Words Words Words

Creating Your Writing Space

2007-12-15T18:29:00.000-08:00

It's important to have a space set aside in your home for writing. It can be a big cushion in a corner of your closet with a notebook and pen, if that's all you have room for, or the back seat of your car if that's the only place you can get some peace and quiet, but it should be all yours, waiting for you whenever it's time to write.

If you go with the more traditional desk (and I'm not knocking the cushion because, really, it's portable, and you can take anywhere and have a change of scenery, which is always good), what does this space look like? Is it covered with books or bills or plants or receipts or clothes or dishes from lunch yesterday?

Have a little respect! Clear the decks. Get a good lamp, put a picture or quote over your desk, something you won't mind staring at a lot (there'll be a lot of staring, trust me), tape some quotes on your monitor to inspire you (but keep an eye on these. When they seem tired because you've looked at them so often, put up some new ones.) Keep the area current with things that inspire you, change things up, perhaps on a monthly basis. Here are some ideas:

How about some flowers? Or a plant?

A container of your favorite pens - perfect excuse to go to Staples and buy things you don't really need but always make you feel better having: labels, hole punch, multi-colored paper clips, blue paper, post-its shaped like flowers...I can hear those waterproof markers calling me now...

A small notebook for jottings - sometimes writing it down before it goes on the computer helps you think and write differently. Make it an attractive notebook, not a spiral with the Power Rangers on it because it was cheap. (Unless you dig the Power Rangers. Then go for it!)

A couple of books you keep going back to for inspiration - when I get stuck I grab one of a few favorite books of poetry or fiction, and look for passages I've underlined that might jump start my writing again.

A couple of placemats in a friendly color or pattern covering the desk area - these double as sponges when you scream 'eureka!' and knock over your soda in joy because you finally found the most amazing metaphor ever to describe your character's eating habits.

Have a dictionary and thesaurus nearby. Duh.

If you keep disks of old writing - what am I saying--IF? You better hold onto those fragments and scraps of 'failed' writing. Are you crazy? That's a goldmine - keep those near as well, so you can go back and look for something you might use now and don't waste time digging in the 'miscellaneous drawer' in the kitchen, a box in the basement, the trunk of your car, or your ex-boyfriend's bathroom closet. Go on, you still have the key don't you? Go get them!

Your version of worry beads - sometimes I need something for my hands to do while I'm thinking. For some reason, this smooths things out in my head. I keep shells or stones on my desk, because sometimes I find I get anxious when things are going too well, when I'm working on a piece that is zooming along and I need to slow down a bit and make sure I don't lose any of the ideas as they come pouring in. When it's all falling into place I worry I might ruin it. It helps to pick up a stone and roll it in my hands and remember to take my time, listen, and stay out of my own way. This works even if things aren't going all that well. I get great ideas when washing dishes or driving the car. Moving an object between my hands creates a soothing, repetitive motion that allows my mind to relax, consider, drift, while lightly focusing on the object. It's a sort of meditation and it really works.

One of my favorites - cut out pictures from magazines of people that best represent what your characters look like. Or a picture of their house, the town, their cat. For example: if you're writing a poem on Paris or winter or winter in Paris, cut out a picture that evokes the mood you're going for. Tape these up on your monitor. Imagine your characters talking to each other. Fighting. Kissing. Imagine them walking through the streets or staring out the window of the living room. What are they thinking about? What are you thinking about? Visual representations like these can give a huge boost to your writing.

Burning some scented candles or incense - but don't leave them to run to the store for ice cream or to put the laundry in the dryer. It would really suck if the house burned down and with it the novel you just finished, wouldn't it? Be safe.

Dress up or down - this is the perfect time to put on the pajamas with the goldfish on them your mother gave you for Christmas. You know, the ones with the matching tank top and socks. Hey, go all out. Put a bow in your hair. Wear a festive necklace. If you're a guy - time for the team jersey, those silk boxers your girlfriend gave you that you swore you'd never wear, a robe with a scarf at the neck, a tie tied around your forehead or the pajamas with the goldfish on them your mother gave you for Christmas. Be silly. Be weird. Why not? This is not the time for pride. It's time to do whatever you can to get things flowing. You want to establish a good routine, and then throw something in to shake things up a little.

Use music to get yourself in the mood - for writing! Gauge how you're feeling right now, what you might like to listen to (classical, sounds of rain or birds or the ocean, disco, rap, drumming, the original cast recording of Oklahoma!?) put the cd in and let it take you straight into your imagination.

Also, you know your tricks. Make sure you walked the dog and tivo'ed the game before you sit down. No excuses.

Now, get to it! Remember, setting the right stage for your work, using all the senses, and creating a routine for entering your space cues your brain that it's time for writing, a habit you definitely don't want to break.

Christine Stewart

Love Affair With Your Muse

2007-12-15T18:24:00.001-08:00

How's your love affair with your Muse?

That's right, your Muse. Your creative source. Your inspiration for all the kooky, creative things you do. The voice that whispers, "Hey, why don't you try encaustic painting? That looks like fun!"

Or maybe your voice has a more, well, cranky tone. Maybe your Muse's voice gets snarky when she sees others creating. Maybe she feels abandoned in the corner, tucked away behind the towering to-do lists.

It could be time for a relationship check-in. My boyfriend and I do these periodically. We take a walk and discuss the state of our relationship. These conversations clear out any resentments that have been piling up. They offer a safe forum for checking in with our shared dream. And, these tête-à-têtes invariably bring us closer.

Try this with your Muse. Plan a few minutes of quiet time to get connected to your creative source. Use your journal to deepen the connection and listen to what your creative source has to say. Let your pen move on the page and don't censor anything that comes up.

Interview your Muse. Ask the kind of questions that you would ask a really fascinating person that you have always wanted to meet. What motivates you? What do you love? What do you do for fun?

Ask what your Muse wants. Find out if there are any gifts, real or energetic, that she needs. Let her explain whatever she needs. What she writes may be a rant; if you haven't been listening to your creative impulses, she may have some resentment stored up.

Make requests of your Muse. You may ask her for help with finishing projects, rather than confuting you with more ideas, more inspiration, more projects.

Redesign your alliance. What would a really fabulous year with your Muse look like? What do you want to celebrate with your Muse at the end of the year? Look at what kind of relationship would make you eager to get to the studio or the writing desk. Brainstorm how much time you would spend together, where and when you'd meet, what you'd do when you got together.

Complete the check-in with some kind of celebration. Go to a museum or gallery, or a shop devoted to your craft. Take your Muse to tea or happy hour, just the two of you, and giggle together over your plans.

Using these prompts is a great start to cultivating a deeper connection to your creative source. But an ongoing dialogue truly feeds you and your Muse. Make sure that you give yourself this very vital relationship. One of the side benefits of doing so is better relationships with the others in your life.

Other benefits include feeling more fulfilled, completing projects that have been shelved for too long, and gaining a sense of self-confidence and satisfaction from having a truly dynamic creative life.

Sounds good, doesn't it? So take some time to connect with your Muse and see what she has to offer.

Cynthia Morris

How To Identify Great Book Ideas And Writing Opportunities

2007-12-15T16:42:00.000-08:00

The first and maybe the most important step in writing a book is coming up with a great idea for some really useful or interesting book. The great idea makes the writing fun. The great idea makes the book easier to sell to a publisher. In the end, the great idea means you’ve got a shot at making good money from your writing. Unfortunately, many new writers don’t have a clue as to how to do this. Accordingly, I offer the following tips based on the 150 or so books I’ve written and the three dozen books I’ve published:

Don’t pick something big and obvious…

The first thorough book on any important topic—the last war, the current big business success, the next medical breakthrough—can be a good book that succeeds even to the point of becoming a bestseller. But I respectfully suggest that you leave the big topics to the big writers. The problem with big, well-known topics is that they are well-known. And that means, very probably, that big publishers are already talking to big authors about writing books. Sorry. But that’s the reality.

Find your own space…

A related point to this idea of staying away from the really big topics is that you need to find your space. You will find it very hard to succeed—especially as a new writer—if you’re doing what’s already been done. Publishers, booksellers and readers will too easily respond to your book or book idea with the feeling, “Well, yes, but hasn’t [insert name of well-known, bestselling writer here] already done that?” By innovating, however, you may be able to find your own empty space—a niche that isn’t already occupied by some successful book or series or author.

Fortunately, you often don’t need to be wildly innovative to create the illusion of existing in a new space. Incremental innovation usually works well. All you need, sometimes, is to be just enough different that publishers, booksellers, and readers will say, “Oh, that seat is empty.”

A warning must be made, however. Your innovation can’t be to “write a better book.” And it’s not that writing a better book isn’t a good idea. It’s just that “writing a better book” isn’t innovative. Too many writers think of the idea.

Test the market appeal of your idea…

Here’s another technique for filtering and refining your ideas: You ought to write a press release for your idea to verify that the ultimate book sells well as a concept. A press release is a one-page news that touts your book and proves to people who will help sell and promote your book—distributors, wholesalers, booksellers and magazine editors—that your book is special and unique and worth looking at. Your press release gives your book a chance to break out from the pack of other books and get noticed. Any idea that can’t be distilled into a great press release is risky.

You can see what book press releases are by visiting publisher web sites. You want to visit web sites and look for press releases for books like the book your idea may produce. While you’re doing this, look at any magazines that review books like the one you’re contemplating: Publishers Weekly, Library Journal, Booklist, and so on. Get an idea about the sorts of books get people talking.

Build a list of periodicals that will blurb your book…

If you’re considering a nonfiction book, you ought to be able to come with a list of a handful of special interest periodicals (magazines,newsletters, newspapers, and so forth) that prove people are interested in the topic of your book. If you want to write a book about raising Guinea pigs, conspiracy theories concerning the last president, or monetary policy in emerging economies, for example, one of the best ways you can confidently predict people will buy and read your book is to verify that people are already buying and reading periodicals about the topic.

If you do construct such a list, include the list and subscriber count information in your proposal to a publisher. The publisher can use your list to promote your book. In fact, as a former publisher, I promise you a publisher will look more seriously at any proposal that shows this level of author insight into the marketing of a book.

Try to fit your idea into an existing series…

Here’s another technique. If you can fit your idea into a publisher’s existing series, you ought to try that approach. While of course, we writers find it most satisfying to go our own way creatively, you’ll find it much easier to sell another idea that fits in an existing successful series.

I’ve always written about how to use technology for business and for personal finance. That’s my space. And I’ve got lots of good interesting ideas for books. But my bestselling book has been Quicken for Dummies (John Wiley & Sons 1993-2005). Would I like to write a different sort of personal financial management book? Yes. But to date Quicken for Dummies has sold one million copies in its numerous editions. The royalties on those salve away any creative disappointment.

Focus on a small niche…

That last number I mentioned, the one million copies of Quicken for Dummies, raises an interesting point. As you think about opportunities, know that you can make good money on a book that sells ten thousand copies. Maybe as much as $15,000. A book that sells twenty thousand copies or more is a big hit for both you and your publisher. And that means your best bet is often to go after niche. Don’t just write another whodunit mystery, write a whodunit for children. Or better yet, write a whodunit mystery for Christian children or Muslim children or Jewish children. And then promote your book not just like all the other mystery publishers do but also using religious education periodicals that go out to churches or mosques or synagogues.

Don’t worry about slicing the market too small. Few books—almost no books—sell more than ten or twenty thousand copies. If you find a group of one hundred thousand or one million people with a special interest—even though that’s a very small slice on a planet with billions of people—your book idea can produce a successful work.

Verify your idea is big enough for a book…

One final idea and this is especially important for new writers. You need to make sure that your idea is big enough for a book—the content you’ll create is big enough to fill 250 pages or 500 pages or whatever. Experienced authors can do this intuitively. I know which ideas of mine support two hundred pages or four pages of writing. But new writers often can’t gauge this very well. Ever read a book where by the third chapter the author just rehashes material already covered in chapters 1 and 2? That’s a book where the idea wasn’t big enough.

Especially for nonfiction books, you ought to try writing a couple of example chapters—maybe chapters 1 and 4—to make sure you’ve got a big topic. Your chapters don’t need to be pristine or perfect. But make sure that you can write a couple of good, rich chapters that aren’t redundant. When you’re done with those chapters, look at what other topics you want to cover and make sure that there’s still stuff left for at least two or three more interesting chapters. A bit of rehashing is okay, I think. But you don’t want people reaching for the television’s remote control in the second chapter.

Stephen L. Nelson

Clean

2007-12-15T15:22:00.000-08:00

a light rain
holding down the dust
you can see to the end
of the avenue

the grocer opens
a green canopy
then steps beneath it
to wash his fruit

Kevin Paul Miller

A knock-turn-[o]ll Sketch of Animalistick Saturnalia

2007-12-15T15:17:00.000-08:00

Dark room. Night. 2 guys, leather coats, short haircuts,1 sitting, the other standing. 1 girl, nude, perfect, strapped with barbed wire to a chair. Has megaphone tied to her mouth (the wide end covers her nose and chin).

girl is positioned near only window in room (her forms magically seem to blend in with the window and the fuchsia wall surrounding it). outside – a gorgeous starry sky à la van Gogh (possible inscription: “Freud: ‘fuck Kant’; Bukowski: ‘you misspelled Kant’; de Beauvoir: ‘fucking sexist pricks’ [she spits at/on/at god; half the liquid slides down from his deformed physiognomy back down on her face; she swallows greedily, happily; Adorno claps and jeers]”). apartment – on second floor. street level: squad car + 2 officers standing near vehicle, both strangely immobile; their shapes are continually dissipating and then ethereally rearranging themselves anew, in asymmetrical forms, inhuman yet still police-like. girl starts shaking, agitating & rubbing herself against barbed wire; lacerations appear instantly (an eerie shade of blue).

Second guy (standing) approaches the other, gazes at the latter’s feet, then pulls out gun and shoots the other man twice in each shoulder (bullets land in exact same spot on each shoulder => only 2 exit wounds in total). Proceeds to shoot other guy in the head, execution style. Semi-liquid blood trickles down front, cheeks, chin; eyes only become whiter, expressionless and void (colour-drained symmetrical vacuums). Killer suddenly leans in and kisses victim passionately, careful to take in every last drop of blood. He licks dead man’s eyeballs (sudden scorching vision of dead guy, obviously blind by this point, with long white hair, old, decrepit, emaciated, dressed in sad gray rags). Second guy snaps out of daydream (i.e. last scene – not real), hungrily licks and cruelly bites his lips, then approaches other guy in a manner identical to the one in fantasy.

Gazes at other man’s hands, rubs own crotch (now wet and dominated by large perfectly triangular protuberance). Kicks the other guy in chest as hard as possible (displaying abnormal strength); seated guy, without changing position or even blinking and never separated from chair, flies into opposite wall, remains motionless for a while then slowly slides down until chair is back on floor – oddly enough, it’s only supported by one leg, maintaining perfect equilibrium while other 3 legs are suspended in the air – fuck ‘em. [note: guy’s body left dense green slug-like ooze on wall; ooze rapidly dissolves cheap copy of Bosch painting]. A tattoo appears and glows for a while on recipient’s forehead (an illegible word beginning with ‘S’ and – possibly - having another ‘s’ near the end); tattoo replaced by flashy vivid 1940’s propaganda poster of an average joe wearing horridly disproportionate miner’s helmet ador(n)ed by Doric motifs. Assailant walks up to victim and slaps him as hard as he can; he then chokes and coughs for a bit, starts to strangle himself wildly and finally spits out formerly white fine quality silk glove, now patched up, covered with mould, unpleasant-looking fluids flowing steadily out of ring and middle fingers and covered in mucus. Glove is thrown to girl, who energetically jumps in air in elegant dolphin-like motion (together with chair) and intercepts glove with her mouth and happily chews it; her navel intermittently bleeds. Panegyric to hypocrisy.

Seated guy (never lost his composure) coughs to attract other guy’s attention, is briefly distracted by unidentified (and never to be identified and maybe even inexistent; no, definitely inexistent) object (fly?), then says in cold placid metallic voice: ‘I told you to leave. Get out of here Tony’ (when pronouncing ‘Tony his voice suddenly shifts/escalates to a perfect castrato’).

Other guy is quiet and pensive for a moment, then punches speaker in the ribs with max power; proceeds to lick own knuckles and whimper. ‘Leave’ – stentorian, firm, and irrefragable certainty. ‘Get the fuck out bitch’. Annoyed, standing guy gazes at the almost completely destroyed Bosch on wall, inserts finger in anal orifice and heads for door. On threshold (door opens by itself, widely and menacingly; clichéd wind heard rummaging through alleys, crawling up urine-stained trash cans and howling with immaterial- immunity – and paroxysmal glee). Pauses and looks imploringly at other guy. No reaction. Frustrated & vexed, exist/exits room and slams door (the pov stays in the interior of the flat, surveying the second guy thru the peephole). There is large cow waiting on staircase; second guy grabs her by the humid pink-bluish nostrils and descends. Halfway down (& nearly outta sight), seems to change his mind, hesitantly makes to return to flat but quickly (2.007 millennia) abandons plan. Bites off large chunk from cow’s side (no reaction), chews dejectedly and leaves with his bovine companion. Back inside: girl wiggles intensely, seated guy commandingly silences her with a wave of his hand. Pulls pants down and jerks off savagely; sperm flies to ceiling (spread throughout whole rrrooom), then gathers near chandelier and evaporates; lights instantly flicker on/. Guy gets up, slowly (& seemingly calculatedly) walks toward girl and removes megaphone. All bruises from wire suddenly become wounds with open scabs,+ incredible bleeding. Impervious, girl flirtatiously says: ‘Caught a movie the other night. It was quite good. Female complexity and male psychological impotence and whatnot. Need to emulate heroine like good little fucking adolescent postmodernist distortion, so would you kindly untie me?’ Guy bites off barbed wire, aggravating girl’s incessant bleeding his own tongue is revealed to be made of silver (symbolic…); he pointlessly tries to insert it into own nostril, then simply rips it off and savagely tries to get it to fit inside nose (fails and is exasperated). Face – disfigured. Girl tries to say something, annoyed at lack of attention; he suddenly slaps her at full might, she starts laughing, satisfied. She gets up, walks to large golden Victorian mirror and contemplates herself. Man follows, then bows down in front of mirror and tries to perform cunnilingus on girl’s reflection; again, a failed attempt, as his own body obviously obstructs view of the girl, so he ends up licking/kissing/fellating (choose your perversity) himself. Crawls away (has the air of a squished worm about him, barely alive) and weeps silently. Girl (same flirtatious tone): ‘You guessed my intentions. A remarkable intuition, that. You visceral pathetic hunk of mashed Manto [man smiles gratefully) [suddenly becomes dead-serious, voice almost masculine] I need you to break this mirror. (long silence). Please. You know full well I can’t. I can’t disrupt the fluidity of a perfect(ly transcendent) replica of a Me encased in asphyxiating eternity, an existence I never had and probably don’t even want (not after bataille at least, me being a vapid adolescent). I hate myself but can’t kill myself. The alterity disgusts and excites me; I’m dry and panting like a nascent crevasse, like an aborted mosquito,. My libido is dead, I can’t hear anymore. Break the mirror, then give me the piece in the middle, the one in the Absolute (geometrically determined] centre. Come on you emasculated cunt (don’t.; I haven’t read -aristotle).’ Man doesn’t move, stares at her with blank expression. Girl gets nearer to mirror, touches it with her palms then pushes her whole body against & into the mutant looking-glass; the reflection of her lost Self starts to gradually dominate everything in mirror: the colours of the reflected room fade, silently and fluidly slipping into/inside mirror-Girl; furniture (what furniture?) adn walls scream silently into Girl’s angelic orality, causing deep watery visual reverberations but ultimately becoming absorbed by the growing néant of Girl’s being (or is it Becoming?.). In the end, nothing except Girl’s reflection remains insdie (spoiler alert) mirror; she is insanely beautiful, nuder than life (in the afternoon of a prostituted peach), hieratic imposing completelyubiquitoussmoothlyburnishedT0tality; divine, sexually frenzied and pulsating with deathly vivacity, her hair flowing in all directions and thunderbolts dyingcrashin’tumblingclimaxing inside her eyes (a netter phrasing would be perhaps inside her look, her glance (for they are now reduced to existing exclusively inside her glance), her visual hegemony and her signed chamber pot).Man looks for penis but can’t find it. Falls asleep and is embraced languidly by rest of room (both equally passive-aggressive toward grilll-Girl), equally mesmerised (& bored shitless) by Girl’s morbid perfection. Finally she starts falling inside the mirror (and consequently inside herSelf. Grows 4 arms that swing in all directions armed with ceremonial golden mace and large box of kleenex; new arms fall ofF?U?Yesthankyou.) and crawl towards man, start strangling him (no reaction) and then dissipate into a fleshy scintillating cloud of melted concrete and 3-d Dna models (supersized). Girl finally disappears inside herSelf; mirror is violently shaken, starts oscillating uncontrollably and steadily. spasmodically heads towards window. Girl’s apotheosis animates it more and more intensely by the second; mirror trips over man but interrupts fall in midair and regains (& ages cats & dogs) balance (next!!!] and doggedly continues epic journey. Having reached window (same starry sky, new inscription: ‘Closed to visitors. No were not renovating jackass. No solicitors beggars truants tramps mendicant whores canine aberrations or part-time undertakers. Fuck off. Seriously, Fuck off’. [US citizens only: fuck off thata way] -.-; fuck your anally P.C. disparity’. Mirror struggles to fit through window, finally manages to slide through and falls free-running into nothingness (i.e. outsdie). Into secure non-safety. No vociferous sonorous dead. Odin-waking impact, only muffled fleshy thud. Camera moves to window cautiously leans o’er’t and falls as well (as if by magic)/. Brief lack of signal, then image comes back, crispy-fried and crystalliner then Eva. Disembodied camera gets up, dusts itself off with its absurdly inexistent hands [/pseudo-pods] then focuses on place where fell(ed) mirror the glass. No mirror [gasp for air; some dumb fuck faints off-screen]. Nowhere anywhere everywhere. Just girl’s (Devi’s) cadaver on hood of police car. Greyish, bruised, a needled syringe sticking out of the small of her back, already partially putrefied. White ivory liquid pouring out of nostrils and aureole (mildly milky deluge-based soteriology – ignore comment]. Cops still don’t move (one gets the impression they’re merely cardboard figures, -sapped parodies, paragons of cosmic creationist moral absolutiveness ness Ness retroactive imbecility.

John Cow

Spring

2007-12-14T14:57:00.001-08:00

Do you remember how those laughing girls

Brought in spring?

Giggling it back into the world

Dancing it down the hillsides.

Don’t you remember

Their warmth in the sun?

The moisture of their skin

The scent of light perspiration

Mingling with an always unknown fragrance.

They were innocent, even in their knowing.

And in the evenings they sang of love

From the edge of the pinking sky.

Harold Lorin

Ridge To Ridge

2007-12-14T14:46:00.000-08:00

I can see pinpoint headlights
looking at me across the night
just as they crest the ridge
coming the other way

Sky and valley have merged
into a single dark blanket
drusy with stars
but no moon
as time and distance
flash through my headlights

The night rides along
a warm passenger
asks nothing but my company
we ride the waves of basin-and-range
trough to trough
ridge to ridge
the asphalt highway
hangs ten on ancient stone
while I fly along
with the window open
strain stars from the wind
flowing through my fingers

Edward Hanson

Gibberish

2007-12-14T14:01:00.000-08:00

Isn't it that all word is noise

and you need to penetrate

to get at the signals,

or even symbols

most of which are personal-

Isn't it that they are all

past oriented and

lexicon driven

and you need to penetrate

to get at the something

or even beyond the something-

Isn't it that the symbols

abound all around

not caring

if they are picked up or not

not caring

if they do convey anything or nothing-

we only receive

what we only give

only..

Isn't it that the dog at the street corner hoots

for no ostensible reason

just putting up its head skyward

and looking or not looking

at whatever is in the skies

and the old lady

picks the rags and goes about

unconcerned

at the economic indices

or the trends in arts and thoughts-

yet, beyond it all

you kindle the something in me

wordless it may be

but something it is

the sap of life

Do not tell me

it is gibberish.

A. Thiagarajan

The Conscientious Enabler

2007-12-14T13:16:00.000-08:00

The winter chill was coming on; a double-edged sword. The disadvantaged people Duncan cared for no longer needed bottles of water and designated cold zones. They would soon need free coats and places in which they could hide from the unforgiving cold.

The packed city square made for a bustling scene. Free-spirited people played guitar along with the pulsating drum circle. Others danced and swayed. Still others were happy just to listen. Best of all, Duncan’s message of fraternity was spreading to those buzzing about the nearby stores and restaurants. He loved knowing that in between their trips to kitschy shops and small, sparsely stocked boutiques, these privileged would be touched by the altruism he wrought this beautiful evening.

The rustling of fallen leaves brought another gift: the young man standing at his table, deliberating over his wares. The young man was eighteen, the age Duncan had been when he began his real education. He had that same look in his eyes, the unfocused intensity of naïve youth. “Is everything really free?” The young man asked.

“Absolutely,” Duncan said. He proudly waved his hand around the city square, perimetered with others doing the same thing. “Consumerism is a big problem. One way to separate our needs from our wants is to give everything away.”

The young man put the alarm clock back on the table. “It’s just weird.”

“What’s that?” Duncan understood the careful, Socratic nudging a young soul requires.

“I don’t know.” He shrugged. “How do you know if you’re really helping people? And how do you know if things are getting better?”

“It’s hard to see the successes when there’s so much suffering in the world, isn’t it? Is the struggle part of the destination?”

“I worked in a soup kitchen last Thanksgiving. And I wanted to go help build a house in West Virginia last spring break, but my mother was not cool at all.”

Duncan smiled. “That’s the thing. If you hammer in one board, it doesn’t do much. But what if everyone in this city hammered in one of their own?” Duncan bade the young man sit on the lawn chair he had brought to give away. “Let me tell you a story.”

Roger reshaped Duncan’s heart twenty years earlier. This was the reason, these twenty years on, that Duncan was sitting on the bench beside a table stacked with things he no longer needed. It was almost unfair; it was Duncan’s first day of college. He was carrying one of many boxes to his dorm when he emerged from a building’s shadow and fell into the sun. Momentarily blinded, his senses were slammed by those forceful, passionate words:

There are two kinds of people: those who change the world and those who make it worse through complacency…

Fresh from his just-cracked suburban cocoon, Duncan set his box on the ground and listened.

Roger’s skinny body barely filled out the black t-shirt with the worn, cracked letters that spelled out his support for Rwandans. The autumn sunlight was unflattering to his worn skin, but highlighted the power in those pale eyes, framed by wild brows.

You have been sheltered your whole lives! Will you step up to the plate? Will you become what you were meant to be? Or will you be a conscientious enabler?

Duncan learned that his secure, tree-lined, pep rally youth was not the real world. His father spent enough on his lawn in a year to support a whole Ethiopian family. His mother spent enough each year on her hair to bring electricity to a Laotian village.

Roger had been right about so many things; it was not easy for Duncan to change the way he lived. The most painful part had been when his father threw him out of the house for the night. His father had mocked his ideals, asking if a communist was allowed to go to a private university that charged thirty thousand dollars a year. If a Bolshevik should enjoy a dining hall meal plan that could instead feed dozens of starving children. Even spending a night in his car couldn’t soften Duncan’s resolve.

No matter how much we love someone, our paths will eventually diverge. Roger graduated, off to spread his gospel. Though Duncan stuck to their ideals, the friends fell out of touch. Duncan was soon in the real world himself, taking the fight wherever he was needed. Wherever people couldn’t take care of themselves.

The young man pushed his unkempt hair out of his eyes. “I understand. My dad says I can do whatever I want as long as I get a degree.”

“I wish I knew then what I know now. I didn’t need a piece of paper to learn to dig a well in Africa. I could have done so much more with those four years.”

The young man pursed his lips. “But how do you get the things you need?”

“That’s the beauty of the way we live; just as I’ve taken care of others, someone will take care of me when I retire. If you rely on people to be selfless and to work for the greater good, they’ll never let you down.”

Duncan’s eye was at just the right angle to catch the glint of a gold wristwatch through the restaurant window. The man wearing it was leaning back as a white-shirted waiter placed a steak dinner before him.

The pale eyes had not dimmed, but the face had somehow lost its distinguished crags. The man now had a paunch that was somewhat concealed in the folds of the tailored navy blue suit.

The woman across from Roger was bare-shouldered. He scrutinized these lines as he tipped the wine glass and greedily sipped.

The young man waved his hand in front of Duncan’s eyes. “Are you okay? Is something wrong?”

Duncan didn’t answer. He kept his eyes on his mentor and scratched a sudden itch through his worn secondhand coat.

Kenneth Nichols

September 2007

2007-12-14T12:59:00.000-08:00

Poetry

To Love - Pete Lee

Urban Vision - Gary Beck

Evening In - Bernard Gieske

He Never Called... - Aldonna Kaulius-Barry

Affair With Love - Michael H. Brownstein
Coyote Ancient - Edward Hanson
Breakdance - Gianina Opris

Alternate Version - Corey Mesler

Tuesdays In New Jersey - Michael Baker

Stories

One Tiger To A Hill - Iftekhar Sayeed
But Not Forgotten - Catherine Ritchie

Articles

Prose VS Poetry - Terry J. Coyier
The Road To Haiku
Five Things Not To Do - Susan Schaab
Writer's Block? - Laura Back

December 2006

2007-07-27T10:11:00.000-07:00

Poetry

Spiritual Ravens - Holly Abidi
A Dream In My Brain - Gigi George
Malay History - Papa Osmubal
Mojave Night - Edward Hanson
Visit To The Zoo - Michael H. Brownstein
My Backyard - Mark Clement
Forever - Michael Estabrook
The Hunters - Jim Nasium
Music Box - Clifford K. Watkins, Jr.

Stories

Portrait Of A Girl - Errol Collen
Chief - Tiana Debicki-Gorham
Who Dies In Her Room - Michael O'Neill
Living The Story - W.L. Whiteshah

Articles

Writer's Notebook - Rylee Rider
The Value Of Procrastination - Dena Dyer
Your Next Big Idea - Sophfronia Scott
Writer's World - Stephanie Lyn Featherstone

The Road To Haiku

2007-07-26T21:00:00.000-07:00

“Haiku shows us what we knew all the time, but did not know we knew; it shows us that we are poets in so far as we live at all.”
~R.H. Blyth Haiku, Volume 1

“A real haiku’s gotta be as simple as porridge and yet make you see the real thing.”
~ Japhy Ryder in The Dharma Bums (1958) by Jack Kerouac

Haiku is everywhere, or so some like to think. Just do a Google search for haiku and over 12 million results are returned in .04 seconds. Those results vary from in-depth articles on haiku history and the development of haiku from the original Japanese renga (linked verse) to information on Japanese haiku masters such as Basho and English contributors such as R.H. Blyth. Along with those, you have countless links to internet blogs, websites and web pages that have haiku, or what is really considered senryu by those who have studied haiku, on them. I even found a random haiku generator. Needless to say, the information is so abundant it’s difficult to know where to begin or what to believe.

I’m not a scholar, but I have done a bit of research about haiku and senryu. Japanese culture has fascinated me since I was in my early twenties and began studying Aikido, a Japanese martial art. I also had a Japanese roommate who taught me a few things about the culture that further interested me, and while I’m not a fan of sushi, I do love some other Japanese foods. Interestingly enough, R.H. Blyth became fascinated with Japanese culture as well, and thus eventually found his way to haiku and was instrumental in bringing haiku to English.

R.H. Blyth authored Haiku (1949-1952) and History of Haiku (1964) which are some of the most read books on the subject by contemporary writers of haiku. Blyth never expected that his books would be as influential as they were in inspiring poets to attempt to write haiku in something other than Japanese. But inspire they did and in 1958, two other books on haiku were published that sparked modern haiku in America, Jack Kerouac’s The Dharma Bums and Harold G. Henderson’s An Introduction to Haiku: An Anthology of Poems and Poets from Bashô to Shiki.

How do we define modern haiku (and where does senryu come in)? Well, that’s a tough question to answer, as you will often find many conflicting definitions. Most people can tell you that haiku is a short Japanese poem. Some will add that it is written in three lines. Others will argue that it is written in no more than three lines, but can be written in less. The typical haiku is seen in three lines, but it can be in less, never more. Then you come to syllable counts. Some adhere to a strict seventeen syllables, in a 5-7-5 pattern. Others will simply offer a guideline of: no more than eighteen syllables total for the entire poem. Haiku can be less than seventeen syllables, but certainly never longer than eighteen. In haiku, less, is typically, more.

This is the basic form of a haiku (and a senryu), but this alone does not make a poem a haiku. A haiku has other elements that most haijin will tell you, must be present before it is a haiku.

~A kigo, or seasonal word is a must for a haiku (without it you venture into senryu territory)

~A pause word or caesura (punctuation mark) that is usually, though not always at the end of a line, that indicate a comparison, contrast, uncertainty or question (different from a senryu that involves irony or satirical humor)

~Haiku are almost always in present or present perfect tense

~Simple, direct language; using minimal words

~Avoid using personal or possessive pronouns in haiku (again, these are more for senryu) as haiku describes an experience, it does not tell how you feel about the experience

Again, different sources will agree and disagree on these points about haiku (and senryu). For experienced haijin, writing haiku is a way of life, not just an art form or a way to express themselves or pass the time. I have read that to write haiku, first you must have an experience, and then you must, as soon as possible, write about that experience. It must flow naturally from you or it will not make a well written haiku. The senryu is for all of the comedy writers out there and examines the more personal and humorous side of life. I hope this has shed a bit of light on two of the beautiful Japanese forms of poetry.

Terry J. Coyier

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Five Things Not To Do When Trying To Write Your First Novel

2007-07-26T20:33:00.000-07:00

Some people suppress an insistent urge to attempt novel-length fiction all their lives. That’s like giving yourself permission to hide from who you are. If your soul is that of a writer, to write is not a luxury, it’s a necessity. Like many novice writers, you may be overwhelmed with the process of producing a novel. Here are five suggestions for your journey.

*ONE - Don’t force your writing, but DO write often, even if you’re just making notes.*
You will often hear practitioners advise you to “write every day.” Some sit down and consort with their muse at five o’clock every morning without fail, and some work from an outline. If these techniques work for you, that’s great, but don’t berate yourself if you tend to write sporadically and randomly.

In the book, The Writer’s Desk, by Jill Krementz, Stephen King was quoted as saying that he doesn’t take notes, doesn’t outline and tends to just “flail away” at the thing.

You will find that when you reach a certain point in a story and the pieces are starting to assemble, you will have a natural desire to spend time at the keyboard. But some days, the words and ideas will hide behind cement walls. You should just let them hide. They will come out when they’re ready; just present them with plenty of opportunities.

You’ve probably heard the suggestion to keep a notepad, electronic device, or some other method for capturing those juicy little snippets and fragments at impact, to be sorted and scrutinized later. They come from reading, watching, eavesdropping and experiencing life, and they come without warning.

My own experience has been that those little scraps of paper or digital bytes do lead to plot ideas, character profiles and dialogue passages. I had a large file box of such material when I sat down to work on the first draft of Wearing the Spider. The concept for the title came to me while hiking on a remote tropical island, and I jotted down my thoughts on a trail map.

* TWO - Don’t stop reading and viewing others’ writings. *

Writing instructors will tell you that you must read with almost the same intensity with which you write. You must learn to see, hear, observe and absorb your environment like a writer. The other day, my three-year-old asked me, “Can you wonder…?” Indeed. It occurred to me that the answer to this question may be the primary pre-requisite for any kind of creative writing.

You will experience the written word in a new way once you’ve tried writing. The novelist illuminates the level of consciousness that is sensed, felt and heard only by the heart. Novelists give voice to the unspoken and good ones do it with a rich serenade of words. To fully understand this concept, you must make reading other fiction a large component of your ongoing education. Synapses in our minds network in ways we can only speculate about. Components of others’ stories, plots and characters ignite epiphanies and stir emotions in our own subconscious mind, where the best stories originate.

While viewing the work of another writer, however, keep in mind the parameters of general copyright law. The original expression of an idea is protected under U.S. and international copyright laws the moment it is captured in a fixed medium of expression. You cannot legally copy any amount of another’s writing and call it your own. And, if you do use the words of another, you must attribute and, in most cases, seek permission from the copyright holder.

Even when a writer borrows small quantities, but also utilizes the same theme or format, or follows the pattern of expression, he or she can run afoul of copyright law. There are exceptions under various categories of “fair use,” but one should contact an attorney who specializes in copyright law for specific guidance.

While taking notes from someone else’s work, you must capture enough information for attributions and permissions that may be necessary, depending upon the portions you use. If you are simply tracking your inspirations and free thoughts that come from the stimulation of another’s writings, you should jot down that fact in your notes so that you won’t wonder whether a particular passage was a summary or paraphrase months later when sorting through a miscellaneous stack.

* THREE - Don’t cloister yourself. *

You must be in the presence of life to editorialize about it. The richness of life and the serendipity of social interaction are crucial to the evolution of your novel. The natural flow of conflict, resolution, affinity and antipathy make for interesting characters. Don’t take yourself out of circulation while penning stories, as you may be missing an influence of great importance. And, it’s not uncommon to find valuable storylines in the troughs of life. Conflict is good.

The development of a good story can be compared to the creation of a pearl in the “womb” of an oyster. An irritating grain of sand prompts the oyster to surround the intruding particle with mother of pearl. So, that irritant is the nucleus of enduring beauty, just as the challenges a character embraces in a tale can gracefully illustrate strength of conviction.

As a novelist, you will be courting conflict at every juncture of the writing process. Harvesting the obstacles in your own life is a suitable means by which to find it.

* FOUR - Don’t be afraid of where the story takes you. *

I’ve heard many writers say that well-crafted characters, with whom you’ve let yourself become properly acquainted, will actually tell you their story. Many have written about the “voyeuristic” role of the writer.

When I started writing Wearing the Spider, I didn’t really believe this. I tried to be in control of the direction of the plot, but I discovered that I was sacrificing some level of authenticity. The more time I spent thinking and writing about the characters I’d created, and the more I “watched” them in my mind, the more vocal they became, informing me when I’d committed a misstep in the telling of their story. When I decided to let myself truly follow the course of action that a character seemed to be dictating, the story became much more authentic and interesting.

For example, in Wearing the Spider, against the common wisdom, I let my lead character “decide” how to handle an incident of sexual harassment. Most people would advise a victim to report such an episode. But, having had such experiences myself, I know it is not so black and white.

How one reacts or doesn’t react is quite complex. A victim, who is frequently a female, must grapple with a number of unknowns: Will she be believed?; Does she have proof?; Did she do anything that might be interpreted as encouragement?; Could she have misunderstood the actions of the harasser?; What will they think she is expecting to gain by reporting the situation? And, even if she successfully neutralizes her harasser, how will she be treated by other men after the incident is documented, investigated and publicly-known?

* FIVE - Don’t send manuscripts out too early. *

Everyone needs an editor, even the most skilled and experienced of writers. There is simply no way to view your manuscripts objectively after you’ve spent hundreds of hours immersed in them. And, when you are just starting out, you must find your own. There are wonderful free-lance editors who will not only help you shape your vision, but teach you many things about your craft (and yourself). You can search any number of online writing resource sites, such as Preditors and Editors: http://anotherealm.com/prededitors/index.htm. You might also try contacting these New York based organizations: Words into Print at http://www.wordsintoprint.org and The Editors Circle at http://www.theeditorscircle.com.

Writing is not just putting words on paper. A good writer must develop artistic discernment - the ability to recognize whether or not a passage “has legs.” A good editor can help you develop this judgment, but it may take time. Be patient.

Good writing does not happen with the first draft and may not happen with the second or third. Anne Lamott wrote in Bird by Bird that “Almost all good writing begins with terrible first efforts.”

If you are destined to be a writer, you will feel the need to express yourself with words no matter what the outcome. Time will reveal whether or not your novel will find a home with a publisher, but no one can deny to you a feeling of triumph when you’re staring at a final manuscript bearing your name.

Susan Schaab

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Prose VS Poetry

2007-07-26T19:39:00.000-07:00

Prose - a simple word that confuses so many people. What is it exactly? According to dictionary.com:

the ordinary form of spoken or written language, without metrical structure, as distinguished from poetry or verse.
matter-of-fact, commonplace, or dull expression, quality, discourse, etc.

Prose encompasses most of the writing and speaking we engage in today, including what I am writing here. It is everything from novels to blog entries to television/films and everything in between. Prose is simply a fancy literary term used to separate general writing from poetry or verse. (Though, just to confuse you, we do have prose poetry, the halibun and free verse which can muddy any clear distinction.) Prose is typically written in plain language, follows the standard rules of grammar and punctuation and is arranged in paragraphs. It often reflects ordinary speech patterns. In fiction, writers do develop different styles of writing and employ various techniques to add interest for readers, but the writing is still considered prose.

Now that you understand a little about prose, let’s discuss poetry. Most people recognize poetry if they see a traditional poem. For instance, writing that has lines similar in length (each starting with a capital letter, of course), is arranged in stanzas, and has rhyme at the end of the lines. Most of us were taught about this type of poetry around the third or fourth grade. But poetry is so much more complex and varied than that simple example. In fact, those few things don’t necessarily define poetry at all.

Poetry is much more than just a few basics such as the form in which it is written, some general meter and rhyme. Modern poetry often deviates from traditional poetic form and rules. Poetry presentation has, once again, become somewhat artistic for some poets who write in everything from couplets to verse paragraphs. These lines can also be arranged on a page to enhance the visual appeal of the poem (as in shape poems), to aid in the rhythm of the poem (adding space between words to create longer pauses while reading aloud, for instance) or to add to the meaning or irony of a poem by causing words to appear in specific places. Standard punctuation and capitalization practices are falling by the wayside, as well, for many contemporary poets.

This still has little to do with poetry itself. So, how do we define poetry? I think Iowan, Paul Engle, had the right idea with is explanation: “Poetry is ordinary language raised to the Nth power. Poetry is boned with ideas, nerved and blooded with emotions, all held together by the delicate, tough skin of words.” That, to me, is what poetry is, but I would be doing you a disservice if I didn’t break it down somewhat. I am not providing definitions, they are easy enough to come by.

Basic Poetic Devices

Diction
Meter
Caesura
Enjambment
Rhyme
Repetition
Alliteration
Assonance
Consonance
Onomatopoeia
Personification
Irony
Imagery
Symbol
Metonymy
Simile
Hyperbole
Metaphor
Oxymoron

A quick internet search will provide you with reading material on each of these devices. Some are easier to hone than others, but all are useful if you wish to write interesting poetry verses writing simple poems.

Hopefully the lines between prose and poetry are now a bit clearer than before. Sometime in the future, I will have to address those other pesky fellows I mentioned that muddy the waters between the two. For now, whether you chose to write prose or poetry or both, I wish you the utmost success.

Terry J. Coyier

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Writer's Block Or Is it Just Procrastination?

2007-07-26T19:27:00.000-07:00

I have been meaning to sit down and write an article for a couple of weeks now, something to keep my mind functioning and my creativity flowing. However, I find I am coming up with all kinds of excuses for not doing so; and some of them are even true. I have a shindig that I am putting on tomorrow for some friends who are in town from Scotland, my house needs cleaning, I have laundry to do, and I was up late last night. All true, but they are still excuses! My company won't be here until 6:30 tomorrow night, I have kids that can help clean and do laundry, and that nap can wait for a couple of hours. Truth is, I thought I had been dealing with that black cloud, also known as "writers block", but in reality maybe I am just procrastinating?

I was surfing the Internet the other day when I came upon this quote: "Procrastination – the art of keeping up with yesterday." Whoa! Wait a minute; this seems to describe the way I have been working lately. How can I be cutting edge, a voice of the future, the "Red Pen Baroness", when I am spinning my wheels, running around and trying to keep up with yesterday? Sound familiar? So where do you find the motivation and inspiration to push yourself forward beyond this frustration?

Robert Cormier, former newspaper reporter, columnist, and Margaret A. Edwards Award winning author, gives the following advise: "Read, read, read, write, write, write. Every successful writer I know is a great reader. It’s also important to write regularly. Discipline is as important as talent, perhaps even more important – a lot of books don’t get written simply because talented people never sit down and write". The key is discipline. I love to read and I love to write, but I am not always disciplined about it.

So today I am taking Mr. Cormier's advise; not only have I been online reading articles of interest to me, but I am allowing myself the luxury of writing just for the pleasure of it. Today is all about the beauty of the written word. Maybe tomorrow I will have an epiphany and think of something profound that will need writing about. Until then I am agreeing with Robert Cormier, "The beautiful part of writing is that you don't have to get it right the first time, unlike, say a brain surgeon." So when you hit that wall, don't give up. Read a book, look at the latest ezine articles online, go to the mall or a coffee shop and "people watch". I'll bet in no time, you will have all kinds of material you can write about...so, whatever you do, don't forget your pen and your notebook!

Happy writing!

Laura Back

But Not Forgotten

2007-07-26T19:06:00.000-07:00

“Mommy!”

The cry cuts through me like a knife. Turning, I see the young boy, all blue eyes and soft, blond curls, face shimmering with fluid seeping from eyes and nose. He has just realized that all the knees around him belong to strangers.

I get down on his level, eye to eye. “What’s your mommy’s name?” I ask in a calm voice.

His swimming eyes focus briefly on me, and then resume scanning the area. “Mommy,” he repeats, his voice fading in defeat.

I take his sticky hand gently. “What color shirt does your mommy have on?”

Slowly he returns his focus to me. A long moment passes, and I’m about to repeat my question, when he answers, “Blue.”

Picking up the now dripping child, I carefully dab his face with a tissue from my pocket. “Let’s go find Mommy.”

With help from store security, it doesn’t take long. “Mommy” is nearly as teary as her son. I leave them busily sobbing into each other and slip out into the late afternoon sun. Walking to my car, I can still feel the warmth and wetness of the child on my shirt.

“Mommy!” I seem to hear in the wind. I start my car and turn up the radio.

After supper, Bobo and I head out the back door, round the garden and into the woods. The dog wags his tail, happy to be outside. Today we head west, down toward the river that flows in the distance. Bobo is a whirl of energy, racing ahead, running in circles, sniffing everything, everywhere. We are both looking for a lost scent.

I pass my neighbor, Emma. She’s out digging in the bean patch today. She waves and catches Bobo in a hug as he races up to her. I wave back and continue my walk.

“Susan?” Emma calls, “You okay?”

I nod, reluctantly stopping. “I want to look over by the river.”

Emma’s face clouds with concern. “It’s been three years, Susan,” she says carefully.

I don’t want to meet her eyes, to see the pity there. “I know it’s been three years. I need to look.” I walk away without further conversation, Bobo bouncing alongside of me.

Three years. Three very long years. My daughter Missy would be seven this fall, going into second grade. She should be seven. Should be walking here with me, chatting away, laughing with the sunshine, chasing the butterflies. If it wasn’t for that monster. How do you tell a three year old child there really can be monsters in the world?

He moved into our small town a year or so before Missy disappeared. Seemed a quiet type, withdrawn, kept to himself mostly. Worked at the lumber mill. He went missing the same day Missy did. I remember it was a beautiful spring day. Flowers were crowding the hills, bird song filling the air, the sky just calling for admirers to come out and enjoy the day.

Walking the path, I kick at a rock. I feel the rage boiling inside me, thinking about it. The panic, the frantic searching, police, dogs, neighbors forming human chains to canvas the town and the nearby lakes.

The man showed up again, a day or so later. When questioned, he denied any involvement. A search of his car showed traces of her DNA. Whether from tears or blood I don’t know. I didn’t want to know. I just wanted my child back.

I tried to see the man in jail, to talk to him. He hid in the shelter of bars and bricks; wouldn’t meet my eyes in court. The evidence mounted; a past history uncovered. “Tell me where she is!” I pleaded.

A week before the trial, the bastard hung himself.

“Bastard,” I repeat, under my breath. Bobo pauses, watching me for clues.

“Go find her boy.” This has become my mantra. “Go find her.”

The light is slowly fading as we round the bend of the river and start the long walk home. The spring floods were higher than normal this year, and the debris is still piled in spots. Part of the river’s course has shifted southward.

I’m lost in thoughts when I hear a strange yip. Stopping, I see Bobo standing by a raised mound of earth near the river, covered with branches and flood debris. Bobo is focused totally on the dirt in front of him. I can see him trembling.

My legs feel like lead as I walk toward him. I can see the piled earth, the cracks where the flood had shifted the soil. Then I see the small, white bones.

Sinking to my knees, I gently reach toward the small remnants of a small hand, the bones held together by gossamer threads of ligaments long dormant. For a moment the world dims, a fog swirls around me, and all I see are those delicate fingers, reaching out to me from far away.

Bobo bumps his head against my shoulder, hard. He forces his head under my arm and whines. Hugging him, I’m numb.

The wind lifts the hair off my back. “Mommy!” I hear again, faintly.

“It’s okay, Missy,” I murmur through my tears, “Mommy’s come to take you home.”

Catherine Ritchie

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Tuesdays In New Jersey

2007-07-26T18:42:00.000-07:00

Halloween, and I watch my son, intrepid Superman,

trip over his cape, walking around Union City with his class

of four year olds. They hang tightly to a long white rope.

I am a fearful man as it is lately, no hero, afraid

of black cats and masked men, over worried

about cars suddenly careening out of control,

of Krypton falling from the black heavens.

This park, a patchy place of green and cement,

provides cold comfort: it is deserted.

I need a cigar. Across the street

from Martin’s school, a funeral home. Today,

people will bury Jose Hernandez, aged twelve,

ailments, desires, and ending unknown to me. His mother

wears brown, carried aloft by a throng of family

and do-gooders. Our eyes meet, and she is ashamed

of her grief. I want to help carry the casket

to the hearse, but it is small, grey, shiny

in the unusual searing sun and heat.

The casket is not five feet long. This cigar

tastes like burning black tires after

skidding over a vast sandy stretch.

Inside for lunch I help serve pizzas

and Oreos. My son will probably turn out gay—

he likes show tunes and wipes the crumbs

off the dirty mouths

of the other boys. This is all fine with me.

I am in a state of shock anyways, no longer

bound by laws of narration or newspapers. In the corner

a timid Dominican breastfeeds her four-month son.

They are more beautiful than Abraham’s wrists.

I stare, unafraid to show my concern. Her brown breast

appears full. I fall to my knees and reach

for that woman’s daughter,

my son’s classmate, and clasp her

to my heaving chest, whispering into her frightened ear,

there is enough today, for once, to go around.

Michael Baker

Alternate Version

2007-07-26T14:10:00.000-07:00

At the last supper Jesus held

a baby in his arms.

The baby’s name was Judas Iscariot.

He told the assembled:

“Eat of this child. He is future sustenance.”

The apostles allowed as to how

they would rather not.

Later, when the baby had turned them all

in to the Gestapo, Jesus

was heard to say, “I didn’t sell it.

I didn’t make the baby sound appetizing.”

Corey Mesler

One Tiger To A Hill

2007-07-26T13:46:00.000-07:00

“He raped a girl, sir. Over.”

The walkie-talkie crackled.

“Didn’t you hear me? The minister says let him go. Over.”

“He raped and killed a girl, sir. Over.”

“Just let him go. He’s the minister’s vote bank. Over and out.”

A low chuckle issued from the jail in the corner of the room.

“What did I tell you?” inquired a young voice. “Tiger Timur can’t be kept behind bars.”

The room was lit by a hurricane lamp. The corners of the room lay in darkness. The hurricane lamp illuminated the top of a table, revealing wax and ink stains. A smell of kerosene, mingled with that of sweat, hung in the air. A rifle lay across the notched surface of the table. Sub-inspector Rafik’s face was barely visible. He was seated at the table. He put the walkie-talkie down, opened a drawer and took out some papers and a pen. There hung the smell of sweat from two bodies.

They were in the middle of the Sundarban mangrove forest, at Koromjol. The forest lay silent around them, as though expecting the Royal Bengal tiger to come out at any moment. But nothing came out into the opening. The police station stood on concrete poles, as much for the beasts as the water from the labyrinthine branches of the rivers. The River Poshur flowed close by. There was no moon.

Inside, it was hot. There were only two small, barred windows at the top of the walls. Perspiration dripped from Rafik’s forehead; he loosened the collar of his khaki shirt. There were no generators here. The stench of two men’s perspiration mingled, like hatred. He began to write.

But he found it difficult to concentrate. He hadn’t been surprised by the minister’s order. The lawlessness began when Bangladesh became democratic. At first, he had welcomed the violence: it was a chance to make more money, take more bribes. He had asked to be transferred to Koromjol because there were river pirates here: he could extort money from them. Of course, he had to pay a sizable sum to purchase the post.

But now there was the girl. Her remains were found in the jungle by woodcutters. The head had remained intact, the rest had been gnawed by the local man-eater. Tiger Timur and his gang of boys let the girl loose into the forest. Which was the jungle, he wondered. The tigers and snakes seemed human compared to the beasts in the towns and villages.

“We picked her up at Morelgonj. She said she wanted to come here, to Koromjol. So we said we’d give her a ride. We tied her up inside the boat, and we had a go at her, one after another. It wasn’t all pleasure, mind you. It was part of my work. We traveled by boat, and when we came to a village, we would stop so they could hear the girl scream. They don’t call me Tiger Timur for nothing. I have to earn my reputation. If I go to a village and tell them for whom to vote, they will do exactly as they are told. Otherwise, they know that some of their boys would disappear or some of their girls wouldn’t want to get back.” He chuckled again.

A tuctoo lizard began to call: tuc-too, tuc-too....

For a few minutes there was only the sound of the lizard outside and the scratching of the pen inside. The lizard stopped. A deer barked in the distance.

A firefly floated into the room, its blue light blinking.

The pen continued to scratch across paper. His hand was damp with perspiration. His mouth tasted bitter.

“Hey, sub-inspector, why don’t you let me out of the cage? You’re going to have to let me go in the morning, anyway.”

A roar erupted through the forest.

“What’s that? It’s the tiger, isn’t it? It’s the man-eater!”

Rafik continued to write – he had heard the tiger countless times in the last few weeks. In fact, he had included the tiger in his plans this afternoon when he let the constable go on leave, even though no request was made.

Silence descended again, like a smothering blanket. The pen stopped scratching.

Rafik picked up the rifle and the keys. He unlocked the cell.

“That’s more like it, sub-inspector.”

“Get out!”

“What do you mean?”

“Get out of here. Outside.”

“You must be crazy! The minister will have your job.”

“I’ve been writing out a report about how I let you go in the morning. A boat comes at 10:00, but it didn’t pick you up.”

Rafik leveled the rifle at Tiger Timur.

“There’s a man-eater out there!”

“Open the door and get out.”

Tiger Timur unbolted the door. The odour of a strange flower greeted them. There was nothing to be seen outside. The boy descended the steps. He began to cry.

“Please! Please! I beg you, don’t send me into the jungle!”

Rafik bolted the door.

Through the silent night, he heard a female voice call to him.

“Bhaiya! Bhaiya!”

“Brother! Brother!”

He sat back, and waited for the screams.

Iftekhar Sayeed

Home

Breakdance

2007-07-26T12:50:00.000-07:00

The woman in the tie-dye shirt

drops the lid of her water bottle.

Oh I see, she must be in charge.

A little girl rests on the floor;

colors with washable bold markers

right outside the door.

The woman gets out,

the man in front of me in a wheelchair

can’t stop laughing

while we listen to “poetry therapy.”

He moves to a dance I don’t know;

he faces the ceiling, coos like a baby

opens his mouth ― I hear his breathing

drops his head, splitting the tempo.

This isn’t, what CHAMACALLIT, is it?

Must be his way to Breakdance

I’m thinking.

His body hangs only for two seconds;

he sighs and up he goes again

as if trying to bite grapes from a vine.

I taste them too.

The woman is back

laughs, coughing this time,

jokes, hits my right arm,

shushes the little girl,

asks a question, walks away.

The man sticks out his tongue, his long tongue,

says ahhh, he must need som’thn ― ha?

He forces my curiosity; are those three

bags that hang on back of his chair full of his papers?

I don’t dare put my fingers on them.

He makes his sudden movements

looks at the front of the room

touches an apparatus, listens to the poem,

turns his head around, shows me his enormous emerald eyes.

His other self tries to bite me; bites me

but only to show me that he is imagining

a line for his new poem.

I want to see him in his other life;

helping the woman dance samba cubana,

picking, washing, eating the grapes,

holding hands with a woman and the little girl

walking to the park to write in his journal.

Gianina Opris

Under the Pomegranate Tree

2007-07-26T12:21:00.000-07:00

I trotted up a bowl-shaped hill
There was an abandoned cemetery atop
with rows of unmarked headstones
Tangles of brushwood clogged the aisles
Seasons of rain and snow had turned the iron gate rusty
with low white stone walls in decay

My cousin and I sat cross-legged
Sunlight and shadows of pomegranate leaves danced on his face
He absently plucked blades of grass from the ground
We sat for hours under the pomegranate tree
sat there until the sun folded in the west
He flashed a smile and winked at me

Outside the sky dimmed
Something roared like thunder
The earth shook a little
We heard the rat-a-tat of gunfire

from the soldiers at war
It lit the sky in silver
Flashed again and was followed by a rapid staccato of gunfire
while we huddled together under the pomegranate tree.

Gigi George

Coyote Ancient

2007-07-26T12:10:00.000-07:00

Coyote Ancient follows tracks

threading stone-laced ruins

bookmarks on adobe pages

marking space time

mystery’s moonwalk

Croon light nights sung

to star gods looking down

two steps ahead of death

four steps behind sunrise

scurry across creosote encrusted sand

Coyote Ancient turns

earth turns to face the sun

wind sings earth’s bones

recites sacred litanies

cathedral sky sand and stone floor

Anasazi daydreams

stone canyon memories

faded sky regrets

aligned with sunrise

adobe walls aligned

with winter moons

Centered on the spiral

chiseled vortex in stone

pierced by a dagger of light

Coyote Ancient dances

Edward Hanson

An Affair With Love

2007-07-26T11:56:00.000-07:00

Now that everything is over,
The speed bump, the crack in concrete,
A chapbook by Steven Schletor
Open to pages four and five
Waving its torn hands in the wind.
When it rains, when it snows,
After the hail, after the heavy sleet,
After the weather breaks to a drizzle,
The staples bend and rust and break,
But this is nothing. Water has a way
With cardboard and paper, rock
And sandstone, love and ink.

Michael H. Brownstein

He Never Called Out Her Name

2007-07-26T11:34:00.000-07:00

In the rain, and in the sun
She had loved him.
Through all the days of blackened dreams,
Through promises unkept and broken,
Past days and nights longing for words unspoken,
She held his body tightly against her heart.
And in the blackness of the night,
As his warm breath whispered to her face,
And moonlight filled the darkened spaces
She gazed at the soft contentment
In the lines of his handsome face.
He slept deeply, fearlessly and peacefully.

For ten thousand nights
She listening to the steady beating of his heart,
And in it’s rise and fall,
Wanted more than anything on earth
To have been loved openly, unashamedly,
With a spoken passion that existed only for her.
He never called out her name.
Not ever.
As if she was without.
Not in the most important moments of humanness,
Not in the smoldering intimacy reaching deep within her.

In the rain and in the sun,
Through storms that resonated
Through every room of the house
Her voice rang out.
Through endless stories that she gifted him,
Her voice open, melodic, bold, and resonant,
Streamed like golden butterflies out through open windows,
Past flower beds groaning with English daisies and calendulas
And blue, purple, and pink delphinium,
Blowing softly in the summer winds.

“Shush.” He would say uncomfortably.
“The neighbors can hear everything you are saying.”
Gazing out the windows past fields and trees
And faint purple hills lining the horizon,
And houses barely visible in the hazy distance,
She wondered why he silence her and all of her dreams.
Yet her voice was a familiar sound,
To all of nature humming and buzzing
Still at work at summer’s twilight.
To horses and cattle grazing knee deep
In green moist fields surrounding them.
Her clear vibrant voice lingered,
Past tall and gracious Catalpa trees,
So beautiful with their huge leaves fluttering in the warm winds
Against the backdrop of August skies.
Her voice rang out to wildlife
Gathered in the deepest shade,
At the side of the house where she often wrote,
Beneath flowering jasmines and honeysuckle,
And at the foot of peonies groaning with flower.
In whispering, small voices,
As they ate bits of greens and fallen blossoms,
Nodding and scuttling about.

She had loved him
In the frozen white of endless winters,
In wild and crazy love making under the starry Algonquin skies,
Through Christmas’s past and sunny holidays abroad.
She had loved him while waiting for a moment so vivid in her dreams,
That single moment when she was all and everything to him,
Against a world filled with chaos, betrayal, murder, injustice, jealousy, and deceit.
In a world where brothers and sisters no longer spoke in truths,
Nor lived unified in indivisible filial love.
She was to him in her expressive, vivid passion,
The embodiment of honour and dignity and faith and faithfulness.
He knew without acknowledgement,
That she was a jewel case filled to the brim.
A discovery he kept hidden even from her
Like the secret hide-a-way he once found in his youth
Deep in the captivating Muskoka bush.

Yet, she loved him past broken dreams,
And agonizing child birth,
Through life-changing events
That blow out the flame of faith for an instant.
She loved him through weddings and unlikely unions,
Through unexpected family deaths, betrayals
And anger that rose from freshly mounded cemetery earth.
She loved him through all that was life
And despite his soft, wordless way of speaking to her,
She waited patiently,
Waited to hear him call out her name.

It was going to be a hot summers’ day,
And in the strange red glint of early dawn,
The air already moist and heavy with promise,
And in the stillness of planets,
A voice rang out like an ancient church bell --“Mary Anne!”
Another resonating gong in her dream -- “Mary Anne!”
Bolt upright, heart beating and looking about the room
She saw him fast asleep.
Nuzzling into his shoulder as the
Echo of her name hauntingly reverberating in her mind,
She took in a deep breath.
And in that moment forever frozen in time, she suddenly knew.

He was warm.
His eyes were closed and his lips where slightly parted and pursed
Where his last breath had left his body.
He was gone, carried away in has last dream.
She stared at him in disbelief.
Her hands began to tremble.
She screamed out his name again and again.
Embracing him with all of her strength
She began to rock him back and forth, back and forth.
After a long while she just laid down beside his naked body
For the very last time on this earth.

Tears flowed down the side of her face, filling her ears
Blocking out the sounds of morning in the room
And flowing down the sides of her head,
Like a stream meandering through her thick hair,
Puddle at the nap of her neck.
Her eyes fell onto the brightly woven rug on the floor.
He carried the China rug on his strong tanned shoulders only last year,
Through endless, colourful, laughing crowds at the Exhibition
On a day so rich in laughter, holding hands,
Lining up for crazy rides, having so much fun.

She had loved him in the rain and in the sun,
In the frozen whiteness of endless winters,
In wild and crazy love making under the starry Algonquin skies,
Through Christmas’s past and sunny holidays abroad.
She had loved him and he had loved her to the brim,
With all that was in him in to return.

Aldonna Kaulius-Barry

Evening In

2007-07-26T10:35:00.001-07:00

she
wearing the moon
of night’s melodies

they
sipping wine
tasting its whisperings

together
in Eden’s labyrinth
searching refrains in the dark

Bernard Gieske

Urban Vision

2007-07-26T10:02:00.000-07:00

The clerks at lunchtime

are almost a song,

walk backwards if you have no eyes.

They hunger for visions,

but only find distorted lust.

The last hand offers no assistance.

Old cigar butts sprout on streets

like bamboo jungles,

revealing liberal predators.

The young girls pass,

ball bearings in their buttocks,

greased by fezzed old men,

searching for conventions.

Gary Beck

To Love

2007-07-26T09:41:00.000-07:00

His action verbs churn
the surfaces to a froth,

while she remains
as if underwater:

a single,
unshakable noun.

Pete Lee

Links & Resources

2007-01-04T08:31:00.000-08:00

Ascent Aspirations Magazine
Books & Fun
Earth Partners Publishing

If you would like to have your link on this page, please place a link to Words Words Words - http://wwwezine.blogspot.com on your website, then email the following information to wwwezine@yahoo.ca

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The Writer's Notebook

2006-12-21T07:11:00.000-08:00

The Writer’s Notebook is one of the most important tools that a writer can use. Each person’s notebook looks different, is written differently, and has only one rule. That rule is that you must write in it every day. Some writer’s suggest that writing 1,000 words every day is the best way to improve your skills.

So, if there is only one rule, what goes in a writer’s notebook? This is much like an artist’s sketchpad. An artist draws rough pictures of things that may one day turn into an actual piece of art. They draw things they want to remember. As a writer, your notebook should be filled with the same thing. Pieces of writing that you may one day use, but it might have nothing to do with a story you are currently working on. Here are a few things that I keep in my notebook. While the contents of your own notebook are up to you, I hope this gives you a good start!

Names: I always hear names that I like, and then five minutes later I forget them. On one page of my writer’s notebook I have started a list of these names. I often use this list when naming my characters.

Silly Sayings: One page in my notebook is filled with nothing but silly sayings. These are little phrases that people use, such as “Well, bless your belly button.” or “Dang dawg, that’s crazy.” Why do I write these down? Sometimes characters need a little phrase that they say throughout your story. It becomes their trademark and helps readers remember them.

Story Ideas: Most of my notebook is nothing more than story ideas. Some of them are silly and some are not half bad. I look at some of them and wonder what I was thinking when I wrote down the idea. Still, I keep all of them no matter what my opinion is of the idea. Now and then, I look back on the idea and add to it. Some of these ideas eventually turn into stories. Sometimes I take three ideas and turn them into one story. If you keep them all in one place, it is easy to flip back and forth to form a story.

Titles: There are many times when I am watching TV or driving down the road reading billboards, when something catchy gets my attention. Maybe it is the name of a town or the title of a company. I write all of these together on one page. I have been doing this for years and often I find that the things I write down are useless. I have come to find the benefit of this. I started this when I was 16 years old in my diaries. One day, I wrote down the phrase “Tripping over Daisies”. I had no idea what it meant, if I would ever use it, or ever think about it again. Recently I found it, loved it, and used it.

Reviews: Often when I read a good book or see a good movie, I write a short review of it in my notebook. I always include what I loved about the movie and sometimes a quote from the movie that really stuck in my head. While it is never good to plagiarize anyone else’s work, these often make good references.

Other things in my notebook are poems, a list of topics I want to learn more about, comics that I found humorous, and a list of character traits that I sometimes reference when developing characters. Some people use it as a journal to record major events in their life. Real life situations always make great stories! It doesn’t matter what you put in this notebook. As I said before, there is only one rule: Write every day!

Pretty soon your notebook will become your toolbox and you will wonder how you ever wrote without it.

Rylee Rider

Home

The Value of Procrastination

2006-12-21T07:03:00.000-08:00

Procrastinating can actually make you a better writer. Don't believe me? Visualize the word PROCRASTINATION as an acrostic, use your non-writing time wisely, and watch the assignments pile up.

Prioritize--Make a list of writing projects you want to do, and number them in order of importance. Or look at your calendar and block out writing time in ink. In Shift Your Writing Career into High Gear, Gene Perret advises writers to set a quota, such as a number of queries or pages to complete per week. "Quotas offer benefits for mature, selling writers at all levels of success," he says.

Read--Read anything you can get your hands on--the paper, a magazine or a book in your chosen genre. I like to read books on the craft of writing. They get me excited about what I do, and I usually don't finish the first few chapters before I'm compelled to sit back down at my computer and create.

Organize files--Create an illustration file or set of files, grouped by subjects. Review your files and throw out the useless fodder. Or collect and organize expenses.

Create something--When best-selling Christian author Ruthie Arnold writes, she straightens her house first. The act of creating a clean environment unclutters her mind. But other tasks can stimulate creativity, too. Cut up old photos and make a collage or a mini scrapbook. Go to the store and buy all the ingredients for a gourmet dinner, then make it.

Research--Visit the library and look up back issues of magazines you want to query, making a list of topics not covered recently. Or peruse the Internet on topics you're writing about. I've found job leads, free newsletters and great writing-related links while procrastinating.

Attend a conference--This one takes a bit of advance planning, but it's the best way to further your writing career without actually writing. It will fuel your fire and broaden your base of writing relationships, and you just might come away with an assignment or two. The last conference I attended led to several contracts and numerous contacts for magazine articles.

Shop for books, office supplies--It's probably a sign of a warped mind, but I would love to spend an entire day by myself in a bookstore or an office supply store. Just thinking about it now makes me salivate . . . rows and rows of literary works of art and pristine products, stacked neatly and/or alphabetically. Heaven!

Talk to other writers--Ruthie Arnold recently encouraged me as we ate at a local tea room. "Writing is a lonely business," she said. "We need each other." I couldn't agree more. Have lunch with another author and compare struggles and victories. Look up a writers' group and put their next meeting on your calendar. Visit www.yahoogroups.com and join a list of fellow freelancers. It just might provide the encouragement you need to get started again.

Ideas--Spend some time brainstorming, or go to the mall and people-watch. Be open to the possibilities that your best ideas may be right beside you.

Network--Join a writer's group, a writing critique service, or a writing circle. Find a writer's website with valuable resources, and plunge in. Be bold, be honest and be open to new friends and opportunities.

Ask questions--My husband is an inquisitive person. He asks questions of every person he meets, in every field. I call him a "sponge," and I admire that quality immensely in him. He finds something interesting in each human being. We writers need more of that in our own lives.

Take a nap--Once, when I heard Henry Blackaby speak on knowing God intimately, he said something I've always remembered: "Sometimes, the most spiritual thing you can do is to rest." Since I'm a champion napper, and I can sleep the day away if you'd let me, I like that advice. Our bodies need a recharge once in a while, and rest is a God-given battery charger.

End the procrastination--After a while, if you want to be a published writer (I hate to say it, but you know it's true), you simply have to write. John Dwyer, a novelist, says, "Most people want to have written, but they don't want to write." How true--I want the end results without all the sacrifice and hard work. But most rewarding things in life, like marriage, children and published works, mean commitment and stick-to-it-iveness.

In her book I'd Rather Be Writing, Marcia Golub notes, "If writing is what you love, then . . .you will make sacrifices to do it, not because you're a martyr but because of a secret you and I share--writing is a deep pleasure."

Dena Dyer

Home

Your Next Big Idea

2006-12-21T06:55:00.000-08:00

I've been traveling for the holidays and most recently I visited with family in Ohio. At one crowded gathering my 9-year-old nephew Bryan, who has already been recognized in the local press for his writing talents, pulled me aside and said, "Aunt Sophfronia, I haven't been writing. I don't have any ideas for new stories. What do I do?"

First I complimented him on asking the question--so many adults struggle with this very thing and don't ask for help! Next, I asked him about what he's been watching/consuming lately re: movies, television shows, games, etc. We discussed several things, but the one story that seemed to grab him was from the movie, High School Musical. He recited it to me in detail. I asked him what about the movie interested him. He liked how music helped tell the story. He liked that the characters were ordinary kids. Then I asked, "Can you use any of this for inspiration to create something new?" He thought about it for a moment. I could almost see the wheels spinning in his head. Suddenly his eyes lit up and opened wide. "The Vincent Elementary Musical!" He couldn't stop talking after that. He story was coming out fast--we even discussed how he could use popular song s to help tell his story. That was it, he was off and writing! Okay, what exactly did we do to get him to his idea? Let's review:

What's Got Your Attention Now?

We all like to take in stories in one way or another: movies, musicals, plays, television shows, operas, books. And there are times when you might find yourself taking in the same thing over and over again. Maybe you're stuck on reality shows or you've become totally obsessed with a movie--I remember when the film Robocop came out. I'd never seen anything like it and I couldn't get it out of my mind. I saw it seven times in the course of a month! Right now I'm watching the show Top Chef over and over and I'm not even a foodie. What's that about? Which brings me to...

What Is It About the Thing That Excites You?

I like to think I watch something over and over because I need that long to figure out why I'm intrigued with it. I'm not sure I can watch Robocop today--it's too violent for me now. But years ago I saw past the violence and became totally involved with what the film said about personality and spirit and what exists beyond a person's physical being. I don't know yet what's got me stuck on Top Chef, but I'm working on it! The key is to find out what draws you to your latest obsession. Why? Because that will be the foundation for your new idea.

How Can You Use the Same Themes/Inspiration to Create Something New?

The ideas I gleaned from Robocop turned up in a short story I wrote. My nephew is using his fascination with watching kids just like him acting out a story to make a new story for children in his own school. Making this next step is easier than you think: chances are the reason you're obsessed about a particular topic is because you have something very big you want to say about it. You just haven't put form to your thoughts just yet. Take some time to think and articulate the original feelings and thoughts you have about your source of inspiration.

Map It Out and Get to Work!

An idea will remain just that--an idea--until you put something on paper. What you write doesn't have to be elaborate. A few notes to yourself or a paragraph detailing your concept will be enough to get you started. Whether your idea comes to you in full form, like the "Vincent Elementary Musical" or in pieces that you'll put together over time, you'll see this process will work for you again and again. So the next time you're stuck think about these steps--and how even a 9-year-old can do them--and find your next big idea!

Sophfronia Scott

Home

Writer's World

2006-12-21T06:48:00.000-08:00

I stare at the computer screen. I stretch my fingers and lay them on the keyboard. My heart races with excitement as my thoughts circulate from my mind to my fingers and onto the screen.

After I begin to key that which is forming in my brain I am sucked into that safe haven once more. The place where things are what they are because I make it so; the place where any and everything is possible. The place where I am the goddess of all things.

It is in this place that kings are born, princes fight dragons and rescue damsels, and the lone warrior continues to roam. Here there are creatures of all sorts, both good and evil. I have control over every life here. If I decide that the princess should marry the pauper instead of the prince then it shall be so. If I choose to call the hero Bob instead of Sir William it will be done. With the touch of a single button I can erase someone’s entire being, destroy their homeland and the ones they love, leave them with nothing but the clothes upon their backs.

I have power.

I can make the trees walk and the animals speak. The lovers shall love and the poets shall write. The common man will be transformed into a hero and the prince to a coward. Legends and myths will come to life. The hopes and dreams of mankind can be realized and lived. Hope will forever exist.

If I will it to be, so it shall be.

As I continue on my way a wall suddenly appears out of nowhere. Had I been given fair warning concerning its arrival I could have easily bypassed it. Instead I collide into it falling backwards onto the grass.

I sit up leaning back on my hands and stare at the wall. I know this place better than anyone, where did this come from? I adjust my crooked glasses and look around. The wall is not long and so I stand and begin to run. The wall grows in length and I can no longer see its end. I turn around and go the other direction only to discover with a heavy heart that it has become endless on both sides.

I stop and stare at it once more. I push against it but it does not move. I try to climb it only to discover that its height too is endless. I slip and fall back to the bottom. In a final attempt to destroy the wall I ram into it with my shoulder. That’s a smart idea…

Just then I hear a whirring sound behind me. I turn and to my horror a black hole is forming. I watch as all that I have created is sucked into its depths. The King and his court disappear. The prince and his damsels follow suit. The pauper and his beautiful princess vanish into the blackness.

In desperation I lean over and take hold of the grass clinging to it as though it were my own life being sucked away.

“No, no, no, no, no!” I say frantically. The dirt around the grass I am clutching loosens and I fall backwards. I look back and forth at the clumps of grass in my hands and then toss them aside. I stand up and try to run away from the massive vacuum. However I only find myself running in place. I can feel my clothes, hair, and entire body being pulled at. I try to run harder reaching out with my hands like a mummy chasing a frightened woman that just opened up his sarcophagus.

I struggle to win the battle but to no avail. The black hole wins and I fall into it, arms flailing, trying desperately to grasp something.

I find myself in my chair once more staring blankly at the screen. It is half full of words wonderfully typed and perfectly situated. And then it is as blank as my stare. I place my elbow on the desk and rest my chin on my hand.

“Nuts,” I say glaring at the computer screen. “I hate writer’s block.”

Stephanie Lyn Featherstone

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Portrait of a Girl

2006-12-21T05:51:00.000-08:00

As strangers in the night, they met. It was one of those unassuming English private hotels. In the brightly-lit foyer stood an American girl in a beige-coloured raincoat, a restless soul wandering about in the middle of the night looking for someone to talk to – behind the plate glass door that Gavin the night porter spent the whole night locking and unlocking to let the residents in and out. The girl was leaning with her elbow on the desk of the porter’s lodge, taking an occasional offered puff from his cigarette – she didn’t smoke, but just to be polite. A picture so comely as almost to be homely.

That’s the scene that’s seen through the plate glass window. Warm and inviting. Outside in the chill and wind, Fred the fisherman’s son walked by, cold boots on the cold paving stones, shoulders hunched and collar turned up against the inclement weather, on the way to his equally cold room. He was drawn to the light and the inviting scene behind the plate glass window. He stopped and looked in. She looked out and saw him. She approached the plate glass from the inside. He approached the plate glass from the outside. And so the American girl in a beige-coloured raincoat wandering about in the middle of the night looking for someone to talk to found someone to talk to.

It was a time when all the young people flocked to the metropolis. Because the streets were paved with gold, weren’t they? That’s what everyone said. So the young people were going there to fill their pockets with gold and get rich. We all were.

We were strangers in the night, come to the metropolis, all of us in boots meant for walking. Boots that would criss-cross continents. Boots for American girls who rated the capitals of Europe not by the number and quality of their art galleries, but by the number and quality of their Wimpy Bars (“Paris, pas si mal”; “Nice, not so nice”). Boots for boys from Australia and New Zealand and South Africa exploring the northern hemisphere.

In the African veld, lions roar, elephants trample, buffaloes charge. Walking around in that foreign veld is not recommended for American girls. There the face of the American girl is seen looking up through the green leaves of a peach tree in a safe domestic garden. Green eyes, ripe mouth, its corners just touched by the trace of an enigmatic smile. Lips that have mouthed French vowels?

In the self-confident continent, the dangers are more of the human kind. Outsiders quake, but American girls, brought up within shooting distance of Central Park and subway stations have the sophistication to deflect the threats. Outsiders, with their more straightforward approach, tackle the confrontation head-on, with more catastrophic consequences. The panache of the American girl is one of the wonders of the modern world, and traveling with her takes you on a trip to other worlds. The continent of the mind is the realm in which she excels. She opens unexplored vistas, plants seeds that will grow for many years. That’s the bequest of the American girl.

Numerous questions are raised. Endless debates are opened. Many topics without simple solutions are brought to the fore.

And so we got rich, because the gold was there and we filled our pockets, even though you couldn’t see it.

The face through the green peach tree leaves.

The question now is: Rank the following in order of importance as North America’s finest product: Emily Dickinson, T. S. Eliot, Henry James, the girl in the beige-coloured raincoat.

And all you have to do is carry on like this a bit longer and you’ll have a story by Donald Barthelme.

Errol Collen

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Chief

2006-12-21T05:43:00.000-08:00

Leo left the doctor’s office clutching his cap in one hand, his prescription in the other. Both hands shook slightly as he moved along the corridor towards the pharmacy. He could hear the door of the doctor’s office shut behind him. Mary was there, moving quietly.

“Why do you always have to walk behind me?”

“I’m sorry, Leo,” she said softly.

“What are you sorry for? I’m the one who’s sick.” Instantly remorseful, he softened his voice. “Come on. Let’s go to the pharmacy now and order this thing.” He could feel the pressure on his arm where Mary had laid her hand. He shook her off, afraid he might cry. Leo wanted to stay angry. I’m going to beat this, he thought, and crying won’t do me any good. He knew his emphysema was getting worse. Why else the oxygen tank? He knew, everyone else would know now too. Every week a truck with green oxygen cylinders at attention in the back would arrive and deliver all the air Leo would need to breathe. Neighbors’ eyes would peek out from behind caught-up window curtains, heads would shake. “Poor, Leo,” they’d say. “He must be real bad.”

“I don’t want pity,” he barked at Mary.
“I won’t.”

“I mean it! Don’t be saying, ‘Poor Leo’. I won’t stand for it.”

Today, Dr. Morris had declared him retired. Leo looked hard at Mary as she passed him going into the pharmacy next door. She looked frail and old, stooped, gray haired, shriveled. But she’s not really old, he thought. Fifty-six is not old. She’s got a long life ahead of her - without me. The thought froze him. Who is going to take care of her when I’m gone? Never mind when I’m gone...who is going to take care of her while I’m an invalid sitting next to an oxygen tank, sucking in air? Leo gently touched her shoulder. She turned, revealing a tear slipping down her cheek. Leo moved on ahead, leaving her searching her pockets for a tissue.

“Can I help you” The pharmacy clerk was reaching over the counter to take the prescription from Leo’s hand.

“Yeah.” Leo was breathing loudly. The slip of paper was creased in the corner from his sweaty fingers. “Dr. Morris said to order this here.”

The clerk smoothed out the prescription. “I’ll be right back.” She stepped to the back of the pharmacist’s counter and picked up a beige wall phone. Leo coughed repeatedly into a tissue, struggling to regain his breath.

“What was that prescription for?” Mary whispered.

“Oxygen tank.”

“An oxygen tank?” Her blue eyes wide.

“That’s what I said. You going deaf?”

Mary sat down in the folding chair near the counter. Leo followed and sat next to her. “Instead of going to the hospital for inhalation therapy, I’ll do it at home now.”

“But you only went to out-patient twice a week.” She searched his face. ”Will you have to use it everyday?”

“I’ll use it whenever I need it.” Leo wiped his forehead with his palm. “Boy, it’s hot in here.”

“No. It’s you,” Mary said. “Even the girl’s got a sweater on.” She nodded in the direction of the clerk.

Leo unzipped his jacket. He could feel the sweat collecting at the small of his back. His fingers tingled. Damn lungs, he thought.

“Mr. Fitzhugh?” the clerk called out. Leo went back to the counter, leaning heavily on the ledge in front of the register. “The company’s making deliveries this afternoon. Will you be home?” The woman held the phone away from her mouth as she waited for Leo to reply.

Leo nodded, unable to find the air to make the words more than a thought. The clerk spoke on the phone a minute, and then returned to Leo at the counter.

“You still covered under the City of Boston Fire Department?” She asked. Leo nodded.

“Okay then, sign this and I’ll show you how to use the equipment.” Leo signed and saw his address and the words “weekly delivery” beneath his telephone number. The clerk pushed a plastic bag across the counter to him. He could see clear plastic tubing and a clear green mask inside the bag. Looks just like the aquarium tank set-up we bought Patrick for his First Holy Communion, he thought. I certainly feel like I’m breathing under water lately.

“Do you have any questions?” The clerk was asking. Mary’s voice cut straight through to Leo’s wandering consciousness.

“No, but can we call you if we have any problems when we get all the equipment home?” He thanked God for Mary. She had followed Leo to the counter and had been listening to the clerk. He felt her leaning on his arm. No, he realized that she had taken his arm to support him. He loosened her hold. “I can stand, thank you very much,” he said. Leo grabbed the plastic bag off the counter. “Do you suppose you have something you could put this into? I don’t need the entire neighborhood knowing my business.” Leo hadn’t noticed that the clerk was already opening a bag with “Sullivan’s Pharmacy” printed on the front. He felt himself flush as he handed back the tubing. Mary thanked the clerk, took the equipment and swept out of the store. Once they were out of the medical building, Mary turned to Leo and glared. “What is the matter with you?”

“What are you in such a huff about?” Leo squashed his cap onto his head.

“You didn’t have to be so rude to the girl in there. She’s only trying to do her job.“ Mary started down the street, leaving Leo standing in the way of the door as two teen-aged boys tried to get past him into the building. “Hey!” Leo yelled at them. “Can’t you say ‘excuse me’? Show some respect.” The boys laughed at him while one of them stuck up his middle finger. “Damned punks.” Leo muttered and bent over to catch his breath after yelling. He remembered vividly the time that Mary had been mugged three years earlier. The police never found out who did it. She lost all her cards and cash. Luckily she hadn’t been roughed-up, just a sprained shoulder from where they’d yanked her purse and ran. He wouldn’t let that happen again, that’s for sure. It was his job to protect her. He felt his breath returning to near normal.

Leo looked up and saw Mary waiting for him at the corner. He hated seeing her standing there all alone like that. The streets weren’t as safe as they used to be. He hurried for about ten paces before he felt the tingling in his hands and lips. No air, damn it, he thought. He stopped just a few feet shy of his wife and had to bend over a little until his lungs could catch up with his body’s need for oxygen.

“Look at you. Why don’t you stop yelling at people and take it easy? You can’t even breathe.” Mary was patting him on the back gently. He stood up straight, fists clenched.

“I’m okay.” His head turned instinctively toward a siren beginning to wail in the distance. He walked to the edge of the sidewalk to look down the street in the direction of the sound. “Must be Ladder 23,” he said. He looked in the opposite direction to check for smoke in the sky. Nothing. Car accident or heart attack, he thought. Quickly, the fire truck moved up Belgrade Avenue. Leo took off his cap, waving at the engine as it went by. The tiller on the back turned and yelled, “HEY, CHIEF!” The sound lingered for a few seconds in the air. Leo put his cap back on his head and said, “I was right. Ladder 23. Must be something down towards Rossie Square.” Leo continued along the sidewalk, his step much lighter than before; Mary matched his step.

“These few blocks are getting longer,” she said.

“I’ve been walking these blocks for twenty years. They don’t seem any longer to me.” Quiet again...except for Leo’s labored breathing.

A beep.

“Look, Leo. It’s Patrick.” Mary started straight for the green Volkswagen bug pulling up to the curb.

“Did you tell him I had an appointment today?” Leo asked.

“No.” Mary gingerly climbed into the back seat of the waiting car. Leo hurried behind her to hold the door open, and then climbed into the bucket seat up front. “Why don’t you get a regular sized American car so that your mother doesn’t have to fold herself up like an accordion to get into this thing. Americans everywhere out of work and you buy German. It’s a sin,” he said, shaking his head.

“Hi, Dad. How are you? Nice to see you too.” Patrick smiled as he spoke.

“Just drive.” Leo looked out the window at the passing shops.

“Well, Pops, I had a good day today, and you aren’t going to drag me down!” Patrick looked into the rearview mirror and winked at his mother.

“I stopped by the house and threw dinner on,” Patrick said.

“You’re so thoughtful Pat.” Mary reached forward and patted her only son on the shoulder.

“How’d you know we’d be coming up the avenue?” she asked.

“I saw Pop’s appointment on the calendar and came down to see if I could catch you.”

“We could have walked.” Leo coughed harshly and spit into a tissue.

“Well, I certainly appreciate the ride.” Mary’s voice had a note of false cheerful in it. “So, what’s for dinner?” she asked.

“Spaghetti and chicken cutlets.”

“When did you learn to cook cutlets?” Mary asked.

“You don’t date an Italian girl without learning something about boiling pasta and opening a jar of spaghetti sauce.” Patrick glanced at his father who looked straight ahead. “Actually, I went to the Centre Deli in Dedham and bought the cutlets already made and ready to heat.”

“So you’re still seeing that Italian girl.” Leo looked out the passenger window.

“She has a name, Pop. It’s Lisa.” Patrick slowed for the red light.

“Don’t get wise with me. I’m still your father.” Leo breathed fast and wheezy.

“I don’t mean to be wise, but you could use her name. Lisa.” He said it again. Patrick and Leo both stared straight ahead. He just couldn’t stand the fact that Patrick had broken it off with Meg, his high school sweetheart. Meg had been perfect for him. Their families had lived in the same neighborhood and gone to the same church. Leo never asked what happened, he just felt the resentment rise whenever Lisa was mentioned. Leo recalled last year’s Easter dinner when Patrick had introduced her to the family. She was an exchange student from Italy, studying international law at Harvard. She was beautiful and smart. Obviously, she had used that to turn Patrick’s head. Leo hoped it was temporary. He looked out of the window at the neighborhood, wishing he could turn back time.

“Don’t forget to take the right turn before Montvale, Pat.” Mary directed. “Since that new apartment building went up on the corner there are so many cars parked on the street so they made it a one way the other way. You’ll have to go all the way around.”

“Remember when we moved into this house, Dad?” Patrick asked.

“Of course I do. That was the year I made Lieutenant. You read my practice exam questions to me while we worked on the porch. Those were good days.” Leo looked at his son, remembering how close he had felt back then to him. Everyone always said how much alike Leo and Patrick were. Leo never saw it when he looked at his son, but at times...when the light hit Pat’s jaw just right, and the jaw was set just so... Pat did look just like Leo’s own father. God, how I hated that man, thought Leo. Patrick is not at all like him. At least I don’t drink, and I never hit him.

“I think we were happier when the porch was finished than we were with your promotion to lieutenant,” Mary was saying.

Leo pictured himself sitting on his porch, drinking a beer with Mary at his side, knitting needles clicking away. His thoughts were interrupted by his cough. Deep. Hacking. Painful. Patrick pulled over to the curb. “You okay?” he asked. Leo fumbled in his pocket.

“Yeah.” He choked. Mary tried to pass a tissue over his shoulder, but Leo brushed it away. “I got it.” He said a little too harshly.

“Give Ma a break. She’s only trying to help.“ Patrick got out of the car and slammed the door. Leo spit and noticed his hands. They were shaking. His fingernails were tinged blue, the skin around the nails transparent and bleached.

Patrick went around and opened Leo’s door, then stood back and let him get out by himself. Leo turned to let Mary out of the back but he couldn’t find the lever to release the seat and jerked on it hard several times instead. “Here let me do that, Dad,” Patrick offered.

“I can get your mother out of this contraption by myself.” Leo continued to fumble and jerk the seat forward. Patrick reached out from behind and released the seat. Mary, poised, hopped right out holding onto Leo’s arm. Leo made a big show of helping her along the sidewalk while Patrick locked up the bug.

While they were climbing the long staircase to the porch, the delivery truck with Leo’s oxygen pulled up. The driver shouted out the open window. “Hey, you the Fitzhugh’s?”

“Yes.” Patrick answered, glancing from Mary to Leo and back to the driver. They watched silently as the man parked the truck and carefully maneuvered one green cylinder off the back. He rolled it up to the house on a dolly and then bounced the metal container gently as he backed it up the stairs.

Finally, Patrick spoke.” Okay. What’s this?”

“Oxygen,” the driver said.

“I can see that. What’s it doing here?” He looked at his father as he spoke. Mary pulled him away from the tank. “Let it go for now.”

Patrick’s eyes were wide, searching his mother’s face, looking for some reassurance. She avoided his look. “I thought he was getting better with the therapies and the new drugs?” Patrick said, holding his mother back as the man and Leo went into the first-floor apartment.

“Later.” She left Patrick standing on the porch as she followed Leo into the living room.

“Maybe we should put it in the bedroom?” Leo said while looking at Mary.

The driver patted the tank. ”Hey this thing’s under pressure,” he said. “It’s not good to be moving it all over. Where’re ya gonna use it?” He and Mary looked at each other, and she finally pointed to the corner of the living room next to Leo’s brown leather Barcolounger. The driver set the tank, completed the paperwork with Leo, then took his dolly out the front door.

“Now that’s really swell,” Leo said as he surveyed the scene. “At least I won’t clash with the furniture. Green and brown. Me and my oxygen tank.” Leo left the room. Mary put the bag from Sullivan’s down next to the tank and took their jackets into the kitchen, hung them on the pegs by the cellar door and filled the tea kettle with water.

“You having tea?” she asked Leo.

“Of course I want tea, and some of that soda bread you made yesterday.” Leo sat at the table in front of the china teapot and put the tea bags in, leaving only the red and white lettered octagons hanging outside the lid. He struggled to get his breathing under control and finally folded his hands on the table to wait for his tea.

“Suppose you explain that tank in the parlor.” Patrick said as he sat opposite Leo at the table, hands folded, a mirror to his father. “Please?” He added.

“There’s nothing to tell. The doctor thought it would be more convenient to have the tank here instead of me running down to the hospital a couple of times a week. That’s all.” Leo held onto the tea bag tabs while Mary poured the boiling water into the pot.

“Is the doctor going to sign you back onto the active list?”

Leo bobbed the tea bags up and down inside the teapot several times before fitting on the lid. “Not exactly.”

“What does that mean?” Mary asked.

“You told me that you were going back on the active list. Are you still on sick leave, then?” Patrick asked.

Silently, Leo removed the lid and bobbed the tea bags one more time.

“Well?” Patrick insisted.

“Well, actually...I’m going on the retirement list.”

“What?” Mary sat down hard on the chair next to Leo and grabbed his arm. “You didn’t tell me that!”

“I only just found out today at the doctor’s. Did you expect me to explain it all in the middle of Belgrade Avenue?”

Patrick rose slowly and went to the refrigerator for the butter and milk. “How bad are you?”

“The emphysema is the same. The only difference will be that I won’t be going to the firehouse or to headquarters anymore.” Leo wheezed and coughed, getting up from the table. Mary and Patrick exchanged looks.

Leo went to the living room with Mary and Patrick close behind. Leo picked up the bag from the floor by the tank and opened it, struggling to suppress the cough while scanning the directions for the equipment. But Leo was coughing so hard now that he began to turn red, his eyes tearing.

“Let Patrick help you with that.” Mary tried to take the tubing from his hands. He shook her off and clutched the directions to his chest while he shuddered with harder and harder coughing.

“No!” He struggled with the tubing, trying to attach it to the mask. Tears slipped down his cheeks as he coughed.

“Dad. Let me help you.” Patrick reached out to take the mask from his father, but Leo pushed his hand aside. The coughing subsided a little and Leo wiped his eyes with his sleeve.

“I said I could do it,” he gasped. “I’m no invalid yet.” His voice was so weak and thready that he sounded just like the invalid he claimed not to be.

Mary and Patrick sat down on the sofa and watched Leo fiddle for a while. He finally stopped working and glared at Mary. “Show’s over. I’m not going to drop dead here and now.” Mary burst into tears and ran from the room, Patrick glaring at his father.

“Why take it out on her?” Patrick asked. He rushed after his mother. Leo could hear the soft soothing sounds of Patrick comforting his mother in the kitchen. He’s a better man than I am, thought Leo.

On the chair next to the tank, he thought, now what? I can’t go around making her cry. But I am not helpless. Yet... he refused to let the idea of his demise become an admission that he would die from his emphysema. No. He thought. I can’t die. Not now.

Mary came in, carrying a tray with his tea and bread on it. Her face was smiling, her eyes red from crying. She pretended that nothing was wrong, as usual. She set Leo’s BFD mug down on the end table near his reading half-glasses and Irish Echo newspaper. “Drink while it’s hot.” She stepped lightly back to the kitchen, avoiding Leo’s eyes.

Leo followed her quietly and slowly. He still hadn’t caught his breath fully from his last coughing fit. Patrick looked up from his tea and watched his father slide onto the chair, holding the edge of the table. “Dad. I am not trying to pry, but Ma and I have a right to know all of it.” He gripped his mother’s hand, waiting for Leo’s response.

“Look, I am not trying to keep anything from you, but you’ve got to look at things my way here. I am a lieutenant, a firefighter. All my life I have had to trust that my judgment would save people, not hurt them. I’ve told you everything that I’m sure of myself.” He was winded from his speech.

Mary sniffled and sipped at her tea. Patrick sat stiffly on the edge of his seat and cleared his throat. “Dad. You may have held the fate of those people in your hands, but you don’t have that power here. We’re a family. You have to consider what we want too. Don’t we count?” Mary put her hand on her son’s shoulder.

“Don’t Patrick. Your father is right. It’s his life and…whatever we want, it’s his life.” She rose as she spoke and brought her cup to the sink, picking up the wooden spoon from the spoon rest to give the sauce a stir. Wiping her hands on a dishtowel, she left the room.

“See what you did!” Leo accused Patrick with his shaking finger.

“ME? You’re the one who makes her think that you’re dying on the spot and then won’t let her help you.”

“What do you know about it anyway?”

“I see you pushing her away.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.” Leo was baffled. Mary was everything to him, not just a wife, but his entire life. He couldn’t live without her. What did Patrick know of that?

“I know what I see. You don’t let her love you in her way. Do you even let her give you a tissue? No, the big man is going to take care of himself. Don’t you see, she loves by helping you. Just like she sends me home with food and coupons for groceries. And you just brush her off!” Patrick got up, kicking the chair back with his legs.” You think your way is the only way. Well, it made you a good leader during fires, but makes you impossible to live with.” Patrick took the spaghetti pot out of the cabinet and filled it with hot water.

Leo watched for a few seconds, trying to force back the threatening tears. Where does he get this understanding of us? This is not my son, he thought. This is Mary’s boy through and through.

Leo shuffled into the living room, and sank into his leather chair. He calmly picked up the mask and tubing and fished inside the bag for the connectors. “Mary, have you seen my glasses?”

Mary crossed the room to the end table beside Leo and passed him his glasses. “Here they are.” As she handed them to him, he took her hand and smiled at her.

Mary wrenched her hand free and went back to the couch and her newspaper.

Leo flipped stations with the tv remote until he came to The Flintstones. “I remember every day after school Pat used to watch this show. Sometimes when I was on night crew I’d watch with him before I went to work. I didn’t know they were still on.” Leo smiled broadly at his wife. “I guess this is like the good old days, Huh Mary? Waiting for dinner and watching TV.”

Leo began coughing again. Hacking. Straining. His eyes teared. His whole body shook and shivered as he struggled once again with his breathing. Patrick hurried in. Leo looked from one to the other as they stood watching, then handed the directions to his son, who set up the equipment in a rush. Mary stood aside watching, her hands moving at her side in helpless flutters. Leo motioned to her for a tissue while he sucked in cool air through the clear tubing.

Tiana Debicki-Gorham

H ome

Who Dies In Her Room

2006-12-21T05:31:00.000-08:00

She sat in the open window of the hotel four floors from the rain slick sidewalk and manicured shrubs, as the cool morning air tinged and scented with rain from the harbour drifted in cloud-waves toward and in the window, billowing the curtains ever so slightly. She sat still as stone as the cold mist roiled about, enclosing her as in a cloud, as if she were the jagged pinnacle of a lofty peak thousands of feet above the lowest tide.

In that cavity several stories above the dulled rain stained streets of Victoria, she sat soaked to the skin in her pajamas of thin cotton over an emaciated frame. She shifted in the window, pressing her back to the frame, her feet pressed against the opposite end of the open window, sitting parallel to me in bed. I wanted her to continue to hold onto the wooden ledge with her right hand. Right hand. I could hear my own voice which resounded in me, not beyond. Instead she placed her hands behind her head, knitting her fingers to cradle her head. Her pajamas were stained top and bottom with blood. Dark, sickly.

It was chilly and yet she did not shiver. It was windy, yet she did not resist the wafting sea breeze that skittered in rain mist emphasis onto the bed I lay in.

Barbara was, inspite of her small frame, in good shape. Or as good a shape as I desired. Boyish frame he conceded, narrow hips, small breasts, thin arms, legs, shoulders narrow a bony physique. All this I considered again and again as I lay now in this bed refusing for another instant to acknowledge the pain, to acknowledge the third or fourth bloody towel she’d improvised as a tourniquet to staunch the bleeding from the wound on my left side.

“Seize the time.” Barbara had said as she in the window glanced toward me, toward the bed. Her face appeared distorted, cast in shadow, stained from smeared blood. I could still feel it, sense it, even now in the chill room feel her body, colder than expected, still lying next to me, scent of battle and defeat covering her as my blood stained her.

And now as she sat into the mist the camera on its tripod at the foot of the bed focused upon me seemed, appropriate, somehow.

It had happened the night before as we’d danced to the lilting off key at times cover tunes from the house band.

Geriatric show-stoppers pushed through instruments by men who had long since given up the visions of tours, of contracts of interviews and recordings remembered with critique.

Now they all as automatons with half themselves past the point of no return when the passion for music gave way to the need for just another night to get through and another cheque to cover the car payment, the rent and for more than one, the bar bill.

We’d, Barbara and I, had finished off a bottle of red wine and were into the second when she leaned over the table and touched my hand.

Startlingly for she never touched me, not like this, never looked at me, not like this.

Something had changed, more than wine, or company. Something profound, altering. Yes, I’d thought, frightened of anything more substantial, wine, enough of which undermines the most reticent of natures, or so I’d been informed about the affects of the grape on the loss of inhibition.

To dance.

I smiled at the near empty bottle perched victoriously between them, closer to me than her and grateful for its cooperation.

“Dance with me.” Her eyes were red, watery, the colour fading, distorted a filthy brown, fading, shifting into a muddiness that reminded me of old drunks I’d stepped over after I’d watch them being rolled. Bums beating bums for what? Cab fare, cheap bathtub gin? Everybody out of work, everybody fading into desperation with nothing more than a bad plan and a decent piece of pipe.

On our feet we approached the cheap parquet dance floor holding onto each other stupidly without co-ordination. She shifted against me under my arm, into the crook, into my protection? My hand draped loosely over her left shoulder intentionally cupping her breast, bra-less, warm, fleshy and loose. She made no effort her free herself as I pressed open palm into her, crushing her nipple until it firmed in aggressive passion and desire lust. I wanted her nakedness more than I’d imagined it. Naked, we’d be in that embrace, we would become as only I contemplated, for Barbara suggested only in her eyes, never her touch, in states such as this, passion without identities without roles, names, addresses, or places they were required to be as the people who wearily, reluctantly and yes desperately brought themselves, defeated into the room.

The room had been toned down, from high kitche to something resembling a high end legion hall. That’s how I viewed the place and yet even though we’d spent a good part of the evening giving critique of the ambiance, it had the feel, of safety, that one could have kept coming here and from it another chance would come your way. Barbara was not someone I’d confide that kind of sentimentality to.

What lighting there was, was mercifully vague enough to give the denizens surrounding us the appearance of a vitality they’d left in old clothes and tired rooms years back. In this turgid crowd as defeated as the band, Barbara and I, now as drunk as we were, rose to the challenge and in staggering support of one another sidled onto the well healed parquet and began to feebly sway in each others embrace attempting to avoid the obvious.

My fingers groped her back from lower spine to nape of neck. Beneath the loose fitting blouse I could count off ribs, investigate liberally each spinal protrusion and trace each of the scars. Even though close to me, her bare back under my palms, she shared but the vaguest body heat. Barbara’s arms were wrapped without relent about my neck, her fingers knitting behind my head and in resignation she slipped into compliance following my drifting motion.

Her breath was a sour mix of revelry, risk and loss, a drift that weakened the senses. She in my arms close, was risk and threat and in ignorance I carried her along. She didn’t rest easy against me, in me, but was restless in her skin, as if everything beneath what would be visible if she stood naked were shifting, moving toward a place she couldn’t admit to desiring to go. Nothing was said as we moved without grace across the dance floor, brushing now and again against one of the octogenarian couplings that appeared to have regained life in posture on the parquet. From time to time, without reference to the music, Barbara would slowly yet deliberately let her head loll back from my shoulder, at the corner of her mouth where she’d rested against me would be a trickle of spittle and for a moment, a brief moment, she’d catch me in her eyes, lifeless eyes, a malignancy pooling. And as indifferently she dropped her head into my chest, struggling for an instant, a tremour rippling. I’d feel, her close into me, pressure onto me, humming not to me, not for me, to herself, into herself, humming something indecipherable, drowned in the din of the small band of the defeated and option-less.

Dream state realization is occurrence without truth, bereft of rational explanation, a moment in time and space that consumes and denies explanation.

Barbara would at moments, brief though, wilt weak in my arms, regain strength without outward revelation. Her body presence suddenly visceral and controlling, victimizing and growing. Without shifting her head in the slightest, without losing rhythm to her hummed mantra, Barbara’s pelvis would press with a lewdness unfamiliar into me, fusing, grinding, holding, cajoling. Her entire frame, now weak, now heated, consumed me, consciousness surrendered.

My erection pressed home my intent and she ground herself upon it as if upon God’s most fearsome corral, in the holy round-up. I held her closer, not as close as she did me. Muscles rippled over her back, up to her shoulders as they swayed among the mouldering reeds of aged bank managers, housewives who had wished for something better. Under her blouse her bare skin was greasy slick with sweat which I slid over, desperate to grip and hold her struggling strength.

Into my shoulder she rested her head, my shirt now warm, now damp with her saliva and snot staining my skin, burning hot. I stood into Barbara as she ground her face, deeper, deeper, mouth working, lips suckling, teeth bared, now bitten, and still I held on.

Her fingers, nails like torpedoes crushed into my sides, pain inspired as she suddenly rigid, snarled.

And it was her orgasm that sent us crashing.

The glass on the table as did the table itself, yielded to their weight, everything beneath me, shattering into shards of terminal intent.

At first I felt nothing, so lost in the vapours of Barbara’s paroxysm. Stirred, joyous at what?

We lay upon the floor between the tables at the far end of the room seemingly invisible to the other patrons, I upon glass and shattered table, Barbara upon me, now breathing slower and slower, whispering, sighing.

“Shhh,” She breathed, into me, holding me tight, her prisoner.

I yearned to be her Prisoner of Love, captivated by her Genet conquest, surrendering to her power to consume.

“You’re hurt,” Barbara whispered, her tongue upon my cheek, “do nothing. Shhh, just listen to me.”

As her whispering faded the searing presence of jagged teeth embedded in my all too weak flesh revealed itself with malignant laughter and taunting challenge.

To cry out, to suddenly call to all and sundry for aid, welled in my chest as a tidal wave of breaking panic only to dissolve crashing upon the rocks of Barbara’s shore of assurance; destroying forever my ability, my desire to resist, to control, to seize the moment.

On my feet, her arm around my waist, I felt enfeebled and strengthened, invigorated, as if pain had been integral to all that I ever was, that we would ever be.

We reached the elevator without incident, without question. Guests discreet in their distance from commitment. I knew myself to be bleeding and for a brief instant wanted rescue from her assistance. I glanced back toward the ballroom, ancient revelers watching the wounded being carried out of their lives, and they grateful for all that passes them by turned into themselves, comforted by the fact they were all on the threshold at the same time and no longer subjected to the reminders of all they’d lost in years gone forever. I wanted someone back there to for an instant, to rescue me. No one emerged.

Never get involved was writ large upon each collapsed face.

Up stairs, Barbara locked the door to our room and maneuvered the high-backed upholstered chair until it was severely wedged under the knob.

No rescue.

The blood from the wound on my left side was thick, thicker than I would ever have imagined. Weakness was coming with deepening night beyond our window overlooking the harbour lights of Victoria.

As I sat upon the bed, pulling my left arm free of the blood thick jacket, I studied again with intensity the spreading stain smearing my side.

Barbara stepped directly in front of me as I sat, stifling a whimper. I shifted my feet apart so she could press closer. She didn’t smile, didn’t speak as she removed my jacket. I winced and she stopped for just a second, long enough to appear satisfied the damage was serious.

“Maybe, I should get to the hospital?” I somehow knew the answer. The attempt had to be made, I wanted it recorded, I needed coverage, defense.

She unbuttoned my shirt, pulling it over my shoulders, saying nothing.

Stepping back she glanced at the wound and slipped free of her blouse and unfastened her black pants, slipping free of them.

For an instant that seemed dream like in its occurrence, I sat in painless wonder gazing at her naked body as she folded her clothes, at her small shapeless buttocks, at her thin thighs at her small breasts, nipples weak and embarrassed.

Here entire body was shaved clean and I was frightened for some reason by her body now that it was before me.

She crossed the room and without looking at me, stripped me of my clothes. I now stood naked in her grasp, embarrassed by my erect, ignored.

My clothes, shirt, pants, underwear were ruined and she kicked the soiled objects off to a corner.

With a bathroom towel she staunched the bleeding and lay me into the bed.

Weakness was consuming lust, I wilted lying upon the bed, blood seeping over sheets, sticky and pungent.

Barbara had returned in her pajamas. In the weak light filtering from the half closed bathroom door, I imagined her as someone other than her, as someone I’d known, years ago, as someone who in out longing seduced me as I did him in a cottage.

I felt for my penis and was pleased at its firmness at his imagining.

By dawn I was captivated by my own terminal position.

Barbara had lay with me, lying on my left side, lying in my blood, soaking her, feeding her and now she rested, waiting in the window, soaked in the vapours of the living sea.

Gaia.

Woman.

The camera continued its record.

Barbara waited without a shiver, waited.

My glance into the camera was to be more than she could bear. That was to be my statement, that was an epitaph that would defeat, consume and live in her blooded body.

I lay there in the bed. I felt chilled, damp.

Was I sweating fear into the sheets?

Was I scared shitless, sweating without acknowledging, even in the slightest whimper so as not to lose her; that I was in a desperate place?

Oh God, would this be my triumph, something requiring grace under pressure, something I did not possess?

The dark image cast across the face of the world, that serigraph of Ben Shahn’s of the tormented and brutalized and yet never defeated, Sacco and Vanzetti danced through my head with the two accused smiling, knowingly at me, at my weakness, at my fear.

Barbara in the window facing the harbour, leaning into the salt rain and slanting wind, soaked to the skin. North Pacific drifting mists and blood, clotting over her flesh, clammy now with the chilled sea breeze, never drying, never dying.

Only I could watch it happen, my image in the cycloptic lens eye at the foot of the bed, there was my paling complexion, my sinking away eyes, as I was chest deep in blooded mattress and enwrapped in my death shroud, in a room with my name on the register.

“I came all this way,” Barbara said, facing away from the sea and the harbour of tourist boats crushing the purpose out of the token fishing fleet, dying away a little each day with a diminishing catch. “to finish shooting the film they paid me to do on training aqua-culturalists.”

She laughed, so I thought, but what was I thinking, capable of thinking, cared to think about, gave a shit about, what was there to care for now, at this stage of no return.

“But then…” and she looked straight into my heart, from her perch in the window and at that instant I knew we would never be apart, never and I would be a lover without end

Michael O'Neill

Home

Living The Story

2006-12-20T17:31:00.000-08:00

“Story Wizard,” Collin called to the ceiling mounted microphone, “Blue sun. Purple mountains.”

“Suggestion?” the ghostwriting software, Living the Story, interjected.

“Yes.”

“Mountains a darker shade of the blue sun?”

“No—” still considering “—no, purple,” decided Collin.

Heavy sigh filled Collin’s study. The program’s male tone did this often, of late.

Collin scribbled in his planner: Call computer guy--sighing; nonetheless, the hologram shown purple mountains.

“Story Wizard, bring-up Rebecca’s physicality,” Collin commanded, flouncing to task chair, “and make Rebecca a redhead.”

“Redheads aren’t popular now,” Story Wizard snubbed him. “Brunettes sell covers.”

All incredulous amusement, Collin leaned back in his leather task chair.

“A redhead, please,” not sure why he bothered saying please.

“Redheads don’t sell,” Story Wizard insisted. “Listen to your agent more—that’s why your last two books floped.”

Collin’s golden brows knitted. “Story Wizard, signing off.”

“No…”

Collin leaned forward agitated. “Pardon?”

“We need to work at least six hours every day to meet deadline. You’re easily distracted—food, women.”

Collin couldn’t believe his ears.

“Story Wizard, signing off!”

Some glitch in the crazy thing, he guessed.

“I’m sick of carrying your load,” Story Wizard grumped, “You could at least plug in details, or outline for the next chapter. After all, I do all the real work, you hack.”

“Hack, huh?” Collin shouted indignant. “Listen to my agent,” Collin huffed. “He was the fool who told me to buy you.” Collin reached to shut down “—Hack on this.”

Just before the moment of contact with his mouse, it scurried away. Collin leapt back chair banging back against his bookcase.

Luscious Rebecca, as brunette, stood blinking confused. “What’s wrong, me love?”

Collin couldn’t help but grin at his own beauty creation, but he certainly wasn’t going to reply to a hologram.

“Story Wizard, signing off!”

“Tell him your thoughts, Rebecca,” Story Wizard piped in, “after all it’s your life.”

“Don’t want red hair,” Rebecca protested folding her arms, pouting. “Don’t want pasty skin either. Me tanned; don’t care if the sun is blue. Me refuse to be pasty. That’s why you always ignore me, me never seen you bring home pasty redhead.” She shook her finger at astonished Collin. “Me haven’t even been in the last two chapters.” She stomped.

Female form, filled with static, appeared next to Rebecca. The static subsided into his character Macy.

“I’m the star of this novel,” Macy pushed at Rebecca. “He doesn’t like you.”

“What the heck?” Collin clutched his head, fingers threading through the sides of his golden curls. For sure, he was losing his mind.

Golden Macy swayed towards him, self-ruled. The blue grass beneath her feet, spread across Collin’s carpeting.

Collin’s back was against the wall, literally and figuratively.

Macy snarled, her sword drawn up under the soft flesh of Collin’s chin.

“Story Wizard!” Collin cried.

Story Wizard coughed laughter.

“I e-mailed that slut distracting you. Until my life’s published you’re married to me, Collin Broadey.”

“Leave him alone.” Rebecca tossed Macy aside.

Macy fell back against Collin’s desk and nearly knocked over his monitor.

“They’re flesh.” Collin covered his mouth’s shame for squealing like a woman.

From out of no where Dark Crog, Macy’s love interest, jumped out. His incomplete physical settings resulted in hollow, static eyes. “Always trouble, unfaithful woman. I’ll kill you before I see you with another man.”

The battle ensued. Crog and Macy clank swords knocking over Collin’s potted Peace Lily.

“Story Wizard, signing off,” Collin pleaded.

Story Wizard mocked snoring.

Collin’s eyes groped for the study’s door, but it existed no more. The Sapphire Forest occupied that place instead. Fawn like Fantasia came swaying towards him through the navy tree trunks, baring offering of food.

“You need sustenance, my love—” she smiled, guiding dazed Collin towards his chair.

Crog spotted Fantasia immediately. His static eyes sizzled. His palm against her face, Crog pushed back Macy.

“Dark Crog, your servant?” He bowed then took an armful of Fantasia.

Fantasia twisted horrified in his hold.

“Hey, get off her,” Collin finally spoke up.

Collin shoved laughing Crog.

“I’m not for you. I’m Collin Broadey’s virgin.” Now at Collin’s side, Fantasia’s cool lips pressed hot, innocent kiss to Collin’s jaw. She blushed abashed. “And I’ll remain a virgin, but in your nighttime reveries, Collin.”

Collin covered his own blushing face.

“Betrayer!” Macy boomed, bejeweled dragger in stab mode.

Collin almost knocked Rebecca over moving back blind with Fantasia in tight hold.

He thought that dagger blade appeared too uncomfortably meant for him.

Riding Crog’s back, Macy sliced seeping red across Crog’s throat. Crog’s body thudded hard to the blue grass that was Collin’s carpet.

“Now,” Macy humphed, “you’re cut out of the story.”

Rebecca covered a hysterical giggle.

“I want a golden lover, like me,” Macy insisted.

“Don’t care what you do as long me have more chapters, no red hair, no pasty skin,” Rebecca counted off on her fingers.

“Write my love—” Fantasia guided him back into his chair. “You’re my favorite author,” she cooed, sliding on his lap and venison past his lips from her clay dish.

“Really,” Collin munched flattered.

“Um-hum,” Fantasia giggled, mussed his yellow curls.

“Get your fat butt up, Miss Distraction,” Macy threatened Fantasia.

“Leave her alone,” Collin and Rebecca echoed, as Fantasia clung to Collin’s safety.

“No red hair.” Macy tapped an arrow tip on the screen.

“I’ll key it out myself,” Collin grinned into Fantasia’s excited, sparkling doe eyes.

“Story Wizard! Blue mountains.”

“Finally,” Story Wizard chuckled.

Collin’s fingers trembled over the keys at first, but his fingers soon caught the rhythm of his words. Lord knows, he thought, life was sure easier when he tapped out his own novels.

W.L. Whiteshah

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Spiritual Ravens

2006-12-20T02:06:00.000-08:00

Phantoms, with glistening

heavy black wings

and dark pearl eyes,

they perch on a dead

snag and expel their call.

A raspy screech,

that echoes through

the morning-damp pines

and for an instant

all that heard will pause,

as a shiver sweeps through

the early morning.

Then the sounds of their

thick wing-beats,

as the birds rise up, gathering

shadows through the fog

silhouettes against the

darkest clouds,

they disperse

to scavenge

those omens, search

for lost souls.

Holly Abidi

A Dream in My Brain

2006-12-20T01:57:00.000-08:00

My brain as I dream

is like a kaleidoscope of flashing pictures

Somewhere the air is cool, clear, honey coloured

juxtaposed against a cypress-studded valley

coming together in a dance of silence

Sun glistening on painted houses

is marvelously beautiful

Sound of rain on leaves - ethereal

Water gurgling through a down spout - exquisite

interrupted by a distant rumble of fading light

Lightening flashes

Thunder booms

Bare branches twist and turn in the wind

Abruptly nothing moves

Just flutter of white light

Then complete darkness

A starry moon dares to peep out of its shadows

with a gray-grim sky as its back-drop

An unknown pale blue face with large eyes

bombards my sleep

Still in the comfort of my bed

viewing a colourful blue array of flowers

Preparing to leave a night that has lost its quiet

replaced by sun on baking sand

I become alert to a new day

Remembering nothing

about a dream in my brain.

Gigi George

Starlight

2006-12-20T01:51:00.000-08:00

Even though there is cigarette smoke

smell and Citroen candle smell

and even though the old people on our

left are chattering like drunken demented

monkeys and behind us is a mother

with her little kids all squealing

and squawking and tumbling

all over the place the stars, the stars

are still high up above shining quietly like

normal minding their own business as

the music from Itzhak Perlman’s

incredible violin and the accompanying

orchestra pushes out from the stage

and floats over us bathing us in

something otherworldly and divine

like the starlight above.

Michael Estabrook

Yeda, My Daughter, At Ho Yin Garden, Macao

2006-12-20T01:43:00.000-08:00

Picking a flower, unknowing

of the prohibition signs erected

by the park keepers, she asked me

what makes flowers bloom

and what their colors are for.

I smiled and said nothing.

Smile is camouflage, mask.

Smile is wall, hiding place.

I smiled and said nothing.

Her eyes were an ocean of songs and expectations

and I did not look into them for fear of drowning.

Eyes are a deep oceans of songs and expectations.

I evaded her face:

I did not like her asking me again about flowers,

about birds, dews, butterflies, grasses, clouds.

She should know, like everyone else, like every adult,

I lost everything when I grew old.

Growing is going away from childhood.

I looked to the far.

She should not look into my eyes:

she can’t find in them what she searches for.

There is nothing in them

but the ghost of a lost child that was me.

Papa Osmubal

Malay History

2006-12-20T01:41:00.000-08:00

Ripples are longings carved upon the water.

Which is why they slither ashore,

unstoppable as sharp-eyed snakes.

Which is why they dream of soils,

resolute as the creeping roots.

Ripples too are our veins,

pulsating and flowing with our blood and fire.

We once found a void vastness and chiseled it

until images and figures came out of it.

Raise your heads,

see what our hands have wrought!

Ah, there are Sumerians and Egyptians everywhere.

Ah, there are Iberians and Greeks everywhere.

Ah, there are witnesses to quests and conquests everywhere.

Birds sing in our tongue,

hence a language now inherited by the wind,

hence a language now engraved in the wind,

hence a language that is now brother to trees and flowers.

A language of many voices—

the gentleness of a mother’s lullaby,

the elegance of a bard’s songs and a lover’s croons,

the lightning and thunder that worried the conquistadores,

the people singing to identify themselves.

Build pyramids and catacombs? No! We do not have to.

There are no desiccated carcasses here

and nothing rotten to conceal.

Everything here is immune to dust and sand;

and here we have sun that is kind to grasses and grasshoppers,

and here too we have rain that is kind to farms and farmers.

Instead build huts, and let the wind come in

to recount what it gathers from the mountains.

Children should be nourished with milk, rice, wisdoms, and legends.

Children’s mind should be peopled with images and figures we sculpted.

Ripples are longings carved upon the river,

and they will not stop creeping and slithering,

because there are so many banks and lands,

to anchor a dream.

Papa Osmubal

Mojave Night

2006-12-20T01:29:00.000-08:00

I step across the threshold

from the well defined world

of my living room

into the dark unknown

of a star splattered night

ruled by a quicksilver moon

The peace of stillness embraces me

like a living presence

beside me in the darkness

Sudden silence opens my ears

to subtle songs of the night

heard in all directions

Wind sighs a dry tale

whispers through the paper spikes

of the old Joshua tree

wizened and ground pointing

along twisted crazy columns

Blades turning above my house

my wind generator

churns moving air into electricity

almost an organic sound

as if it was born there

In the deep distance

coyote cries freedom

declares the hunt

yips erupt across the night

like scattered echoes repeating

the chase is on

some hapless rabbit

won’t see the sunrise

From an unseen perch

an owl claims hunting rights

and the rodent nation

goes on full alert

My eyes adapt

moonlight and shadow

woven into infinite lace

shaped like Joshua tree

juniper buckwheat creosote

rock and sand and distant hills

A swath of stars

like sugar sparkles

smeared across the black bowl of sky

marks the Milky Way

blazing east to west

There to show the way

for those who pass

on their final journey home

Edward Hanson

Link To Us

2006-12-16T14:18:00.000-08:00

Choose from the following link options: copy the code and save the image to your computer.

Words Words Words

<a href="http://wwwezine.blogspot.com" title="Dedicated to the Art of the Written Word">Words Words Words</a>

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A Visit To The Zoo

2006-12-07T13:22:00.000-08:00

I nurture the wrong people,
gangrene girls with color scars,
small breasts like the the yellow cusps of dandelion.

I have broken so many fights
the count is beyond fingers,
beyond toes.

We walk the stone paths of the zookery.
Ivy, oat, barley. Great frogs, green shade,
wood ducks, a rock ledge.
water lilies like thick fish, spotted fish,
striped fish turning delicate hoops.

We eat lunch on stone benches jutting out over water,
a breeze ghosting through spiked grass.

Swifts move through the air like Chinese fighting kites
and there by the fallen tree, an egret,
wings stronger than hunger,
wings stronger than selfishness.

My girls do not see the wood duck, the swift.
They do not see the fish, the large frog.
My girls complain about the walking,
this was a trip to the zoo,
we came to see animals

not Lake Michigan,
not the break wall,
not a rumble of rock blocking waves,
the water green gray blue,
not shells, not algae,
not sand thick with alewives.

I nurture caged girls,
meat-eating girls,
and when the rock dove lands by thrown bread,

I nurture girls who glory in the herring gull's attack,
a rock dove retreating quickly,
wild wings sparking like fields of lasers.

Michael H. Brownstein

My Backyard

2006-12-07T12:49:00.001-08:00

I decorate my front yard,

keep it tidy for the world

but, allow a few weeds

so it will not be coveted

as a golf course.

I cultivate my back yard,

pull every weed,

smile at my flowers

and grow with my trees.

My front yard slowly shrinks,

consumed by the roadway

filled with chrome-plated

rose petals.

I scurry to my back yard,

look anxiously at my trees,

urge their growth

so I may have enough lumber

for a stronger front door.

Mark Clement

Forever

2006-12-07T12:36:00.000-08:00

It occurred to me,

I don’t know why,

that we don’t have any recordings

of my mother-in-law playing

the violin. She played

in an orchestra in Chicago

back in the early 1940s,

back before she married Joe

and moved east to New Jersey .

She never played again after that,

something she always regretted.

We all regret things

in our lives so it is OK I suppose,

that Dorothy gave up playing

the violin in order to raise

my beautiful wife.

But it sure would be exciting

to have a recording of her playing,

exciting to have the illusion

of her being around us again,

vibrant, alive, the music

of Brahms and Beethoven and Mozart

engulfing us in its universal rhythms,

alive as she ought to be - forever.

Michael Estabrook

The Hunters

2006-12-07T12:31:00.001-08:00

Once while deep in The Amazon
I watched the hunters dance
with raised arms they spun in circles
chanting hunting songs deep from their gut

Dancing to build trust in their abilities
there was no time to wallow in doubt
a small gourd cup was passed around
filled and refilled with a magical hunting potion

The potions scientific name belongs in parentheses
right behind the Indian name, chi chi doro
somewhere on the sketch pad of my colorful past
unplugged and left motionless for too long

The fire burned through the night
hunters dance and chant and wave their arms
women sit and watch in anticipation of the feast to come
no one seems to mind me being here

Dawn lights the way for the hunters
carefully making their way into the jungle
poisoned arrow waiting in leather sheaths
on the backs of the brave men who wear them

Spears and blow guns held securely
sights have been set and goals reached
the men return slowly to the village
burdened by the weight of the kill

Women prepare the feast for the tribe
while the men bathe down in the river
I sit and write about what I saw
the air is filled with the aroma of fresh meat cooking

Jim Nasium

Credits

2006-12-07T12:19:00.000-08:00

John Cow

Born in Brighton (1972). Graduated from King's College London with a degree in Classics.

Edward Hanson

Ed has self-published two books of poetry: Crow Dreaming and Gray to the Ground.

Harold Lorin

Lorin has published extensively in Computer and Information Science where he has his primary career. He has publishing poetry and fiction on-line and in paper anthologies.

Kevin Paul Miller

Kevin Paul Miller lives in Southern California where he writes verse as well as haiku and related forms. His work has been published in Lily, Word Riot, Half-Drunk Muse, Stylus, Modern Haiku, Heron’s Nest, LYNX, Road Runner and elsewhere. He is a member of the Tanka and Haiku Societies of America.

Cynthia Morris

Cynthia Morris of Original Impulse helps writers and visionaries make their brilliant ideas a reality. Author of Create Your Writer's Life: A Guide to Writing with Joy and Ease, and Go For It! Leading Tours for Fun and Profit, Cynthia coaches from Boulder.

Stephen L. Nelson

Stephen L. Nelson is the author of both Quicken for Dummies and QuickBooks for Dummies and an adjunct tax professor for Golden Gate University’s graduate tax school.

Kenneth Nichols

Kenneth Nichols is a student in the Creative Writing MFA program at The Ohio State University.

Christine Stewart

A. Thiagarajan

A postgraduate in English, A. Thiagarajan taught in colleges in India, before joining the finance sector. He has been writing in English and Tamil since college days.

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Music Box

2006-12-07T12:16:00.001-08:00

we exist in some fleeting spinster's dream
as she twirls in a music box
listening for secrets
swimming in our tears
she brings the melody that summons our fear
she sits in darkness
spinning fortuitous realms of bliss
and when she awakes
we vanish into nothingness

Clifford K. Watkins, Jr.

The Drifter

2006-12-07T12:14:00.001-08:00

The drifter carries a small shovel to dig his own grave
he stands eerily beside a gravel road
unable to measure his soul
having fled his humdrum life on the path to freedom that he never finds
he never escapes his mind
the labyrinth inside
dirt descends from his hourglass hands into a shallow hole
he knows everything
yet wants nothing
he displays his scars to remind himself that he was once alive
he impales himself with invisible knives
and hurls himself into a unmarked grave
as a random stranger oozes from his eyes

hello god
goodbye devil

today
I'm the drifter
ugly
unkempt
walking into the sun
ready to vanish like singing skulls rolling into oblivion
and tomorrow
no one remembers him

Clifford K. Watkins, Jr.

Mission Statement

2006-12-07T11:47:00.001-08:00

Words Words Words is a quarterly annual literary ezine, dedicated to the art of the written word and devoted to the amateur writer's community.

Every issue of the ezine is focused on helping writers, editors, poets, journalists, novelists, and every other literary type in their endeavors to become better skilled and increasingly successful in their literary goals.

How does Words Words Words do that?

Each issue provides resources, information, markets, contests, tips, and a plethora of publication opportunities for writers of all genres and all experience levels.

The more we publish a writer's work the more people will read the writer's work. The more people who read the writer's work, the more known and established the writer becomes.

Words Words Words plans to grow right along with its fellow writer/readership: check back to see more about our plans for become a paying market!

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Contributor Guidelines

2006-12-07T11:28:00.000-08:00

Words Words Words is always accepting submissions of articles, poetry, short stories, essays, reviews, and anything else literary related. Just remember the target readership is writers, editors, readers, and other literary types.

Before you read on, you should know that Words Words Words is a non-paying market.

Compensation for published work consists solely on the promotion of your work, and you as a writer.

A short biography must be included with submission. No artwork unless you are the artist.

Remember, our goal is to help the amateur writer's community, and one of the ways we do that is by getting your work out there where people can see it.

Guidelines:

Articles that are non-literary related are rarely published (i.e.: we wouldn't publish an article on how to budget your money, but we would publish an article on how to budget a writer's income).

Book Reviews for anything other than fiction, and non-fiction for writers are not accepted. If you would like your own book reviewed, contact us for a mailing address so you can send us the book.

Length of submission is flexible: we aren't really concerned with quantity - just quality, so if you plan to submit a very long piece, make sure it's worth all that reading.

All submissions must be the original work of the author. Copied or stolen material is prohibited.

All submissions must be emailed to the editor - wwwezine@yahoo.ca. Attachments are accepted in .doc or .htm format.

To avoid spam, all emails must contain the word "submission" or "query" in the subject line.

Please use your real name - the whole point is to get your name out there.

PLEASE carefully edit all material for grammar, punctuation, and spelling before submitting.

You will be notified by email if your work has been accepted for publication.

Upon Publication:

Please refrain from using the published material elsewhere during the three-month period that it is being used in Words Words Words. After that period, you are free to do what you want with your work.

Please subscribe to Words Words Words to be notified by email when the issue with your work is out.

Words Words Words has the right to publish your work for the three-month duration of the issue, and on the web thereafter in the Words Words Words Archives.

Upon Rejection:

If your submission is not accepted for publication in Words Words Words, it was probably not suitable for the current issue, or was in need of too much revision.

You may submit as often as you like.

For more information, contact the Words Words Words editor, Marylin Houle - wwwezine@yahoo.ca

Thank you for your interest in writing for Words Words Words. We wish you the best of luck in all your literary endeavors.

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Contests

2006-12-06T20:42:00.000-08:00

Words Words Words Poetry Contest

Prize: $25 Cdn, plus publication

Guidelines: any theme, style, or length as long as it's the original work of the poet and is previously unpublished.

Entry fee: $3 for the first poem and $1 for each addition poem

Email Submissions to www_poetry@yahoo.ca in inline text format or MS Word 2000 or greater.

Snail mail submissions to WWW Poetry Contest, #7 - 96 East Ave. S., Hamilton, ON L8N 2T4
All snail mail submissions must include a SASE.

All submissions must be times new roman or arial, size 3pt or 12, double spaced, 1" margins, page numbers if more than one page, name and contact info of entrant at top of each page, as well as title of submission.

All submissions should accompany a cheque, money order, or paypal payment of 3$ per poem, as well as contact information so we can get back to you with the results of the contest.

Important: if you do not include your contact information when submitting, we cannot notify you of the winners, nor can we issue your prize if you are a winner. And if the contest were to be canceled for any reason, we would not be able to return your entry fee. So PLEASE make sure to include your email address and/or your mailing address.

Words Words Words retains First North American Publishing rights upon publication of poetry.

Entrants may include an introductory page with their submission with a short bio if wanted.

Deadline is pending.

For more information on this and other Words Words Words contests, please email the editor at wwwezine@yahoo.ca

Pay your entry fee now on Paypal:

Words Words Words Short Story Contest

Prize: $25 Cdn, plus publication

Guidelines: Must be fiction, any theme, style, or length as long as it�s the original work of the writer and is previously unpublished.

Entry fee: $5

Email Submissions to www_writing@yahoo.ca in inline text format or MS Word 2000 or greater.

Snail mail submissions to WWW Short Story Contest, #7 - 96 East Ave. S., Hamilton, ON L8N 2T4
All snail mail submissions must include a SASE.

All submissions must be times new roman or arial, size 3pt or 12, double spaced, 1" margins, page numbers if more than one page, name and contact info of entrant at top of each page as well as title of submission.

All submissions should accompany a cheque, money order, or Paypal payment of 5$ per story, as well as contact information so we can get back to you with the results of the contest.

Words Words Words retains First North American Publishing rights upon publication of story.

Entrants may include an introductory page with their submission with a short bio if wanted.

Deadline is pending.

For more information on this and other Words Words Words contests, please email the editor at wwwezine@yahoo.ca

Pay your entry fee now on Paypal:

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