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Featured Poem
The Woman With No Name
With pity we stare
Into empty eyes
Of the woman with no name,
The one who walks
The streets alone
So close was she to fame.
*
No one does see
The dream she held
Back in her days of youth,
When all was good
And he was near,
When she took his word as truth.
*
Yet, turn did he
away from her
Leaving her scared and torn.
And in her mind,
In that dark place,
Horrid thoughts were quickly born.
*
Her mind became
A darkened hole
A place of fierce unrest.
Her heart grew cold
Like that blustery morn
‘Till it shattered in her chest.
*
She wandered out
In the streets
Of that great noted city,
And to this day
She sees not
Many eyes that stare with pity.
*
All she sees
Are dreams gone stray,
Dreams scattered in the wind.
And when her heart
Cries out in pain
She remembers how he grinned.
*
Then she sees herself
upon the stage,
Still young and full of beauty.
And as she dances
In the street
She performs a heavenly duty.
*
So, do heed the words
Of this old woman
As she dances in the street
God sends His message
In many forms
In strange people that we meet.
*
In a blink of an eye
In a life gone wrong
You could quickly be like she
A homeless one
Living in the street
Holding your hand out as a plea
*
So take that hand
And place in it
A dime or maybe two
To help her out
In the street
When she walks right up to you.
*
And pity not
Those empty eyes
Of the woman with no name
But see instead
The truth she gives
Till His angel He does reclaim.
*
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Copyright © 2004 EMMA ROSE NERO. All rights reserved.
Reproduction or use of any portion thereof is a direct violation of U.S.and International copyright law.
Featured Story
Sunshine and Shadows
====================
The low sun sparkled off the lake. The trees to the left still hung heavy with the morning frost that had stayed for
the day, glittering like the remains of December’s tinsel. In the distance, a white church spire added to the impression
that a leftover Christmas card had magically come to life in this unlikeliest part of North London. All it needed was a choir
of angels. A new life and a choir of angels.
As Marie-Christine put Luke back down, Luke noticed that his hands had left their shape in the ice on the stone wall,
just like the shapes he had made drawing around his hands at playgroup yesterday. He liked to come this way, though it was
a pity that in the road behind him there was a line of burnt-out abandoned cars. Mummy and daddy wouldn’t bring him
this way; perhaps they only saw the cars and not the lake. They usually took a taxi anyway. Marie-Christine didn’t seem
to mind, though. Marie-Christine had come to stay with them just after Luke’s fourth birthday, and came from France.
Before Marie-Christine had been Anna, from Sweden, and before that Luke couldn’t remember.
Ten minute’s walk took Marie-Christine and Luke away from lakes and burnt-out cars to streets of huge off-road
vehicles and wine-bars, and back to Luke’s home. Marie-Christine helped Luke out of his heavy coat and boots; Luke pulled
off his woollen hat for himself, and his ears tingled with the warmth. He dropped it on the floor of the hallway.
“Now, that’s not where your hat belongs, is it”, said his mummy, gently, as she came out of the sitting-room.
“No”, said Luke, and hung it on the low coat-peg in the porch. He noticed that mummy’s eyes were red again
with crying, and Marie-Christine must have noticed it too, because she asked “Did the hospital call, then?”. “Yes,”
said mummy. “They say the shadow is getting larger”.
Luke didn’t understand why the grown-ups were so upset that he had a shadow. He remembered that Peter Pan had chased
his and got Wendy to sew it back on, so surely people /should/ have shadows. And shadows were nice things. He remembered how
pretty the shadows of the leaves were when he walked through Clissold Park on a sunny autumn day. And he remembered last summer,
playing on the Plage du Veillat, how the sun had hurt when he played on the sand for too long, and how glad he had been to
get back into the shadow of the big umbrella that mummy kept saying he should call a parasol.
The headaches had been quite bad on that holiday, but mummy and daddy had just thought it was too much sun. But they
kept getting worse after the family got home, so mummy and daddy had taken him to the doctor. The doctor sent him to a hospital,
where he had had to lie still in a big machine, and soon after that the grown-ups had started talking about the shadow on
his brain. They gave him medicine that made his tummy poorly, which he didn’t understand - why would making his tummy
poorly help a headache?
The nice thing was that at about that time his daddy had started coming home from work earlier, and mummy had stopped
going to so many clubs and classes in the evening. Luke wondered if his special shadow had something to do with it. Maybe
they all wanted to see it. He had spent ages in front of the bathroom mirror looking for it, until his daddy had shouted for
him to come out. All the shadows he could see looked the same as the ones everyone else had. But it was nice to see so much
of mummy and daddy. Marie-Christine was nice, but when she put him to bed she didn’t give him a nice kiss like mummy
did, and she couldn’t do big strong hugs like daddy could. Daddy hugged him a lot nowadays, and so did mummy. They seemed
to hug each other a lot now, as well, which Luke didn’t remember them doing before he had his shadow. It /must/ be a
nice thing, this shadow, if it lets him spend more time with mummy and daddy. It /must/ be a nice thing if it makes lots of
hugs. It was such a pity about the headaches.
Copyright (c) Tim Rowe, 2004. All rights reserved, worldwide. Any copying, reproduction or use of any portion without
direct written permission of the author is a violation of copyright law.
POETRY
PAINTED WOMAN
Every night I saw her there.
Leather miniskirt,
tank tops and bangles,
large earrings and long, red wig.
She'd walked like a model
on a catwalk, and beamed
her sweetest smile, posed.
She joked, pointing
her red fingernail at every
man who'd passed by.
You could smell her,
the strong perfume,
when she passed you on her rounds.
Most people beliittled her,
insulted her to her very soul.
They didn't understand
why she was doing those
things, different things.
They judged her with
her blood-red lips and
high-heeled boots.
If only they could see
her in the morning light.
Her hair pulled back in a
ponytail, plain shirt and pants,
drinking black coffee, alone,
in the almost deserted cafe.
Her hazelnut-brown eyes
filled with tears,
her shoulders slumped by the weight,
hands trembling, body and
soul rueful, depressed, oppressed.
Maybe, yes, maybe if
they only knew the real her
perhaps they'd understand.
But in my heart I know,
it'll take a long time
for them to catch on.
'permission to post'
©2004 SHANZYRA P. REBANCOS
All rights reserved, worldwide.
~As the Thunder Rolls~
As the thunder rolls down the mountains
It wakes everything in its path
She echoes her fierceness into the wind
For all to hear and envy
She clutches her aggressiveness
Unleashes it in tidal waves of fury
Until every bone in the body
Quivers in fear.
And the flesh is soaked clean to bone
Sensing nothing but the cold enveloping
And the cold breeze chilling internal blood
Finally after what seems like forever
Actually twenty minutes or so
The darkness rolls away
Allowing the sun's rays to give warmth
To a fresher Earth
and to thaw the bodies
Of those
Frozen by rain.
© 2004 Jennifer Stires
This Friend of Mine
*
Down the road she strolled with me
It mattered not the end to be
This fair girl, this friend of mine
You know the one, the one so kind.
*
Her warm smile, her girlish blush
Her heart's worth more than gold.
Whispers flew on their own wings
As my secrets to her were told
*
Two by two we walked the path
In grooves long worn and old
Side by side like sisters went
Battling seasons warm and cold
*
She moved from me, down her own path
One so different than my own
Her footsteps light on her new dance
To a song with brand new tone
*
I watch as slow her shadow fades
From the path that we long strolled
I know deep down, way in my soul
A lasting friendship we did mold
*
And when I feel my loss for her
The loss of her close by my side
My soul emits a mournful sigh
Yet rejoices in her great stride
*
For as she moves along her way
In my mind my friend will stay
Memory serves, warmth will shine
Of this fair girl, this friend of mine
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Copyright © June 26, 2004 EMMA ROSE NERO. All rights reserved. Reproduction or use of any portion thereof is a direct
violation of U.S. and International copyright law.
ALONE
IN THE CROWD
As I entered yesterday
Indeed a new place
I was hoping I could find
Some friendly face.
The people around me
Looked kind enough
Maybe there is someone
Who'd like my stuff.
But as the days passed
Things began to clear out
Truth I'd found out
There was no doubt.
Different likes and dislikes
New things for me
I couldn't fit in
Well that's reality.
Maybe next time I'd tried harder
Then I'll get used to it
Cause they won't let me
Said I'm out of beat.
I feel cold and empty
Can't wait to get home
Maybe tomorrow'll be different
Maybe I won't be alone.
Copyright 2004 by Lanie Shanzyra Rebancos
All rights reserved
In the Dark
In the dark is somewhere warm
Distant from the roaring storm
Where light has no sting of pain
Where no sounding of the rain
It is quiet here no doubt
There's no crying nor a shout
I can't lose or gain the time
Here inside this world of mine
In the dark there is a place
No one knows its phantom face
But it has a special part
That it plays deep in the dark.
**********************************************************
Who I Am
The winter's touch is bitter cold
Here within my shadow
I see others stand tall and bold
And fight their own battle
Afraid to let the sun come through
And shine upon my face
Afraid to let them see what's true
Within my lonely place
I'll never learn to understand
I hide behind the scenes
Watching all t hose who fall and stand
Who learn to spread their wings
But I have something deep within
That was forever there
The person who I really am
Will always be right here
So what I have is all I am
No matter what they say
I'll be the same just like the wind
Until my dying day
Copyright © Faith Blanchard 2004 All rights reserved. Reproduction of any content above, is strictly prohibited under
international copyright law.
HAITI
Here sometimes
The phones lines work
The electricty goes through
And the water runs clear
At other times here
Civilization fades
Sudden black outs
And useless dead phones
Here 80% of the population
Can’t read or write
Has no job
Has no food
Here surely
The mountains bear no trees
Children wash laundry by the shores
Houses are no more then sheds
Here obviously
Is a third world country
One of those struck with sever poverty
One viewed with pity
Here however
Shall I stay
For here
Lays my heart
Beats my blood
Rests my soul
My country is dying
It’s children are fleeing
It will not die alone
Here I stay
Hoping a cure
Is found in time
If that should fail
Here I stay
My country
I shall lay to rest.
*********************************************
Upon the Air
Upon the air
Still lingers
Yesterday's
Breath
The ground
Still bears
Yesterday's
footprints
The trees
Still carry
Yesterday's
Carvings
But today
Air stirs
Ground shivers
Trees
whisper
New day
New season
Yesterday’s
memories
Today's promise
Change can come
Without change.
Change can't come
Without
change.
Copyright © Muriel Vieux 1984-2004 all
rights reserved, world wide.
Send in the clown”
Sadness paints a smile apon its face
and calls itself a clown
It makes us smile and makes us laugh
While it cuts its host in half
And hides its awfull frown
Sadness paints a smile apon my face
A look of happiness and grace
just a mask to hide its trace
As wounds and scars my soul deface
Sadness paints a smile apon its face
False show of laughter
The mournful soul that always cries
Lies deep within the eyes
Sees the truth, no ones after
Sadness paints a smile apon my face
A look of happiness and grace
just a mask to hide its trace
As wounds and scars my soul deface
Sadness paints a smile apon its face
Blood that will not show
It hides itself behind the careless glee
The soul that is not free
Drowning in its woe
Sadness paints a smile apon my face
A look of happiness and grace
just a mask to hide its trace
As wounds and scars my soul deface
Sadness paints a smile apon its face
But shows no emotion
Finds no release for what it's feeling
oblivion more appealing
seeks its own demotion
Sadness paints a smile apon my face
A look of happiness and grace
just a mask to hide its trace
As wounds and scars my soul deface
Sadness paints a smile apon its face
Seeks attention it draws
As it finds sweet hidding in the crowds
stolidity souls only shrouds
Leaves heart without cause
Sadness paints a smile apon my face
A look of happiness and grace
just a mask to hide its trace
As wounds and scars my soul deface
Sadness paints a smile apon its face
Never lets it down
See the joyful look apon its cheery head
Eyes longing to be dead
Laugh at the clown!
***********************************************
How Sad
There's a man in the mirror
Just look there and see,
It's a face of sheer terror
That just shouldn't be.
So if you can see him
dont stay for too long
It might make your day dim
to see something wrong
For all he has wasted,
And less he has won,
The life he has tasted
Was not always fun.
but he had a great future
His grades where all A's,
His friends they did torture
They ruined his days.
So if you can see him
dont stay for too long
It might make your day dim
to see something wrong
Though he rarely was happy
Would not show his cries.
Afraid to look sappy
He just closed his eyes.
He never found good friends,
He just found despair.
They teased him for his trends
And pulled at his hair.
There's a man in the mirror
Just look there and see,
It's a face of sheer terror
That just shouldn't be.
He knew he was foolish
For he heard it quite oft
They said he looked ghoulish
And his spine was quite soft
They called him a loser
And made fun of his tics,
They Said "You're a Snoozer"
As they beat him with sticks
So if you can see him
dont stay for too long
It might make your day dim
to see something wrong
He made himself not feel,
disappear in a fog
They said, "go ahead, squeal
Cause you look like a hog"
So he lived in the corners
And moved by the walls
He knew of no mourners
If he were to fall
So if you can see him
Then hurry and run
Now life is at his vim
For he carries a gun
Then one day, he saw her,
She looked like a star.
His mind in a soft blur
Wouldn't leave her too far
He went to pick flowers
Held them by the spur
He watched her for hours
But felt like a cur.
There's a man in the mirror
Just look there and see,
It's a face of sheer terror
That just shouldn't be.
He finaly did it,
Her friends they did laugh.
She said "go away shit."
His heart split in half.
She dared not risk mocking
Still for him her heart bled.
They heard the door locking
Before he blew off his head.
See the man in the mirror,
in weakness on knees,
who holds the dead nearer
is a father who pleas.
Copyright © Nicolas Sшndergaard
All rights reserved, worldwide
March 3, 2004 (rewritten)
Silly Verse
My name is Spike I. Hammer
Learned carpentry while in the slammer
Many houses I have made
Lots of money I was paid
Quickly, I fled each town
Before any of the houses tumbled down
One day at a rummage sale
I met a girl named, Rusty Nails
I took her for my wedded wife
And thus began an awful life
All we did was stay at home
No more was I allowed to roam
Couldn't even bet the horses
Driven, to save for Spike Junior's colleges courses
Had I known my life would have been that way
I never would have married Rusty Nails that day
I packed my duds, and now I'm free
Married life was not for me
I hooked up with a group called Writing Road
Friends, there, put me in a writing mode
Soon after, I published my first book
Titled, My Adventures As A Crook
*****************************************
Little Things
Snuggled in bed listening to rain
Sparkling champagne
Pulling taffy by the mile
Seeing a child's smile
Fat babies to tickle
Crunchy dill pickles
Moonlight shimmering over beach sand
Strolling hand and hand
Comfortable black pants
Picnics without ants
Blooming flowers of Spring
Hearing little birds sing
Fishing trout from a brook
Reading a good book
A glance of romance
Slow music to dance
Ribbons and lace
Kisses on my face
Lazing in the sun
Sleeping when the day is done
=====
Rena
Copyright © 2004 Rena Nickerson. All rights reserved.
Reproduction or use of any portion thereof is a direct violation of
U.S. and International copyright law.
Bloodied Shadows.
He swooped down low from high dark cloud,
City streets pass, dressed in night's shroud.
Peering into corners and trash,
Lives wasting fast in drugged out flash.
In those bloodied shadows he'd find,
a past to conjure in his mind.
A story he would dare to tell,
of how one made it through that hell.
Driven on by a need to share,
the nightmares he's still hiding there.
His next fresh victim he soon spies,
he stares into her searching eyes.
In through the gateway to her soul,
Until morn' breaks, he'll feel so whole.
In those shadows just before dawn,
A new scribe will that night be born.
Copyright © A J Davie 2004 all rights reserved, worldwide.
Slip of the tongue?
Just like that, cut to the quick.
A simple word, it did the trick.
You didn't even see my pain,
as silently I go insane.
No you didn't call me mad,
or even suggest that I am bad.
Didn't call me names as such,
or have to shout out loud that much.
A question asked of the artist soul,
that opened up a deep dark hole.
There in the caverns I long to hide,
as a part of me just died inside.
Invisible label pinned on me,
as simple as is seems to be.
A waste of time, even a joke.
That's how you view this writer bloke.
What was it you asked? What did you say?
"How long can you go on this way?"
"When will you get a proper job?"
Two lines with which my heart you rob!
A waste of effort, perhaps of time?
But I won't give up, is that a crime?
Then one day the labels will change,
as I fly so far beyond your range!
Copyright © A J Davie 2004 all rights reserved. Reproduction of any content above, is strictly prohibited under international
copyright law. Anyone failing to comply with the above without prior permission, will suffer legal action without prejudice
or relent!
Let You Down Again
© 2004 Suzie Hall
All rights reserved, worldwide.
You don't have any answers
You don't even have a clue
That the trouble so deep within me
Has so much to do with you
I know I said it was easy
I know I acted the part
But the pain of knowing I've wronged again
Is tearing up my heart
I let you down again
And the pain isn't all on me
I let you down, and passed you by
All for sympathy.
If I could take it all away
I'd tell you how I'd be
But I let you down again
How can I let me free
Bound by the bullet that's fired
From my soul to yours
My Lord has led me through a path
I don't know what to explore
Frozen by the knowledge that
My life's a downward spin
I pray for the moment we have right now
This moment will never end
I let you down again
And the pain isn't all on me
I let you down, and passed you by
All for sympathy
If I could take it all away
I'd tell you how I'd be
But I let you down again
How can I let me free
Walking Dreamer
© 2004 Suzie Hall
All rights reserved, worldwide.
Walking dreamer come again
I was lost inside my own emotions
Yet I know you're always there
Every time I close my eyes to sleep
But this time you walked away
Let yourself down from your pedestal
And I'm here all by myselfWith no place to goI cannot sleep tonight
Without you
You're all I haveI want to be with you
Walking dreamer come again
I want to be with you
Walking dreamer
Walking dreamer hand in hand
Hold on to your premonitions
You would never let them go
I could not fly through my own fantasy
But this time you walked away
Let yourself down from your pedestalAnd I'm here all by myself
And I don't know where to go
I cannot sleep tonight
Without you
You're all I haveI want to be with you
Walking dreamer come again
I want to be with you
Walking dreamer
Walking dreamer come again
I want to be with you
Bitter Cold
В© January, 2003 cmp
Summer passes, passion fades
The touch that could once start a fire
Burns like frostbite against her skin
Longer days, burning sun
Give way to dreary clouds of gray
Leaving a trembling chill throughout
Her heart, bitter cold
Reflecting all she’s felt in return
For her undying committed love
Time ticks, still moves
Yet she still longs for yesterday
And hopes they can find their way
______________________
~~Connie~~
Visit Me
STORIES
Mournful Sighs
==============
The wind gathers them up. You can hear them, if you listen carefully enough. And if you have the right kind of ears,
the ones that hear the sun rise and the grass grow. Not just any wind, though. Not the winter tempests that gather the rage
and grief and chill the bitter tears as they whip them from the face, nor the dancing spring zephyrs that catch laughter and
shouts of joy. No, it is the early autumn wind that gathers the sighs, the wind that shakes the russet leaves, but only causes
the very weakest to fall. Only the very weakest fall. For now.
Listen:
Laurie sits on her father’s lap as he helps her to reply to the email. "Look, you click on the reply icon - that’s
the little picture of an arrow - no, the orange arrow pointing left, yes, that one, now you have somewhere to type your reply..."
Suzie has moved to Spain. She’s been Laurie’s best friend since they sat together on their first day at school,
and laughed together at Miss Johnson’s garish cardigan and frizzy hair. They had joined the drama club together and
had gone to ballet class together after school, and both thought that Avril Lavine was cool and that Busted were not. At that
age, that’s enough to make friends that would be inseparable for life. Or so she had thought, until Suzie came in that
Tuesday morning and said that her dad had found a new job. Laurie was pleased; she knew Suzie’s family had been finding
things hard since her dad had been made redundant last February. But then Suzie said that it meant she would have to move
away, and Laurie’s world hung suspended for a moment...
"...and if you press alt-q - hold down the alt key and press q - you’ll get her original message, so you can interleave
your reply…" Laurie kept telling herself that they would keep in touch, they could email every day, it was only
a ninety-minute flight from London so they could visit in the holidays. But as she struggled to remember strange combinations
of keys, something told her that it wouldn’t happen; a few emails, but only when she could drag her father from the
TV to help her, a Christmas card, and it would all fade out. Her first lost friend.
It was a warm September, and the windows were open. The wind found it easy to come in and carry away her mournful sigh.
Listen:
Michelle rushed from the dining hall with the taste of breakfast’s beans and bacon still in her mouth. She dashed
to the common room to get her mail from her pigeonhole, then headed across campus to the lecture theatre; she was late for
a lecture on 19th Century Attitudes to Greek Philosophy. As she went, she shuffled through her post. "Bill, bill, advertisement,
oh!" - she had bumped into somebody. As she looked up, she saw that it was Mark. Damn! Why did it have to be Mark, the one
person on campus above all who she wanted to impress. "Sorry, Mark, must dash - bill, ah, mum!" She stuffed the other envelopes
into the Hessian bag that was slung over her shoulder, alongside the ring binder and pencil case, and pulled the pale blue
envelope open. She looked up to cross the busy road that bisected the campus, then started reading the letter as she trotted
past the computer science building. Suddenly she stopped, with a sharp intake of breath. "Cream!", she gasped.
"Cream bun", the sort of pun that appeals to an eight-year-old girl being given a pet rabbit for her birthday. A little
bundle of white fur with erect ears and rather sharper claws than she had expected, with which she could dig arms as well
as the ground when Michelle tried to move her to clean her hutch. And that peed on settee when Michelle sat with her for a
family photograph. But little by little they had got used to each other, until Cream would rush excitedly to the door as Michelle
opened it, and would nuzzle her hand.
By the time Michelle was doing her school leaving exams, Cream didn't exactly rush excitedly anywhere any more, but liked
to sleep cradled in Michelle's arms. It was never really discussed, just understood, that Cream would stay with Michelle's
parents while Michelle was at college; Cream seemed to belong more to the house, to the furniture, than to any person, even
Michelle. Besides, she wouldn't be allowed in the halls of residence, so there was really nothing to decide.
Thirteen years. A reasonable life for a rabbit, though not great. Michelle read that her father had buried Cream at the
bottom of the garden, in an unmarked spot. The campus wind carried away her mournful sigh as she moved on, more slowly now,
to her encounter with Kierkegaard.
Listen:
"Damn, who the hell is that?"
Michael hit the mute button on the television remote, moved aside a foil tray of cold chop-suey and two old newspapers
and lifted the telephone handset, knocking over an empty beer-can with the cord. "Oh, hi, Luce, how ya doin'? ... No, you're
not interrupting anything". He was trying desperately to lipread the contestant on the TV, who was explaining how the device
his team was assembling from scrapyard junk would toss a car into the air, this week's challenge. "No, it's always great to
hear
from you".
Always great, that is, as long as he could distract himself. Always great, as long as he didn't think about those hazel
eyes, that auburn hair, and how they looked like out-of-focus van Gogh swirls when he kissed her. As long as he didn't think
about how it was him, out of all the boys in the school, that she chose to go to the pictures with, how they used to cycle
together into town on Saturdays to go to the gallery or museum and just hold each other in the presence of antiquity, thinking
of all those centuries, all those generations all those people who had held each other as they held each other, and could
they possibly have loved as he loved Luce? And the Sundays, when they would cycle to the countryside, and what they did beside
that hedge in the cornfield on that sticky August day, how he had woven a wedding-ring from a corn stalk, how they imagined
the bees humming the wedding march, how they hesitatingly and tenderly consummated their private blessing at dusk.
It would be over by harvest.
"Yes, I'm keeping fine...no, still on my own...yeah, sad to be stuck in front of the telly on a Saturday night, isn't
it?"
Always great, as long as he doesn't think of that night with Sue, that stupid f***ing night with Sue, when they has both
got completely out of their heads at Al's twenty-first birthday party and Luce had caught them in the pub car park with their
hands in each other's clothes. Al and Chas had had to pull Luce off him, still kicking and screaming. A few months later Luce
started going out with Chas, and Michael started staying in with a pack of beer. It was a wonder they stayed in touch, but
they had all the same friends, and when Luce married Chas two years later it was pretty evident that she was over Michael.
They even invited him to the wedding, though he didn't go. He wondered if she was just trying to rub it in, remind him of
what he'd blown. Still, twelve years is a lot of time for healing. Or for learning to cope.
"You are? Oh, that's wonderful, congratulations! When is it due? ... You've been trying for so long, haven't you? ...
Is it going ok? I mean, thirty-three is quite late for one's first ... oh, good. Are you hoping for a boy or a girl?"
Small-talk, small-talk. On the television the team had built a sort of trebuchet to hurl the scrap car. It collapsed
under the weight of the car.
"Well, mustn't keep you ... yes, you and Chas must come over for a meal some time, it's been so long since we saw each
other ... take care".
The room was warm and draught-free, but it didn't matter. Some sighs the wind can catch through walls.
Listen:
Alice was alone in the double bed, as usual. There seemed to be more of her nightdress than there was of her, a frail
old woman, barely causing a fold in the covering. The wallpaper in the room was peeling, the windows cracked and covered with
cardboard and the carpet was threadbare. She hadn't the strength to look after the house any more, though when her daughter
and son-in-law has suggested that she should go into a nursing home, move out of the bed she had shared with Jack for nearly
sixty years she had found a strength that had startled the couple. They were in Australia now, and couldn't help with the
housekeeping, but a nurse came from social services twice a week to make sure Alice was alright and to do the things that
absolutely had to be done.
Alice was dreaming, dreaming of Jack as she always did. How fine he had looked in his air-force uniform that day at the
dance. He always thought that he had noticed Alice first, but Alice remembered how hard she had worked to make sure he noticed
her - and to make sure he though that he had noticed her first. She dreamed of their wedding and their wedding night. She
couldn't remember the sex, though she was sure they must have done it, but clearly remembered the wonder of the intimacy,
of warm skin by warm skin, of somebody breathing by her side. Sex didn't have to mean anything, but to sleep with somebody
you had to trust them, really trust them. She couldn't remember any arguments, fights and very few bad times, not because
they didn't happen but because it's the memories you rarely bring to the fore, rarely dwell on that fade first. She didn't
remember her labour pains, but remembers Mary not being there and then being there, a pink mass of fingers, toes and smiles
that the midwife said were just wind. She remembered Mary's first day at school, her wedding, seeing her off at the airport
as she flew off to Australia. All these things she remembered, but not at the moment. At the moment she dreamed of Jack.
And she dreamed of a bad time. The worst time. That morning just over eight years earlier when she had woken up to find
that the bed was not as warm as usual. The worst time was that instant when she wondered whether he was going to wake up,
the instant when the world stopped, when her empty belly felt as though it had even less than nothing in it. That instant
when she had not known what to do. When she realised that he would not wake up, would never wake up, then she knew what to
do. And she did it, and the wind that caught that cry of grief was not our wind of sighs but a January blizzard that closed
roads and schools and factories and made the city glad that they were not out in such a wounding gale.
But eight years is time enough for a storm to die down, and gradually she learned to put less water in the kettle and
buy fewer potatoes. She learned to tell her reminiscences to the photographs of her daughter and grandson. She learned to
sleep in a cold bed.
She dreamed now that the wind came through her cracked window-pane and that the wind was made of all the sighs and all
the sorrows of the world. She dreamed that she asked the wind why it brought her all this sadness. And she dreamed that the
wind spoke with Jack's voice, and the wind replied "I do not bring sadness; I carry it away".
And the wind took her final mournful sigh, and was gone.
Listen...
Copyright (c) Tim Rowe, 2004. All rights reserved, worldwide. Any copying,reproduction, or use of any portion without
direct written permission of the author is a violation of copyright
Lady of The Street
Gloria was as glorious as ever, drunk, loud and smelling of sweat and stale alcohol. As usual she was indulging in her
delusion. She spent most of her day walking around her estate. Her town centre home, with a lake in the park and a forest
of office blocks in her garden was the centre of excellence for banking and business alike. Her haute couture was folded neatly
with all her other possessions in a supermarket trolley, discarded as not the right sort to house in the shop and she stood
on the street corner raving at the people as they went about their day.
They had tried to get her arrested again, of course. It was impossible to go to the office and face the day in the air
conditioned calm of polite company when confronted with a reminder of the fragility of the veneer of society. How is it possible
to enjoy a bottle of Chardonnay with lunch when there is a bag lady outside shovelling lamb Dansak, with a slice of cold Mexican
Chicken special pizza, which she had mine swept out of the bin. How can one enjoy the finesse of one’s wine when she
is standing there swigging cheap sherry out of the bottle. Everyone knew her but no one knew, or wanted to know, who she was.
A titter of self conscious giggle gaggle floated around the leather chesterfields as she stuck her head around the door and
raved into the wine bar.
“You bastards have no idea. You think you’re better than me but you are not. They could steal your house
from you too you know”.
Gloria’s delusion was the insanity that kept her sane. As she went about her day, toting everything she possessed
before her, she ranted to all and sundry about her dream cottage. Nobody ever listened to her of course, she was a source
of amusement to the lunchtime shoppers and an icon of disgust for the executives who might have the idea that life was a constant
struggle to win at all costs.
“There but for the grace of god…”, the Armani suit uttered to the Porsche driver, failing to be bothered
to complete the over scrubbed clichй to the selectively deaf Stoic.
Jane Sanderson was disgusted. She had risen through the ranks at the law firm where she had served her articles before
qualifying as a solicitor. She was a high flyer. Her disgust was not at the clearly mentally ill woman at the door, but at
the self absorbed clientele who had the arrogance to laugh at the poor woman’s misfortune. Jane thought her likely to
be schizophrenic , neurotic and alcoholic. What ever she was in her deluded state, she did not deserve to be laughed at. Her
stiff faced stare at the room was noted by her colleagues around the lunch table. She was naпve in her concept. They
all knew Gloria of old and the knowing glances sealed Jane’s fate. She was about to be set up with the company’s
stock practical joke.
Every new lawyer had been had with catharsis gloriana as the sting had come to be known among the well educated school
in chambers: those in the loop; in the know, educated to the facts. The next morning Jane was vaguely aware that there were
knowing glances from the reception and office staff as she came into chambers. She thought she was paranoid when she was sure
she saw the clerk repress a smirk as the appointments for her day were handed over: Eleven a.m. Mrs Wilson. Housing dispossession,
was all the information she had in the diary.
Most of the morning was spent on the bread and butter drudgery of conveyancing property; A legal requirement to sell
houses but it kept her in clean undies. She was glad for the break when coffee was wheeled in on the housekeeper’s hostess
trolley. Her appointment had arrived and was ushered quickly into her room. As the door shut she heard the distinct sound
of a can of air freshener as it was deployed around the landing and staircase. And there, as large as life itself was the
veritable vision of Gloria in all her glory. The smell was almost overpowering and Jane had to feign a cough as she gagged
at he shock of it. As she asked Mrs Wilson to take a seat she could see head lice crawling across her brow and then disappearing
into the mass of blackened scalp and hair on her head. She had no time to cut her client short as she ripped into a tirade
of rage.
As Mrs Wilson poured her diatribe of verbal nonsense, Jane was forced to listen. She was not to know it but she was the
first person who had listened to Mrs Wilson’s story in twenty years, which was the entire time that Gloria had been
a bag lady.
Her story related a strange set of events. She had lived in a neat and well kept council house, a cottage in fact that
had roses around the door and Hollyhocks in the garden. Her description left a picture of a real address with a picture postcard
faзade and location. She told of visits from the council, of men in suits. She told of their rude and insistent manner.
She related the full brutal and callous execution of an eviction order that made her homeless. She related the cynical uncaring
disregard with which her pleas for help to get another address were ignored. She told that she could not make anyone listen
because she was treated as a homeless case. The fact that they had made her homeless was conveniently ignored. To her it stank.
To the rest of the world, it seems, she stank.
Jane listened with sceptical enthusiasm. If this woman was telling the truth, then the people who evicted her had in
fact robbed her of her home. She doubted the veracity of the tale. As she listened with one ear, she keyed her way through
the internet and came across the case in a couple of minutes. It only took a scanning read of the facts presented to see that
if this is what had gone on, then Gloria Wilson was a bag lady because someone had decided they liked the look of her cottage.
In the courtroom the judge listened with intent. The facts were laid before the court and in conclusion certain instructions
were given to the defendant. The local council repurchased the property at the sellers asking price. They removed all the
plastic framed windows, the decking, gazebo, the plastic pepper pot conservatory and the new hard standing for the seven series
‘beamer’ where the garden used to be. They had to engage a consultant horticulturalist to restore the cottage
garden to the state it was in when Mrs Wilson was evicted, to the exact specifications of the plaintiff. They had to replace
the roses around the door and the fire grate in the front room. They had to replace every brick and shingle to exactly the
same state as it was when Mrs Wilson was thrown out. Mrs Wilson had to take some carrier bags in her trolley, to put the plastic
wrappers from the showroom new furniture that the council were forced to replace for her. She demanded that the council send
someone to remove the rubbish that some nameless, homeless, forgotten bag lady had dumped on the street outside her nice cottage
in suburbia.
©Douglas Arnold 2004
All rights reserved, worldwide.
Any copying, reproduction, or use of
any portion without direct written permission
of the author is a violation of copyright law.
Secret Tide: Publish America.com
The Room
By
Dave Mack
Anger had taken over as I pulled off the road into the
lay-by. I thumped my fist onto the steering wheel before the gravel had settled. I had become a danger on the road. My judgment
was obscured by an emotional mist of sadness, guilt, fear, and anger.
Earlier I sat in her drawing room, looking around as Aunty
shuffled off to make tea; my offer of help declined. The room was welcoming and open, years ago, and the decorations and furnishings
impeccable, chosen by an eye for fashion, all infused with her warmth and charm. The memory brought a brief flash of freshness
to my mind that lifted me. But, it was only a flash, as it soon dissolved, replaced by bland mustiness, not as stark as forest
dankness but still all pervading.
Atrophy had set in with a vengeance. The ceiling, once
a glowing sky, had become grey rain-clouds and, as if those clouds had shed rain onto the walls, the pastel colours of the
wallpaper were leached of pigment and stained with time.
Her favourite chair sat at a tilt, a castor missing. Thrown
across its back, matted as a gutter cur, was the fur coat Uncle Jim had given her for their golden wedding. After getting
up, I stood by the fireplace looking up at Granddad immortalised in oils, each raised brushstroke now home to a fibrous mot
of dust. Like an urchin’s mother, I wet my handkerchief with saliva and gently wiped his face.
My eyes scanned the mantle, its content only ever altered
by addition. Her life encapsulated on six-foot of horizontal, dark oak. Fading pictures were in tarnished silver frames. I
studied them, one by one, from left to right. The drainpipe girl all curls and freckles. Svelte debutante. Proud with cap
and gown. Glowing at her wedding. The children. Then, the grandchildren. The bronze urn containing Uncle Jim’s ashes
stood on the extreme right. After the funeral, I had suggested she scatter them in his beloved Dee, at that favourite fishing
place, but she could not bear to be separated from him.
Aunty shambled in with the tea tray balanced on knotted,
arthritic hands. Taking it from her, I placed it on the little bow legged table that’s veneer had been warped by something
hot. I poured the tea, and for a while, we sat and chatted.
I looked at her crumpled face, but I heard the voice of
a girl as she regaled me with her stories. She spoke lovingly about the Chinese rug that she found in the little market in
Peking, and how poor Jim had, under protest, trussed it in string, making a shoulder sling, and carried it on the journey
home. She had continued with her stories about the jade Buddha from the floating shop and the crystal goblets they had seen
cut in Briarly Hill. As she talked her feeble eyes searched the room, to fondly pick out the dusty object of each story.
At last, I decided I must ask the question that was the
main purpose of my visit. ‘Aunty, please come home with me. You know we want you to, and the children would love it.
Move in with us!’
She reached over and took my hand in finger ends. Leaning
closer to look into my face, she responded with gritty firmness, ‘No dear! Thank you, but you can manage without me!
I need to stay here.’ So few words, but those dull eyes had locked on mine, and the tone in which her words were delivered
conveyed a determination and finality that I knew would not be shaken.
Having calmed myself, and realizing that my anger was frustration
based, my eyes focused somewhere between the windscreen and infinity, and I knew she would soon die in that room. I should
have argued, been firm, and pointed out the advantages. But, I just knew there was no point. Or was I weak?
It was that bloody room! She was still my Aunt! She was
still Aunt Mary! Yes, she was a crippled caricature of my memories, yet her mind was still alive; no dementia there. She was
going down, locked together with that room, like a captain and his sinking ship, clinging on to pride and the last remnants
of life’s flotsam.
It’s how she wanted it to end. Still, it did not
diminish my guilt or fear for her. Was I selfish? I don’t know. I do know that she would have been less of a burden
on my soul had she gone home with me.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Copyright
© June 20, 2004 Dave Mack. All rights reserved.
INTERVIEW WITH A SINNER
It was not necessary but he needed it.
I sat at the flat melamine topped table, looking at him. He had nothing in the eyes; nothing in the face that said he was
at all sorry. I noticed that I didn’t ask him why but he explained anyway: As though he needed to confess some rationalisation
to me; as though that would be a catharsis for him. I doubted it myself but he went on regardless.
He was saying that it all began with a
walk into town. He said he was going shopping. Not for anything specific but just window shopping. He passed the department
store window with the headless manikins. They had unlikely nipples sticking out through the fabric he said and legs right
up to the top. He would have bought the top for his girlfriend but would not be seen dead in a boutique. He said he went to
the newsagent and saw all the tabloid press spewing the lies and deceit of the day. There was nothing there of interest to
him either. He bought a lottery ticket though and was thinking of all the money that he would have if he won. It was the power
he was interested in really, not just the money. If a dollar was a chicken, would it be evil? So the advert asks. Then he
saw the CD. He had wanted that music for a long time but never had the money on him. He thought about it for a few seconds
then put the CD in his inside pocket. He pulled up his hood and angled the peak of his baseball cap down over his eyes. The
cameras could not identify him even if he looked shifty.
The security guards grabbed him outside
the shop. He did not want to be arrested or go to court so he kicked the one man in the groin and punched the other in the
face. He ran. As he went around the corner he knocked over a buggy. The contents spilled over into the road, baby and all.
The tax cab driver was in a hurry. He was perhaps going a little too quickly but he was within his rights; within the speed
limit. The driver would said he had no chance of stopping. So he ran on. He ran in fear because of what had happened even
though it was not his fault. Anyway there was nothing he could do about it now. Then he decided to dive into a bar to keep
off the streets. It was a good place to hide away in the dark he thought.
Then someone came in and said he had just
seen it all happen and then he pointed him out at the back of the bar room. Then he had to fight his way out of the place.
It was lunchtime and they were serving from the cold buffet. So he grabbed the chef’s knife and used it just to threaten
with. He did not intend to use it. He just wanted to get out of there. Someone grabbed him by the sleeve and he just lashed
out. The blade slid right between his ribs. It was effortless really. The man was pushing and shoving and kind of fell on
the knife. It was not his fault. He did not mean him to die. And all that for the want of a CD.
================================
©Douglas Arnold 2004
All rights reserved, worldwide.
Any copying, reproduction,
or use of
any portion without direct written permission
of the author is a violation of copyright law.
Secret Tide: Publish America.com
http://www.authorsden.com/douglasarnold
I’m Coming Home
© March 2004 Charlene Austin
All rights reserved, worldwide.
“Left leg will have to come off.”
“May help with rebuilding the right
if we can get him stabilized and into surgery.”
“BP’s
dropping.”
“We’re losing him! Paddles!”
I found myself drifting, watching the frantic
efforts of those below. Interesting, the sense of rising tension, the knowledge of the words I could no longer hear. Still,
I had no desire to aid their efforts by returning to the mangled shell left after the explosion. Though I sensed I could.
Then it seemed the room was drifting, no,
not drifting, fading. Fade out. Fade in. Here. There. Like watching shifting scenes in a movie. It didn’t seem strange
to suddenly be gazing upon the face of my wife and three-year-old daughter, thousands of miles away. The pleasure, the joy
of seeing them again after nearly five months blended nicely into the pleasurable peace of this existence.
“What are you doing, honey?”
“Making daddy a picture.”
“That’s nice. What is it? Can
I see?”
“Uh, huh. It’s a picture of
my brover, see.”
I watched Connie’s hand gently rub
her slightly rounded stomach as she leaned over the coffee table to better view our daughter’s picture. I had not received her
letters, but was suddenly aware of every word Connie had written to me about her pregnancy: Her joy and pleasure at telling
me we would have a son; the enclosed ultrasound image; her suggestion that we name him Brandon Jr.
I felt soft warm fingers brush against
a hand I did not have. The child Connie continued to soothe with her stroking hand, stroked me with the awareness of his precious
spirit. The awareness, knowledge, understanding that no matter my choice they would be fine. His knowledge, awareness, and
understanding of everything mixed with my own knowledge, awareness, and understanding of everything. Everything I would see,
feel, go through. Knowledge awareness, and understanding of the gift of choice, of free will.
Spirit soaring. Here. There.
“We’re losing him! Paddles!”
Electricity slammed me against the cold,
steel table and added to the fire of pain that raged through my body. I’m coming home, Connie. I’m coming home.
Homemade Home
by: Rena Nickerson
It would be kind to call it a cabin. In reality it was nothing more than a flat topped, tarred paper shack, nestled beneath
the pines. The three tiny rooms, consisting of kitchen and bedrooms, were built using salvaged lumber and rusty nails from
the town dump. The windows were nothing more than glass from abandoned cars, fitted into openings. Tarred paper covered the
floors and newspaper was glued to the walls in a vain attempt to keep out the cold, blowing winds. The only source of heat
was the rusty, old wood burning stove along one wall of the kitchen. A kitchen in the sense that cooking and eating went on
this room. There was a homemade table from leftover salvaged lumber and four rickey chairs, of different styles and various
colors of peeling paint, one for each family member. There was no plumbing. No kitchen sink. A wooden plank along the wall
held a chipped, white enamel wash basin, used to wash faces and dishes. The dirty water thrown out onto the forest floor.
On the far end of the plank were two galvanized buckets of water. Water that was totted from the nearest neighbor, a quarter
of a mile away. On the wall above the plank, hung from a spike, a pocket watch, that served as the family's only time piece.
Under the plank, in cardboard boxes, the family's few canned and packaged goods were stored. There was no refrigeration, nor
was there any electricity in which to run one. A kerosene lantern hung from the rafters casting a dim glow over the middle
of the room. Each bedroom held an old mattress, covered with equally old quilts. There were no sheets, there were no pillows.
More cardboard boxes held the family's small supply of thrift store clothing. In the bed room of the children, a boy and a
girl, a spring poked through the mattress, rotted covering,often cutting their tender skin as they slept. This is where this
family of four lived. Lived in the sense that they breathed, ate and slept.
=====
Copyright © 2003 Rena Nickerson. All rights reserved. Reproduction or use of any portion thereof is a direct violation
of U.S.and International copyright law.
Hoarfrost
“I can’t figure out mothers. I mean, I’m 8 years old. You’d think I’d know my own mother
by now but...” Max shrugged and looked off into the distance.
We were sitting on our usual park bench, close enough to the playground so his mom could see him, but far enough away
that it didn’t look like he was playing with his little sisters. We met there often when I came to sketch the children
and dogs at play. Over the months we had struck up a friendship.
“Hey, where were you last week? I waited for a while, but then Mom made me play with the girls. Sisters! Why couldn’t
they’ve been boys? Or a dog maybe. Jimmy just got a puppy and I’m going to see him tomorrow.”
Before I could answer, he had changed the subject again. By now I was used to his monologs and relished the challenge
of trying to keep up with his rapid flow of ideas. He seemed content if I was watching him whenever he looked my way and I
murmured a word or two in all the right places. My own daughter, though married, planned to put off motherhood for a while
longer. Max didn’t know it, but I was practicing being a grandmother on him.
“Yeah, so you know what my mom did? You know how she’s always on me about getting ready for school and not
being late and stuff? Well, she made me late one day last week.”
“My, that’s unusual,” I said.
“You bet it is. And I was on time that morning, too. Anyway, she took one look out the window and started to bundle
the girls up into their snowsuits. At seven o’clock in the morning! She hurried me up and we all got into the car and
off we went. I even left my lunch and backpack behind, but it wasn’t my fault.” Max got up, made a few snowballs,
and tossed them at the oak across the path. As he wandered back to our bench, I quickly sketched his expressive face, ever
changing as it displayed his varying emotions. He stole a glance at my pad as he settled himself to continue his story.
“So where do you think we went? To the river. Seven o’clock in the morning on a school day! I couldn’t
figure out what had gotten into my mom.”
“So what was at the river?”
“Well, actually the show started before we got there. The sun was just coming up and it was magic.”
“Magic?”
“Yeah. Magic.” A satisfied sigh escaped through his smile and a look of wonder filled his eyes. “Well,
you know how it looks when the window is all frosted up and the sun comes through? Kind like a rainbow, all the colors there?”
I nodded. “Well, the whole world looked like that. There was ice on all the trees and even the blades of grass had outlines.
And when the sun hit it, man, that was something!” He slumped back on the bench and stared off into the sky for a moment.
“That was really something.”
“Worth being late for school for?”
“You bet! Only I wasn’t late for school that day. We took the whole day off. Mom said days like that didn’t
happen very often and we should celebrate it. So we stayed at the river until the sun melted all the ice and we got cold.
Then we came home, had hot chocolate and read books to each other all day. It was so cool!”
“Your mom is a very wise woman. Days like that one really should be celebrated.”
“But just when I thought I had her figured out, she went and did this. Now I’m back where I started. Confused.”
He grinned at me. “Will I ever figure out women?”
© 28 January 2004 Carol E. Burris. All rights reserved worldwide.
Reproduction or use of any portion thereof is a direct violation of U.S.
and International copyright law.
Winter’s Treasure
Closing the door behind her, Cassie leaned against it for a moment. She watched the local fog bank from her breath and
felt the tension start to drain away. Praise be! She loved her children, but after two weeks of arctic temperatures which
cooped them all inside, she needed to get out of the house.
Leaving Robin to cope with bath time and stories, she inhaled deeply, holding the frigid air inside until it seemed her
lungs would burst. Releasing her breath, feeling cleansed, she started out, intent on reaching the stream before the cold
forced her to turn back.
Cassie tucked her gloved hands deep into her pockets and strode across the clearing to the edge of the forest. Ethereal
in the moonlight, her image reflected her name, Cassiopeia. Half grounded in the earth, half flying amid the stars, her reality
was somewhere in the middle and a bit of both. Right now, however, she craved a bit of solitude and a break from the earthbound
reality of high energy children trapped in too little space for too many days on end.
The night was crystal clear and still, lit by a nearly full moon. The bare tree branches above her head painted intricate
lacy shadows beneath her booted feet. That particular squeak from the snow as she walked was a gift of Boreas, a way to measure
the depth of the cold. It reminded her that her time outside would have to be short.
She allowed her thoughts to drift as she wove her way between the trees, a mixed wood of slender birch, broad oak and
stately fir. Only a few weeks had passed since the solstice, so winter would hold them in her grasp for weeks yet. Cassie
sighed. This was shaping up to be a long winter.
A hoarse yelp off to her right broke into her reverie. Curious, Cassie veered off toward the road a hundred yards away.
Another bark and then another, more hopeful than the first, urged her to hurry.
“Hey, girl, whatcha doing here?” Cassie voice was soothing as she squatted down and held out a hand to be
sniffed. “What’s the matter? How’d you wind up here?” Her tail thumped gently on the snow. “Can
you get up? Are you hurt, my little friend?”
Thoughts of the stream quickly vanished as Cassie assessed the scene. The bitch was cold, that was clear, but why was
she lying there? She had been there for a while it seemed. The afternoon’s snow had covered over any tracks which might
have given her a clue as to what had brought her to this place. Cassie began to rub her hand along the bitch’s tawny
back. When she reached the soft, furry side, she felt movement within. A muscle knotted beneath her fingers and a moan escape
the canine mouth.
“Why, you’re about to have puppies,” Cassie marveled. “Easy, mama. I’m here with you. But
surely this isn’t a very good place for a birth. How about we see if I can take you home?”
Cassie was winded and sweating despite the cold by the time she had carried her burden to the house. As she maneuvered
up the porch steps, Robin opened the door.
“I was getting worried. You’d been out too long in this cold.” Looking more closely, he examined the
bundle she was carrying. “So what is it you’ve brought home this time?” Robin sighed.
“Don’t start on me! I couldn’t leave her out in the cold to whelp. The pups wouldn’t survive
and she might not have either.”
“Easy now. I’m not complaining. I just thought you’d gone out because the walls were closing in on
you and I didn’t figure we needed another dog to trip over.” They’d had the “dog discussion”
for months now and Cassie knew his opinions well.
Several hours later, warm and finished with her labor, two small puppies completed the scene in front of the hearth.
Cassie snuggled into Robin’s arms on the couch. Small though it was as Cassie thought what it would have been like to
give birth on the snow her heart filled with gratitude for the walls which surrounded her, the same walls she had escaped
from so desperately a few hours before. A sense of contentment and serenity replaced her earlier querulousness. Her children
were safe, warm and asleep, Robin by her side. As though reading her mind, Robin said softly, “I suppose we could call
her Winter’s Treasure.
©24 January 2004 Carol E. Burris. All right reserved worldwide.
Reproduction or use of any portion thereof is a direct violation of U.S.
and International copyright law.
The Cost of Love
Amber held tightly to her teenage daughter as the gang surrounded them. She had taken a wrong turn, and with it being
evening had gotten herself turned around too many times, leading her into the bad side of the city.
Amber was nervous, along with Alice, as the car had begun to sputter and quickly run out of gas. They were forced to
try and find help in the run down neighborhood, which resulted in nothing but harrasment by shady individuals. Turning back,
they had been stopped by a gang, surrounded and belittled. Alice cried at her side while Amber attempted to negotiate with
the gang of male and female members to no avail.
Suddenly, a females voice sounded loudly above the others and all became quiet. Amber looked on as a girl emerged through
the crowd and walked towards her and Alice. The girl was no older than her daughter. She wore numerous rings in her skin,
was dirty looking, and had tattoos on her arms. Brass nuckles adorned her right fist, a chain hung to her side along with
a knife and a gun was stashed in the front of her jeans with the butt end sticking out.
As the girl moved closer, a realization occured to Amber. At first it wasn't concrete, but the girl's features seemed
familiar somehow. She had seen her, known her from somewhere. At the same time, she realized she was getting the same look
from the teenage leader of the gang.
Amber realized that Alice was now looking at the girl with wide eyes, mouth open if about to speak.
With a wave of her hand, the girl nodded and the gang slowly dispersed in a grumbling manner.
"Hi," the girl spoke more softly than her appearance showed. "At first I wasn't sure, but now I am. How are you doing
these days Mrs. Tanner? Alice, it's been a long time."
"Sarah? Is that really you? I haven't seen you since...since..."
"Since she picked you over me," Sarah glared at Amber, one that was both cruel, yet sad.
Amber knew now where she had seen her before. Six years ago she had adopted Alice. She could only get one child and she
wanted a girl. Sarah was wonderful, a dream, but so was Alice. It was the toughest choice she had ever made. And now, in front
of her, was the sweet child she had abandoned at the orphanage.
"Sarah, I, I had to make a choice," Amber's eyes filled with tears.
"I know you did. I got stuck with a few foster parents, but they were nothing like you. They cared, to a point. I always
ended back where I started, until finally I ran away. It was tough at first, real tough," Sarah swiped at her eyes, "But here
I am, with a family, the only one I have now. This is my home," she looked around, then lowered her head.
Amber felt Alice release from her side and walk towards Sarah, who backed away and shook her head.
"No, please. Just leave, I'll have my friends gas up your car and tell you how to find your way back to your home. It
was good to see you ended up with a happy life Alice, atleast one of us did. Maybe if your mom had picked me, you would have
had good luck somewhere else and we'd both be happy...but we'll never know will we," turning, Sarah ran and disappeared into
an alley.
Amber could not stop crying. The pain in her heart was deep. Had she made the wrong choice six years ago? Alice rejoined
her and gave Amber a large, loving hug.
"Oh mom, I'm glad that wasn't me who just ran away. Thank you so much for the life you have given me."
Amber squeezed her daughter tightly, the daughter she loved with all her heart and being. But deep inside, she wondered.
Wondered what life she had taken away from Sarah by not choosing her, yet realizing she never would have known the love and
compassion of Alice if she had not done things the way she had.
All she could do now was regret not being able to give Sarah the same love and life she had given to Alice. She turned
with Alice and began walking back towards the car.
Amber knew she would be haunted in her mind and soul, and heart by Sarah for the rest of her life.
Copyright © 2003 Craig K MacLachlan. All rights reserved. Reproduction or use of any portion thereof is a direct violation
of U.S. and International copyright law.
Essays and Articles
"Desert Dreams"
By Charlene Austin
I love western art, so I was very excited to be given the opportunity this week to look through "Desert Dreams" a new
collection of the award winning art of Don Crowley by Don Hedgepeth, The Greenwich Workshop Press.
This book is very special because it is dedicated to LaVan Martineau. LaVan was a family friend, and listening to
him read his poetry and tell stories when I was a child was the catalyst for my dream and desire to write.You won't find much
on his poetry, and there is no way to describe the power of his storytelling, but you will find two of his better known works
"The Rocks Begin to Speak" and "Southern Paiute" at bookstores and on the net.
I spent much of my childhood playing with LaVan's children and met Mr. Crowley on one occasion because LaVan's girls
are among his favorite models. This book features several paintings of the girls at various ages and new ones in some
of their famous handmade hand-beaded costumes from their world-tour native dance performances.
Rachel began posing for him when she was only two, and all of the girls often spent summers near his home modeling for
his famous paintings. His new works now includes their children.
You can view many of these paintings by visiting
and browsing through the gallery of his paintings.
I Always Did What Was Expected
“I always did what was expected,” my mother said, over and over in the weeks after my father died. It usually
came up in the context of going on alone or her move to smaller quarters in assisted living.
The first time I heard if, I thought, “Yeah. You always worried about appearances. What other people would think
of you. And that trickled down to us kids in all the unspoken assumptions about what our family believed and how we behaved.
Somehow, we were supposed to be a little better than everyone else.” But I went on, sorting and packing, one drawer
or cupboard at a time.
“I always did what was expected of me.” How much of her life did she feel she was living in a fish bowl?
First the daughter of a prominent man at the plant in a one industry town. Then, for nearly 60 years, the wife of a pastor
in the parsonage usually right next door to the church. Even the laundry flapping in the breeze on the clothesline shared
its secrets to anyone who chose to look. And you can be sure they looked. I can’t remember her even going out for the
morning newspaper without being full dressed, including shoes.
“I always did what was expected of me.” Does my heart deceive me, or is the pain of some secret yearning
hidden behind those words? I try to listen more closely. I open the door of her memories, encourage her to tell me her stories,
but on that one subject she is silent.
“I always did what was expected of me.” Now I hear, some days, the beginning of the “but.” Eighty-five
years old and the gleam is back in her eye as she begins to do things her way.
© 4 February 2004 Carol E. Burris All rights reserved worldwide. Reproduction or use of any portion thereof is a direct
violation of U.S. and International copyright law.
Hurtful Labels:
The comments were not even whispered.
'Look at that child!'
'Disgraceful.'
'Naughty boy.'
'He knows what he's doing.'
'Well of course he does.'
'Terrible parents.'
'No discipline.'
'Left to run wild.'
'What he needs is a clip round the ear.'
What would I, the 'bad parent,' like to say?
Step back. Find out facts. Don't judge.
He doesn't understand, doesn't see things as you do.
He has poor concentration.
He feels trapped, confused, noises crowd in on him.
He needs to escape, needs to lash out.
He needs space, time, understanding.
Most of all he needs his own order, reassurance and love.
Helpful Labels:
'A.D.H.D.'
'Autism.'
'My precious son.'
I make no comment. I leave the store, take my son home and continue to give him my love and support.
This is about my 9 year old son, George. I would like to develop this topic and make people more aware.
Rebekah
Copyright © 2004 Rebekah Hatfield. All rights reserved
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