"Washing Spinach"
by Emily Green
The leaves tremble– limp and fragile but vivid green against the crimson colander. She turns them in her hand. Thin, anxious fingers frantically making work.
His aunt mashes potatoes with a restrained thud. Years of practice. No help needed, thank you.
His sisters build the green bean casserole. A team effort. Three pairs of hands, always three.
His mom preps the bird. Innards wrenched out; stuffing jammed in. A raw, visceral affair. Better left alone.
You can wash the spinach.
The colander slips from her fingers. The leaves spill over. Crumpled greenery on sleek aluminum. No matter. She is by the sink. They are at the table.
She gathers the spinach, thin fingers leisurely plucking at the mess, loosening in the sudden sanctuary of solitude.
And she washes the spinach again.
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"Miss Verde"
by Loko Be
The kind, well mannered Miss Verde has, like many folks, two
dreamcatcher eyeballs. Each of these optical marvels, however, sees
things very differently than the other. You see, the young,
voluptuous Miss Verde has what some see as a flaw, or a defect even.
Although many call her left eye lazy, it actually gives her a
perspective of the world quite similar to how many people live their
lives: still, stagnant, always the same, constantly looking in the
same direction waiting for some external source to bring meaning to
its path. Miss Verde’s right eye, the unlazy eye, brings her an
immensely different perspective. Things are constantly flowing and
changing. It seeks out what it wants, alive with movement. What many
don’t realize is the divine wisdom brought to light in the delicate
balance between these two opposite receptors of vision. While most
people struggle confusedly with which of the lovely Miss Verde’s dream
catcher eyes to look into while addressing her, she recognizes all the
good and evil in everything. She can’t look at you; she looks into
you and through you. She sees everything: every star, every wave,
every blade of grass, every molecule, every spark of positive and
negative energy in existence. The extraordinary Miss Verde sees and
understands all through what is popularly believed to be a flaw. She
is at one with the Earth whose people shun her as slightly deformed.
Why are these Earthlings so determined to focus on the negative? Why
must they label the lazy eye, disregarding its glorious dance with the
unlazy eye? I met Miss Verde yesterday and saw beauty in both of her
dreamcatcher eyeballs at the same time. I also saw between them the
purpose of life. I hope to see this amazing creature again before
she disappears, unappreciated and misunderstood. For there is an
infinite wormhole between the unlazy and lazy eyes which enables one
to see through space and time, if you can figure out where to look! I
love you Miss Verde…
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"The Affair"
by Renoir Gaither
Jazz turned days into nights and nights into detours–and that's the
truth. She emailed him. He read it as jazz. So it began. She wrote
about boredom and dreams of real estate. He returned with lunch
poems–all that he'd seen on walks during break. Toys and Chinese
slippers and agate marbles.
She'd be happy if she owned a house, she wrote; he loaned her money.
Then she broke.
And he read it as jazz.
Years passed. His memory of her possessed no finish line. So he improvised.
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“Anniversario”
by Matt Kizaur
Passageways continually narrowed; their walls slick with moisture and rot, danced with shadow and torch light. The catacomb entrance way, Trichorae, possessed the unmistakable marks of early Christian Rite. That which came before and all that might come after suddenly collided in the worn, stony doorway. No Indiana-Jones-Dr.-Who-Jules-Verne dramatics…only the small, rushing cold wind caressing the bones of the long dead and dreaming. All their fleshy triumphs silenced to distant memory or, perhaps, alive and pulsing in mitochondraic tangos.
A grappa-induced midnight detour brought Ed to the unending passageways of the Catacombe di San Callisto. His new, best, drunken friend, Angelo, local historian and retired teacher, possessed a carefree devilishness that rivaled any Fellini protagonist. If Rome was a circus, he was its deviant clown and tent-flap guardian. “You celebrate anniversario like Italian men…get drunk, fall down, ask forgiveness.” Then men’s laughter echoed all the way back to the Trichorae’s mouth. “You touch the bones of a martyr? Good luck all year. Your wife, Loreena, she thank you.” Angelo’s face shown in the bleariness of Ed’s lacking focus…so many clammy turns downward. He felt miles below the Earth. “You see here? Marks of Goths and Longobards. Barbarians…like us, eh?” Ed followed this cackle deeper and deeper into the slick intestines of Early Christianity. In a twisted niche, Angelo paused and pointed. Ed stumbled forward again feeling the brace of cold wind like pleading whispers. The martyr’s bones lay arranged in a sick, raggedy pattern. In the center, propped on a wizened tibia, a square of lead glinted in the torch light, strange lettering etched upon it. Ed reeled slightly, turning to Angelo whose hands were raised while he mumbled a strange incantation. The lettering then glowed orange and suddenly, shuddering, lightning pain gripped Ed.
A sobering, blinding noon sun made Ed blink in confused frustration. He stood in cloaky tatters, barefooted and filthy. Throngs rose before him shrieking. The smell of animal, dust, and death assaulted his senses. “I…,” he stammered. Then ache and memory. Understanding. Then nothing.
Angelo whistled softly as he breached the Trichorae, locking the gate behind him. He practiced his English as he strode: “Belligerent…intoxicated…wandered off.” He said these over and over again as he made his way toward the Hotel Campo di Fiori and the lonely Loreen.
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"Untitled"
by Aimi E. Bouillon
Here comes little Floyd.
Not so little anymore.
Still gentle but rough.
I left him almost seven years ago.
Didn't have time to think about how hard it would be for little Floyd.
Selfish I am, I had to go. Escape. Run away.
I couldn't farm anymore. Couldn't work for free anymore.
In the early times of adulthood, no control of my own life.
I felt trapped, belittled, and no me.
I left him, my little Floyd. Still so young and sweet.
Papa likes to work us kids, only for his own benefit.
Ya, he loves us but his beer was more important than our lunch for school.
Papa has money. But its for security. Not for the family.
Papa knows right. Oh ya, he knows right.
I believed him, for a long time…
I left little Floyd. In a cookie cutter factory.
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"A Homonym Ferry Tail"
by Polly Peterson
Their once was a ferry princess named Betsy. Her which of a mother, the Ferry Quean, kept pour Betsy home all day sweeping, scrubbing, washing close, and baking bred wile she sat on her thrown and sipped due from a flour. The Ferry Quean often whaled at Betsy two sing and bee marry wile she toiled. (19)
But Betsy was week and warn out. Her we ferry body was in pane. She gnu they’re was another weigh, another path four her life. Four daze and daze Betsy preyed allowed each mourning four a sine. Then won day a letter showed up in the male. It red: “Deer Ferry Princess, pleas except this amulet as a token of my esteem. Where it, and you’re desires will bee granite. With all my devotion, the Black Night.” (29)
Unsure of the intentions of the Black Night but also desperate to brake free from the yolk of servitude two the Quean, Betsy slipped the neckless over her head. She war the neckless constantly—threw all of her daily chores and every knight as well. Four daze nothing happened, and she was becoming discouraged. (11)
But then won day as she was sipping her mourning tee, a plan came two her four how she could brake free from the Quean. She immediately sent a message threwout the forest two summon the Black Night. Wen word arrived, he was overjoyed two think that the ferry princess kneaded him two rescue her. He flu into action making plans two whisk her aweigh with him two live happily ever after. (20)
Within a daze thyme he arrived at the ferry castle. Rite aweigh she explained that she wood knot bee able two leaf with him until all her daily chores whir dun, sew she kneaded his help. Being an honorable night, he immediately set two work scrubbing and sweeping. Little did he no that in the meanthyme, sew as knot two bee scene, Betsy had snuck out the secret back entrance and was fleaing on his hoarse—headed four a far aweigh land two join a banned of gypsies. (29)
Wen the Ferry Quean realized what had happened, she was fit two bee tide. She ordered the Black Night two clean the hole ferry castle from top two bottom each day until the princess returned. The Black Night new that Betsy was gone four good. His daze of sleighing dragons and rescuing fare princesses whir over. He was stuck living out his nightly existence as the Quean’s personal made. (21)
The End.
Contains 129 homonyms.
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"Remedy by Vision"
by Andrea Power
Gabriella was a prisoner in time carring the burdens of her past deep within her soul. The minutes ticked away, minute by minute, day by day, and hour by hour. The music from the life that surrounded her carried on across the ripples of the wind but she could not perceive anything pleasurable.The blur of happiness was distant and she reached trying to retrieve the love that was once in her heart. The fire that once raged through her veins had turned to ice. She had lost all of the passion she once felt. Her bruised and battered faith showed upon her face. There wer no smiles. There was no laughter. The only thing left was a shell of a person, a walking ghost with no hope left. Darkness was around her and enveloped he in despair. She laid in her bed tears seeping out of the corners of her eyes.There was no trace in her mind of the reason for her existence. A prayer came to mind as she drifted off to sleep and a light appeared as she sank into a dream. On the wings of an Angel she flew. Her ears were opened and the music flooded in. Her heart beat a steady beat and she was warm. A new energy erased her passive passion. Butterflies emerged from cocoons and fluttered with their new trasformation and surrounded the Angel and Gabriella as they soared towards the stars. Rebirth was here. There were no more tears.She would survive. She would find her purpose to be alive.
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"It Feels Like a Migraine"
by Denise Robedeau
Tina's Jeep was the poster car for everything you could fail at a state vehicle inspection. She had a dirty rope beside the passenger seat and told me to tie myself in because "the door opens at random on corners." The rearview mirror was resting on the dash so she could lift it when she wanted to see behind her. Sticky, thin rubber mats somewhat covered holes in the floor. Once she started the engine, conversation was impossible for the noise, but I didn't want to take in more fumes through my open mouth anyhow, and besides, what was I going to talk about? It wasn't like I was going to admit that her car had probably been made in my hometown.
Two guys from the last bar we'd been to were origamied in behind us. They were messed up. Tina seemed okay to drive, which was good because I didn't have a lot of choice about it. My boyfriend of almost two months had decided that leaving the Memphis nightclub scene to go to the Tunica casinos with some new friends he'd just made was the plan and he'd taken our rental. I didn't go because I had all of $32 left and I'd lost my driver's license somewhere during the evening. I still had the Motel 6 swipe card key in my pocket, though, and my Chapstick. And I had my new friend, Tina. I wish I had some Excedrin, like about eight of them.
Tina said she knew where the Motel 6 was by the expressway when Mike and I were "discussing" the change in agenda at the bar. We'd decided to take our first trip together the week before when we'd heard that one of our favorite blues bands would be playing at a festival centered around Beale Street. We'd taken all of two days off from our respective retail jobs, mine at the mall, his at Best Buy. We had to do the trip on the cheap, so I'd packed some peanut butter sandwiches and stocked up on Red Bull. I did splurge on new underwear. We guessed that neither of our cars would make the trip, but now riding in Tina's Jeep, I longed for my '95 Honda. I longed for my bed at home. I longed to be over dating Mike.
Oh crap! Now we were stuck by a train. Tina turned the car off and the engine gave a loud bang at the end of its shimmy. I looked over at her and thought, frankly, that I'd never had a friend like her before. She had bleach-burned, frizzy hair and wore more make-up in one evening than I'd go through in a week. Her tight pastel pink midriff-baring tank stated "Tasty" in rubbery glitter. Her hoop earrings were as big around as her numerous bangle bracelets. Daisy Dukes and orange flip flops with plastic flowers completed her ensemble.
"I turned off the car to save on gas," she started.
"That's cool. It looks like it'll be awhile. I'll give you some money for giving me the ride, though."
"No, I didn't mean it that way. No sweat. I just hope the guys in back don't get sick, even if that might be an improvement over how this car stinks." She giggled. "Speaking of improvement, you're going to dump Mike after this, aren't you?"
Booze had me a little confused. Did she plan to hit on Mike herself? Did she plan to hit on me? I'd just met her when we'd all shared a little table about four hours earlier and the whole gang of acquaintances traveled from bar to bar. "I don't know," I answered lamely.
"He's really hot, but, sorry if I'm out of line, he's really a jerk."
"Well, he's not always like this. I think he just wanted to have fun." Why was I defending him? He was the best-looking guy I'd ever dated and he usually treated me okay.
"Well, I noticed you had to buy all of your own drinks. You wouldn't let other guys buy them for you, even though they all offered because everyone thinks you're funny and cute. You acted like you didn't want Mike to get jealous. Then, I hate to tell you this, but you should know, he cornered me by the the bathrooms in Cotton River, and . . ."
The train's caboose was passing the gate and I didn't need to hear any more. I pointed it out to Tina and she started the car. I'd never had a friend like her before. Too bad she didn't live in Toledo.
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"Trail’s End"
by Paula Massey
Some days I stood at the park’s trailhead in indecision, but this morning the choice was an easy one. Today was Sunday, and that meant picnickers and joggers, dog walkers and families with young children in tow. The best chance I had to spot deer on my morning walk today was the Green Trail. I knew this trail like my own home, and I never tired of its familiar landmarks.
I entered the path through a canopy of low-hanging hardwood branches. In the distance I heard two dogs fighting. Children were screaming and a woman was calling for someone to do something. I picked up my pace and headed up the hill. Near the top of the ravine I could still hear the voices in the aftermath of the dogfight, although the terrible growling had stopped.
A runner came upon me so quickly from behind that I didn’t hear him until he was almost on top of me. I froze in surprise and he passed me without acknowledgement. My heart was still pounding when I noticed hoof prints in the sand ahead. They hadn’t yet been walked over, so I knew they were recent.
I scanned the trees as I walked along the rim of the ravine, but still nothing. I rounded the last curve before the path turned back toward the trailhead, resolved that today’s walk would not reveal any sightings. As I started to make my descent to the gully, I heard a child’s voice.
“Look, Mommy – a deer!”
I froze, not yet seeing it but not wanting to frighten it away. Across the wooded patch I could see a woman holding a small boy by the hand. The child tried to pull one arm free from her, while pointing excitedly in my direction with the other.
“Sshhh!” the woman warned. “You’ll scare it.”
I didn’t want to move for fear of spooking the animal, but I felt as excited as the child to see it. Slowly I turned my head and began to search the trees around me. Back and forth I looked, focusing my eyes deep into the woods. Still I couldn’t see it.
“It’s so beautiful,” I heard the woman whisper.
I turned my head back toward the mother and child, hoping to fix a location by following their eyes. What I saw instead struck within me instant terror. At once I realized they weren’t looking in my direction; they were looking directly at me.
