missionary Young recently cut down the large spruce to make way for the new manse. In his notebook Muir recorded dendro-memory, layers of wood-cells. The old tree had chronicled rain, temperature, and wind velocity for over a hundred years.
Soon Muir became aware of Wrangell-folk peeking out their doors at him. By mid-day locals gathered to watch the strange man talk to himself. From behind him someone said, “There’s an even bigger live tree up the hill.” Muir turned and saw a local Tlingit, Old Town Charlie, pointing his wide hand beyond the steeple. “I’d guess he'd be over two-hundred-years old,” Charlie said.
Muir found the large tree near the edge of a clearing. He circled the tree, running his hand along its bark noting the dragon-like scales. Suddenly, he had an urge to hug the tree. “May I,” he asked, reaching his lanky arms around, leaning in, his cheek pressing its scratchy hide—rough like whiskers, he thought. He closed his eyes, inhaling its wet scent. He stepped back and poked his finger into the pitch globbing from beneath the bark. He sniffed it, then stuck his finger in his mouth sucking the sticky substance.
For two more weeks Muir visited this tree, discovering its inner stratum. He learned to strip a small tree root and made nettle tea. He even climbed to a top branch, straddled its knobby arm to look out over Zimovia Strait to snow-capped Woronofski Island.
One night Muir settled beneath a bark shed, covering himself with his blanket. The tree sheltered him as he dreamed of his youth: skinny dipping with his friend Scott in Blossom Lake. Afterwards, they'd lay naked, drying on the rocks. But one day, Scott brought the girl who lived on the neighboring farm to swim—after that, Muir never went swimming at the lake.
Now, Muir slept late and awoke beneath the great spruce, its erect pendant cones dangling, its female cones swelling purple. He felt the pith at his center, the xylem, his cambium layer. He got up and ate hardtack crackers, listening to the tree moan its stories. The tree told of first contact with whites, Russian rule, explorers and gold seekers. Near nightfall, the winds gusted and branches snapped. “Storm coming,” Muir said. Since he'd first stepped off the boat in Alaska and discovered the spruce and hemlock forests, he sensed a change—a celebration was needed. “A marriage, yes,” he said to the tree.
Muir dragged dead branches and dry grass to the center of the clearing and built a small fire. He added more tree limbs until the fire roared. The large spruce dropped pine cones at his feet and he tossed them into the fire. The sky darkened and it started to pour. Around him, the forest creaked; sparks danced like crazed fireflies. He wiped tree-pitch on his face, his lips, then stomped around the fire, arms twirling. He kept heaping branches on the fire until his skin flushed with heat.
Below the storm-dance, Missionary Young awakened to the rap of frightened Tlingits at his door. He looked up at the glowing hill—St. Elmo’s Fire? A madman perhaps? Then Young remembered the strange Mr. Muir, wandering around town mumbling to himself. Such actions, he figured, likely meant that Muir was smitten with a local girl. Yes, he chuckled looking up at the sky-fire, lances of gold aurora streaking upward—a madman indeed.
- - -
I have flash fiction appearing in Cold Flashes: Literary Snapshots of Alaska, Tidal Echoes and Don't Tread on Me and non-fiction flash pieces appearing in Alaska Women Speak. I was recently awarded Honorable Mention in Boulevard's Poetry Contest for Emerging Writers and was a finalist for the 2009 Joy Harjo Award from Cutthroat: a Journal of the Arts.
I'm an Alaskan resident born and raised on Wrangell Island. I'm the Co-Director of a non-profit designed to perpetuate the cultural wellness and traditions of Indigenous peoples through education, media, and the arts.
By Vivian Faith Prescott
I made short excursions to the nearby forests...causing wondering speculation among the Wrangell folk.—John Muir, Travels in Alaska.
October 1879
John Muir kneeled in the grass near the Presbyterian Church counting tree rings. Missionary Young recently cut down the large spruce to make way for the new manse. In his notebook Muir recorded dendro-memory, layers of wood-cells. The old tree had chronicled rain, temperature, and wind velocity for over a hundred years.
Soon Muir became aware of Wrangell-folk peeking out their doors at him. By mid-day locals gathered to watch the strange man talk to himself. From behind him someone said, “There’s an even bigger live tree up the hill.” Muir turned and saw a local Tlingit, Old Town Charlie, pointing his wide hand beyond the steeple. “I’d guess he'd be over two-hundred-years old,” Charlie said.
Muir found the large tree near the edge of a clearing. He circled the tree, running his hand along its bark noting the dragon-like scales. Suddenly, he had an urge to hug the tree. “May I,” he asked, reaching his lanky arms around, leaning in, his cheek pressing its scratchy hide—rough like whiskers, he thought. He closed his eyes, inhaling its wet scent. He stepped back and poked his finger into the pitch globbing from beneath the bark. He sniffed it, then stuck his finger in his mouth sucking the sticky substance.
For two more weeks Muir visited this tree, discovering its inner stratum. He learned to strip a small tree root and made nettle tea. He even climbed to a top branch, straddled its knobby arm to look out over Zimovia Strait to snow-capped Woronofski Island.
One night Muir settled beneath a bark shed, covering himself with his blanket. The tree sheltered him as he dreamed of his youth: skinny dipping with his friend Scott in Blossom Lake. Afterwards, they'd lay naked, drying on the rocks. But one day, Scott brought the girl who lived on the neighboring farm to swim—after that, Muir never went swimming at the lake.
Now, Muir slept late and awoke beneath the great spruce, its erect pendant cones dangling, its female cones swelling purple. He felt the pith at his center, the xylem, his cambium layer. He got up and ate hardtack crackers, listening to the tree moan its stories. The tree told of first contact with whites, Russian rule, explorers and gold seekers. Near nightfall, the winds gusted and branches snapped. “Storm coming,” Muir said. Since he'd first stepped off the boat in Alaska and discovered the spruce and hemlock forests, he sensed a change—a celebration was needed. “A marriage, yes,” he said to the tree.
Muir dragged dead branches and dry grass to the center of the clearing and built a small fire. He added more tree limbs until the fire roared. The large spruce dropped pine cones at his feet and he tossed them into the fire. The sky darkened and it started to pour. Around him, the forest creaked; sparks danced like crazed fireflies. He wiped tree-pitch on his face, his lips, then stomped around the fire, arms twirling. He kept heaping branches on the fire until his skin flushed with heat.
Below the storm-dance, Missionary Young awakened to the rap of frightened Tlingits at his door. He looked up at the glowing hill—St. Elmo’s Fire? A madman perhaps? Then Young remembered the strange Mr. Muir, wandering around town mumbling to himself. Such actions, he figured, likely meant that Muir was smitten with a local girl. Yes, he chuckled looking up at the sky-fire, lances of gold aurora streaking upward—a madman indeed.
- - -
I have flash fiction appearing in Cold Flashes: Literary Snapshots of Alaska, Tidal Echoes and Don't Tread on Me and non-fiction flash pieces appearing in Alaska Women Speak. I was recently awarded Honorable Mention in Boulevard's Poetry Contest for Emerging Writers and was a finalist for the 2009 Joy Harjo Award from Cutthroat: a Journal of the Arts.
I'm an Alaskan resident born and raised on Wrangell Island. I'm the Co-Director of a non-profit designed to perpetuate the cultural wellness and traditions of Indigenous peoples through education, media, and the arts.
