FROM PREVIOUS ISSUES
PERFECTLY HONEST When she comes into the room carrying two logs for the fire, I see the heaviness of her walk and the swing of her grey braids. That should be enough for tonight, don't you think, Donnie? she asks her husband. He grunts something, doesn't look up from his laptop. I look at him, then back at her bending over slowly to put the logs on the fire, think to myself just how fucking old all my old friends have become. You know, she says straightening up and turning toward him, I spent all day cleaning up your desk, then picking up your clothes in the bedroom. The least you can do is pay a little attention when I talk to you. I am paying attention, he grumbles. I heard every word you said. Loud and clear. She picks up her wine glass and takes a long drink. Well, she says her voice starting to quiver, I just wish you'd help me sometime, or at least show some goddamn appreciation. Do you think I like doing chores all the time? Do you really think I enjoy spending every weekend cleaning up your messes? He finally looks up from his computer, then replies slowly and unemotionally, To be perfectly honest, yes. Everything seemed to go silent. She slowly put her hand on her hip, glares at him, mutters about being sick and tired of all his bullshit. I watch her walk out of the room, hear the bedroom door close, then only the hiss and crack of the fire. Ten minutes later Donnie stands up. I better go make nice, he says. When he walks in front of the fireplace, he stops and turns to ask me, This heat feels really good, doesn't it? I just nod, don’t have the heart to tell him the truth that I’m sitting too far away to feel any warmth. David J. Thompson Chapel Hill, NC BOB HAD LEFT TOWN & ALL THAT JAZZ
She didn't want to drink anymore so we walked hand-in-hand half-way home before it dawned on us that we had a car parked behind the bar We bought it just that day - something we had been saving like mad for A 1953 Dodge coupe with only a few nicks & dents But neither of us knew how to work a stick & Bob had left town so we continued to walk home We made love to the four jazz records that we owned outright Neither one of us thought about that car again & Bob never did return from `Orleans Mike Faran Ventura, CA |
PENNGROVE IN A DROUGHT YEAR
With the late sun low, the shadow of Mack's bar deepens over the rail stop platform. This bar's a place that incites me to play Grand Funk a dozen times on the juke, get the barmaid to sing along — save for the fact I'm forever shy to ask. She's part time here, a nursing student at Sonoma State. Draws blood for therapy, she tells me. Another woman, with strange sleepy eyes asks me to play Liar's Dice. She's with a biker from Rip City Riders. He's downed a third blended whiskey and isn't happy. I pretend my hearing's shot, can barely hear her, and don't understand the game. Behind me through the window, a passenger steps off the outbound train. She wishes upon a blue flower growing between the tracks, lifting itself from the stone. Jeffrey Alfier Torrence, CA WHERE'S THE ICE? It had been a wicked summer, hot and humid. Weeks went by with no rain. The grass had turned a sickly yellow. Jim came home from work that Friday, sweaty and irritable. "Who drank all the beer?" he yelled after slamming the refrigerator door. "And where the hell is all the ice?" He found Rita in the bedroom. She had cranked up the air conditioner and turned on a tape of ocean waves. She sat in a beach chair wearing her tiny blue bikini, two icy drinks clinked in her hands. She held one out, "Welcome home baby." she said. Tere Sievers Long Beach, CA ECSTASY
Dearest Diary, In early morning washed and mended sermons. Sorted proverbs until lunch. In afternoon poured tea for fifty volunteers. Spoke with special cheer to three widows crazy for my reverend husband. Played organ for choir but not so well that I felt pride. Dusted angels up to supper. Heard my children's prayers. At last alone, removed wedding ring to free my stigmata (an angry rash circled like a snake beneath the gold.) Ran the tap till water steamed. Held finger under till rash reddened and swelled. Wept needles and knives as I soared past heaven to the only place I can be myself, Spread-eagled at the crossroads of pleasure and pain. Replaced ring. Donned my gown and so to bed. Prayed for all but myself. Elaine Fowler Palencia Champaign, IL |