Art by Tom Besson

Duality

Issue Eight's Table of Contents

Greenland's First Bird Sanctuary, Brenton Harper-Murray
Lying Without Youth (Part One), Chris Castle
Lying Without Youth (Part Two)
Flower Power (Part One), Leland Thoburn
Flower Power (Part Two)
The Things Inside Us, Fred Skolnik
What's Done is Done (Part One), Deborah L. Reed
What's Done is Done (Part Two)
Do not repeat. Do not repeat, Paul Handley
Charming, Paul Handley
Duality, Dan Cirilo
Art by Tom Besson
Field Towards Road, Chris Crittenden
Mountain Guide for Avoiding Bears, William Neumire
Sunset on Some Place You've Never Been, John Grey
Various Crash Landings, John Grey
It All Becomes Fiction, Steven Mayoff
Dream a Little Dream of You, Franz Baskett
On Refusing To Educate, Franz Baskett

Contributor Bios
Editrice Note: Stress and Coffee

Issue 8...We're Falling Asleep, But It's Up!

This is probably the latest we've ever stayed up to deliver an issue to ya. We're encountering some web layout issues, as some of you may have noticed, but we should fix them over the weekend. We love you all, Happy Fall, everyone. Thanks as usual to all the usual suspects, but a big thanks goes to Dan Caron, who kept Liz up and sane long enough to post this. A little sanity is always nice. PS: You get the benefit of color online--isn't this guy gorgeous? 

Stress and Coffee--Editrice Note

Those are the two overwhelming preoccupations of The Toucan Editrices when they are not having heartfelt, poignant debates over submissions. Well, Editrice Laura prefers oranges. And Editrice Liz likes a good novel, but we do it all for you, toots.

We hope everyone and everything had a good summer. This is the first time the bird did not vacation—you may recall a certain yellow-covered Summer Issue that came out ‘round July 1st. Yes, he was on a beach with a beautiful girl, but dang, it was work! Once again, we’d like to thank all our contributors. We now receive consistent submissions and will only cease to publish upon the death of both Editrices (which may or may not be caused by a deluge of submissions). Just when we thought our luck as complete ruddy amateurs was dwindling, MORE came. This is encouraging. And we still want to encourage you to send us the writing from under the bed. Make sure you dust it off first, and take a look at guidelines and all relevant stuff on www.thetoucanonline.blogspot.com. Then when you have ensured you are enclosing a work of…we’re afraid “genius” will scare you, so we’ll go all Monty Python, “Personal Best”—send em’ to thetoucanmag@gmail.com, and the debating shall begin.

This issue is a bit shorter than the two previous, but it sure hits the mark for quality. The scales are tipped for fiction, we admit. Maybe it’s the alliteration, fall, fiction, “Flower Power”…and by the time you finish that one you’ll have even more questions about what’s in the mascot’s cigar. But there’s a sobering, bracing quality to the work. Suicide is contemplated, death is pondered, realizations laid bare, voyages meet with “Various Crash Landings” and THE HIPPY IS GOING EXTINCT! Eventually, “It All Becomes Fiction” and fall is as good a time as any to remind ourselves of that. But we do wish our readership would avoid bears, otherwise you might be pondering death sooner than you think. We do not “Refuse To Educate”: “Mountain Guide For Avoiding Bears” is our PSA. “Charming”, isn’t it?

Having beaten around the bush sufficiently, you probably are all expiring from curiosity about the absolutely adorable, incredibly handsome and manly model on our cover. The story behind it is a little cagey, but we will tell you that that fine bird is the original, the one, the only. You can see him for yourself somewhere outside Chicago. He’ll call “rrKKK, rrKKK” and your heart will melt to the point where he could pick it out of your chest with his beak and gently toss it back to you (toucan courting ritual, no joke). Our love to this bird, but especially the San Fran Dan.


Making like trees and leafing,

Liz and Laura, Toucan Editrices

Greenland's First Bird Sanctuary--Brenton Harper Murray

The following is a description of the groundbreaking trip taken in the year 1919 by robber baron, financier, eccentric, and self described ‘Bully Fellow’ Marshall Burnham. Marshall Burnham made his fortune speculating in the town gas market and was blessed with continued financial success by his creation of popular remedies, including; “Burnham’s Miracle Suppository”, “Burnham’s Incredible Ear Tonic”, “Burnham’s Vapor Reducer”, and the mysteriously titled “Jittery Jim Injiction”, most of which were tinctures of heroin suspended in earwig honey.


Marshall’s grand scheme first came into form after he read of the first trans-Atlantic dirigible flight in the bottom of one of his many canary cages (he had an innate fear of gas leaks). He is quoted to have said, “I’ll be damned and blasted if I let those Injuns show us who wears the knickerbockers!”

It is to be noted that he called all foreigners ‘Injuns’.

He had always dreamed of flying over some ‘Grand Thing’, and when he accumulated his riches, purchased the largest dirigible available at the time. Once he acquired it, however, he could not think of a Grand enough Thing to fly over, so the great dirigible floated over his estate for years until the day he read the article. He was infuriated that the Injuns had thought of a Grand Thing to fly over before he could. He decided to do just what they had done, but would show the world that it could be done with class and ease,

“...and I shall be at such ease with my feat, I will enjoy a delicious breakfast the entire time.”

He set his man servants to readying the airship for immediate take- off. The first Intercontinental Breakfast was underway.

His ship was stocked with numerous carafes of coffee, tea, and orange juice. There were bagels and croissants and waffles with no less than four kinds of syrup. There was a selection of seasonal fruits and spreads including: cream cheese, ricotta cheese, head cheese, and a product of his own design, “Galloping Good Breakfast Spread”, which was a paste formed mostly of cocaine and earwig honey. The hitherto unnamed airship was dubbed “The Most Excellent Lord and Savior of the Stars”, and after a quick press release, he and two of his manservants, “Howley” and “Bigguns” set out from upstate New York and over the sea.

This is where the story becomes foggy. Few things were recovered from the Greenland crash site of “The Most Excellent Lord and Savior of the Stars” except for a gigantic pile of marmalade and a syrup-drenched logbook. Shared with you now, are the few surviving entries from that book.


June 19th—Anchors aweigh! I am exhilarated at this most Grand


Undertaking. With this first cup of coffee and warm syrup-drenched waffle I christen this voyage and begin my meal.



June 20th —I only wish that I had planned my condiment spread with more prudence, the barrels of maple syrup shift disconcertingly as the ship pitches to and fro. Bigguns has told me that we are on course, though I suspect that his pilot license may be counterfeit. Just a bit of the old Yankee paranoia, I'm sure. High spirits all around!



June 21st —I am growing weary of eating. Howley has suggested that we take turns eating, thus continuing the meal, but I fear he has designs on my food supply. I informed him sternly that he would only consume his ration of hard tack and chicory for the remainder of the flight. I am thankful for the ambrosia-like effect the Galloping Good spread has imparted unto me, as I am able to stay awake all hours to make sure no mischief is afoot.



June 22nd —I caught Bigguns sneaking a ladle-full of syrup from one of the drums just now. I pretended to sleep, and mere moments after my eyes closed he crept from the helm and pried the lid off of the lingonberry drum. This enraged me and I leapt to my feet and whipped him with my pistol until he fell to his knees. I kicked over the contents of the barrel onto him. Let him have all the syrup he wants! (syrup) The rest of the night passed in a fragrant silence. Halfway through my supply of Galloping Good Spread. I hope this trip finishes soon.



June 24th —They are both covered in syrup now, with no way to clean themselves! I am overcome with hilarity! How they stick to everything they touch! I pass my time throwing baked goods at them and noting which foodstuffs stick, and which slide off. Bigguns made an attempt on my life after a rather well-aimed cruller adhered itself to the crotch of his trousers. He had taken no more than three sticky paces before I forced him back with my pistol and he quaked with fear. In future journeys of this kind I will be sure to bring another gentleman along for civilized company. These savages are trying my patience.


June 26th—I used the last of the Galloping Good Spread today. (syrup) I hear the hissing day and night now. I fear one of my gunshots may have torn the balloon. Outside the windows I see nothing but water. (Syrup) Neither Howley nor Bigguns will speak to me unless I hold the gun to his head. I know their secret. Having not slept in over a week is taking its toll on my body, and the spiders that follow me everywhere cause me great distress, though Howley and Bigguns seem to enjoy their company too much. I believe they are in cahoots with the insidious arachnids. I have a plan that should remove these terrible violet spiders from my life for good. (Syrup) Boysenberry is the key.


June 28th- ...I’m stuck to the floor...(syrup)...why did I fathom a need for so much...(syrup)...I fear they will take my life before we make landfall, and I can see the spiders...(syrup)...out of ammunition...(syrup)



The charred and sticky wreckage was discovered on the coast of Greenland by whalers on the Fourth of July. No bodies were found. What was left of the ship was turned into a bird sanctuary.

Greenland’s First Bird Sanctuary was burned to the ground a year later by a group of anarchists that had misread a telegram.

Lying Without Youth--Chris Castle (Part One)

“What time is it due?” Anna looked over to her sister and frowned.


“At three. Like the last time you asked me.” Her sister, Emily, stuck out her tongue. She was irritating, but it was a younger sister’s right.

“I bet it comes late. Removal vans are always late. They live by their own clock, how could they not be late?” She sat down on the crate she had hefted to the curb.

“It could be late and still seem early if we don’t have everything ready in time, won’t it?” Anna parked her box close to the other one, deliberately clipping her sister’s ankle, making her yelp.

“Look what I found,” Emily said, pulling something out of her back pocket. She flashed it to Anna, then drew it back at the last minute.

“It’s Dad’s passport. I found it in the bottom drawer.” She stopped fooling and handed it over to Anna. She opened it up and looked inside at the picture; a handsome man still a lot of years from being their father. A stranger with the same name and that was all, she thought, staring at the face.

“He was handsome, wasn’t he? Do you think he went out with lots of other girls before Mum?” Anna looked over. Emily’s voice had lost its fizz; she was asking a real question.

“He said they met and he was her one and only, but I don’t know. Maybe he told it like a fairy story so we’d like it better.” Anna took one last look, then handed it back. She smiled to reassure Emily. It had only been a month since his death and both of them were still close to tears at the thought of him.

“Maybe it did play out like a fairy tale. It has to happen to some people, right?” She pocketed the passport and pushed herself off the box. They had made an agreement; if one kept something to remember him by, the other could pick the next thing; it seemed fair; how do you split love? Anna thought what her next piece of him would be.

“We shouldn’t have spent so long in the diner,” she said, walking back to the grass yard and the next box. Seventeen in all, each ready to be donated to the charity shops. Anna imagined how long she would wait before she went back to the shops and started looking for his clothes, his books; if she would buy them, or how she would feel if she saw someone in the neighborhood wearing the shirt she liked best on him. She knew Emily had the same thoughts, even though they had not mentioned it out loud.

“Come on, sis, it was nice. Don’t put such a downer on everything. I haven’t seen you eat like that since we were kids.”

That morning they had gone to the café they used to visit with their dad when they were younger. The place was still the same; the old man, who knew, had served them and put his hand on theirs; Anna had almost cried, Emily couldn’t stop. They had ordered their dad’s favorite, the greasy breakfast, and made themselves eat it all, even the mushrooms, that they both hated. It wasn’t for them, they decided, it was for him.


The old man refilled their cups, told stories about their old man. ‘The Gent’ was how he called him. When it was over, he waved off the bill, invited them back any time. He looked at them for a long moment and nodded, smiled.

“He has gone to a better place,” he said and opened the door for them to leave. They both kissed him on the cheek, making him laugh; they both knew they could never go back, not now.

“You’re right. It was nice,” Anna finally said. She lifted the box and felt it rattle. Without looking at the words scribbled on the side, she knew this one held the shoes, felt them skid against the sides. She began walking to the concrete, hearing Emily make an over-exaggerated sigh as she lifted the next box, knowing she had picked the lightest one; another little sister ruling.

They went on at that pace for the next thirty minutes or so. Anna enjoyed it, the two of them passing each other, nodding or winking, the sweat starting to shine on their foreheads. It was the sort of work their father had always done and would never allow them to do; it felt as if they were gently breaking his rules, even now. There were no sounds, just the pacing of their feet, the soft crash of the box on the concrete. The day was moving on; the heat growing. Anna tied a bandana round her head; Emily used it for a neckerchief. Anna watched as her sister walked inside for coffee, then looked back to the slowly building house of boxes, creeping up to her waist.

Once she had been with her father at the racecourse. It was after he had retired and they spent time together, going to the places they both knew. That day he had snagged his foot on the railing and fell, tearing the knee of his trousers. The bag he carried, with their supplies—they never bought food and drink at the track as a rule—spilled away. By the time he had pulled himself up he was cursing the metal supports. It was the first time she had seen her dad look like that; vulnerable, shaking. Like other people. Her sister called out and brought her back.

“What was it he used to say?” She asked Anna as she handed over the coffee mug. “The one about lying?” Their father had phrases that he used when they would watch the news or see the headlines in the paper. Anna had always thought they were quotes from the books he read, but steadily became less and less sure of that as the years went on.

“Lying without youth.” She said. He always said lying was only ever acceptable in the young and the reckless. When adults lied there was no joy in it, like there was for kids. The lies had a reason, a purpose; that’s what made them dangerous.

“Do you think we’ll ever forget?” Anna looked over her cup to Emily. “All the things he said, I mean.” She drew a cigarette out of her shirt pocket, tried to tempt Anna back into the fold with one. She shook her head, needing it badly.

“If one of us forgets, then the other one will remember. That’s the way it works.” She nodded, feeling the finality in what she said. Emily nodded, then lit her cigarette.

“I was thinking of getting a tattoo of that, ‘lying without youth.’ I always liked it when he said it, even when we were in trouble. It made me feel safe or something. Like…I don’t know what. Like a prayer or something. Does that make sense?” She blew away the smoke and looked back to Anna. She could never look her right in the eye when she needed to know something; only after.

“I understand,” she said, then put the cup down on the grass. Slowly she pulled her t-shirt up, turned enough for her sister to see. She felt light-headed, showing the tattoo off for the first time. As she turned she let herself smile, hearing Emily’s intake of breath, the gasp.

“When did you get it done?” she said, her voice almost trembling with the surprise. Anna waited, closed her eyes. There was a few seconds when there was nothing but the dark, the numbness, then she felt Emily’s fingers trace over her skin, feeling the ink. Her eyes slipped open with the touch, the light poured in with a rush.

“The next day. I think I was still in shock. I bled a lot from the alcohol, but it didn’t hurt, not really. Do you remember you always used to get it the wrong way round? It used to make dad laugh, didn’t it?” Emily’s palm pressed against it, covering it for a second.

“I used to say, ‘love for all living things,’ didn’t I? And Dad would always say it as slow as he could:

“‘Love for all things living,’” they both said in unison. The palm fell away and the t-shirt rolled down.

“Dad said he met her on the beach. Mum, I mean. He said they danced in the sea and made all the old people angry the way they sprayed foam and kissed. Do you think that ever happened? That way, I mean?” Emily blew smoke out and waited. Anna reached over and took the cigarette from her fingers. Every nail was painted red and each one was chipped.

“We can believe it,” she said, drawing the smoke in, feeling her head get high from it. Then she dropped it under her heel and ground it into the dirt.

WHAT'S THE REST OF THE STORY? CLICK HERE TO READ PART TWO!

Lying Without Youth--Chris Castle (Part Two)

They went on with the boxes. Her sister started singing ‘waiting for the van’ to the tune of the Lou Reed song, making her laugh. Now that their dad was gone, Emily was the only person left who could really make her laugh now, Anna realized with a shock. But it didn’t scare her; she understood that then, not really. Instead she felt lucky. The boxes kept growing and she noticed there was no traffic, like the world had forgotten about them, and that was okay, that there was just them. It felt right. It felt safe. When there was only a few boxes left, she reached out and touched Emily on the shoulder, making her smile; she did not make her sister laugh but smile.

Anna brought out bread, some chocolate bars and fruit. They sat on the grass, eating like it was some sort of picnic, like back when they were kids. They poured more coffee, looked up into the sun. An airplane cut across the blue sky, moving soundlessly. She looked back down to the food and saw her sister waving at the plane, like she always did.

Once, Emily had told her to always keep her purse inside her boots if she was staying some place unfamiliar; that way you always knew where to look, you never have to search for it, reaching in the dark. It was one of the smartest things she’d ever been told.

“You know, he never wanted anything, did he? Dad, I mean. I never heard him bitch about not having something, even when things were really tight. Do you ever remember him saying anything like that?”

“Once,” Anna said. She drew her hand across her face, the sun full beam in her eyes now. She shifted, and then finally gave up, moving onto her elbow. “We saw a chandelier once, in a hardware magazine, where he used to buy fittings and things.”

“You’re kidding? Dad wanted that? No way! That sounds too… I don’t know…rich or something.” She watched as Emily broke the last chocolate bar in half, handed one piece over to her. After she did, she smeared her thumb with the melted chocolate on Anna’s forearm.

“Gotcha!” She beamed, making a show of pressing the whole chuck of the bar into her mouth. Anna crossed her eyes and licked off the mess, then ran the tea towel over her arm.

“It wasn’t just for him. He said they’d talked about it, him and Mum, before they got married. I think he meant they talked about it in a joke way, like it was impossible, but the way he was looking at that book, I think that was one thing he would have liked.” She shrugged and then dusted down her jeans. She pulled herself off the grass, then brought her hands down to hoist up her sister.

“Do we have to, I mean, right now? What about digestion?” Anna didn’t respond. Instead, she just wriggled her fingers, waiting. Eventually Emily gripped her hands, trying to pull her down, making them both laugh and stagger, before finally coming up onto her feet.

“You’re mean,” she said, still smiling.

“You’re lazy,” Anna said, not quite managing to lose the smile off the edges of her mouth when she spoke. The two of them walked back to the boxes, the sun on them now, not giving them any shadows to hide in.

The last box slipped onto the top of the pile. It was done. Anna collapsed on the grass and started to clap for Emily, who curtsied and waved to the non-existent crowd. Then she tumbled to the ground next to Anna. Then she shifted, so they were sitting back to back, resting against each other. Their bodies hummed from breathing deeply. They both looked sideways to the empty road.


“It’s like they’ve forgotten about us. It’s like there’s no one else,” she whispered. Anna put her hand out on the grass and her sister took it. It was shaking, just like the day when her father fell at the track.

“It feels okay, though. That’s it’s just the two of us.” Emily went on, squeezing her hand.

“It feels perfect,” Anna said, squeezing back. She felt nails dig into her skin, but she didn’t mind that. They sat quietly for a few seconds, their breath steadying, their bodies still rocking forth against each other in a kind of symmetry.

“Do you think he was scared?” She said, barely loud enough for Anna to hear. “In the end, I mean.”

Instead of answering, Anna just kept holding her hand. In the distance, the van began to make its way up the long flat road. Soon it would be upon them; people would climb out, things would start moving again. But not yet. For now, Anna gripped as tight as she could, letting the shadows fall across them, bathing them in shade as the sun fell, letting them catch their breath.

Flower Power--Leland Thoburn (Part One)

“This meeting of the Senate Environment and Public Works Committee, Subcommittee on Endangered Species, will now come to order. The honorable Senator Orpheus Broadchaser presiding. All rise.”
A portly man waddled into the hearing room, nodded to the clerk who had just announced him, and sat at the head of a huge, oval conference table. He adjusted his weight and, as soon as he was comfortable, banged his gavel.
“Thank you gentlemen. We’re here to take up an addition to the federal list of endangered and threatened wildlife. Please be seated.”
An old man at the far end of the table had just completed the long, and at his age painful, process of rising. He turned and scowled at the Senator. “So why’d Skippy over here tell us all to rise when he knew you was just going to tell us to sit down again?”
“Who’s that?” The Senator leaned to one side and whispered the question to his clerk.
“That’s the endangered species, sir.”
The Senator turned and scowled at the old man.
The old man’s bloodshot eyes peered over the top of a pair of small, purple sunglasses that perched so far down his nose that they seemed to serve no other purpose than decoration. His hair was long and gray. His beard partially covered a peace symbol that hung around his neck, and his bell-bottomed pants draped over his sandaled feet. A fly languished in the air around his head.
“Like hell it is,” the Senator growled to his clerk.
“I’m afraid so, sir.”
“I thought they already were extinct.”
“He’s the only one we could find.” The clerk glanced at the old man. “I lured him out with a baggie of oregano, and Geoffrey got him with a tranquilizer dart.”
“You should have left him be.”
“You said the same thing about the Spotted Owl, sir.”
“I know–”
“But the Supreme Court–”
“They should be extinct.”
“Yes sir. But they’re not and–”
The Senator sniffed the air. “What’s that smell?”
“Cannabis. The creature seems to live almost exclusively on the stuff.”
The old man sat back down in his chair. “Anybody got a brownie?” he asked to no one in particular.
“That and brownies, sir. We ran out an hour ago.”
“Dammit.” The Senator grimaced, and then resigned himself to the inevitable. “All right, we’ll proceed.” He turned and stared at the old man for a few moments before speaking. “State your name for the record, sir.”


The old man looked around, as if uncertain to whom the Senator had been addressing. He started to rise, hesitated, then stood fully erect. He was tall and so thin that he was painful to behold. “My name’s Toad.”
The Senator frowned. “Is that your first name or your last name?”
“I dunno. It’s just my name, man.”
The Senator turned to the clerk. “What’s the name on his driver’s license?”
“He hasn’t any.”
“How about his passport?”
“None.”
“Social Security card?”
“Nope.”
“Library card, credit cards, anything?”
The clerk shook his head. The Senator turned back to the old man.
“Mister Toad–”
“I’m not a mister. Just say ‘Toad.’ I’ll know who you’re talking to.”
“That’s a very unusual name.”
“No worse than Orifice.”
“Orpheus.”
“Whatever.” The old man shrugged and sat down.
The Senator’s face displayed a mixture of curiosity and perturbation. The curiosity won out. “For the record, tell us, sir. Why are you called ‘Toad’?”
“One night I was totally wasted and, like, these chicks started licking my arms and stuff. Anyway, they got high just off of whatever had come out of my pores. Blew their minds. Ever since then everyone calls me ‘Toad’. I’m not so wasted now but you could probably get a buzz.” The old man rolled up his sleeve and offered a bare arm to the Senator.
The Senator’s face oozed disgust. “Thank you Mr. Toad, I get the picture.”
“Whenever me and the old lady was rolling in the sack she’d call me ‘Toad in the Hole.’” The old man chuckled and looked around. Nobody else moved.
The Senator slammed the desk with his gavel. “That will be enough!”
The old man just shrugged and turned to a bailiff. “Found any brownies yet, man?” The bailiff shook his head as he glanced at the Senator.
“Bailiff, swear Mr.… excuse me, swear ‘Toad’ in, if you please.”
The uniformed bailiff stepped forward, snapped to attention in front of the old man and raised his right hand. “Do you solemnly swear to speak the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God.”

“Hell no.”
“What?” Senator Broadchaser exploded.
“In front of fuzz here?” Toad nodded to indicate the bailiff. “Then I would be extinct.”
“So you know why you’re here.”
“You and Skippy are going to help me find my buddies, right? Sulphur. Turtleneck. Jasmine. Tinkerbell. They’re all gone.”
“No sir. Do you know you’re the last hippy on earth?”
The old man stared. Moisture formed in the corner of one eye.
“At least, you’re the last one we could find, and if there’s one thing this government is good at, it’s finding people.”
“You don’t know my friends, man. They’re just, like, back up in the hills or something.”
“I’m sorry, sir. I wish that were so. It’s not.”
The old man stared at the Senator, then at the bailiff, then at the clerk, and lastly at the people in the room. Nobody stirred.
Finally, the old man broke the silence. “I need a toke.”
“We can’t permit that in here. Bailiff!” The stern-faced bailiff strode over to the old man and planted himself by his side. The old man stopped fumbling in his pockets and looked up.
“Your government wishes to help you, sir.” The Senator’s voice had a practiced paternal sound to it, as if he were speaking to a voter.
“Far out. You gonna turn me on to some weed?”
“No, no, no. The purpose of this hearing is to decide if you –the last hippy on earth–should be placed on the Federal Endangered Species list.”
“What happens then?”
“Some people would get some grant money to study you; you’d be taken from your natural habitat and placed in a federally protected shelter; and you’d be fed and cared for until you were ready to be released back into the wild.”
“Sounds like prison, man.”
“No, it’s not, it’s…” The Senator searched for the right word. “It’s actually groovy.”
“The way you say that it sounds obscene. It’s pronounced ‘groooovy.’ Try it again.”
The Senator’s gavel rapped down hard on the desk. “Mr. Toad…”
“That’s just ‘Toad.’ I told you.”
“MR. TOAD.”
“I’m old, man, not deaf. Get mellow.” The old man lowered his eyes.

WHAT HAPPENS NEXT? CLICK HERE TO READ PART TWO!

Flower Power--Leland Thoburn (Part Two)

“We were talking about putting you in a federally supervised endangered species program.”
The old man brightened up. “Isn’t that where there’s some kind of captive breeding program or something?”
“Well, in most cases yes, but I hardly think–”
“I want Pam Anderson.”
“There’s not going to be any breeding program!”
“Wherever there’s a hippy there’s a breeding program. But if I have to I can just roll my own.”
“I repeat. There’ll be no breeding program!”
“Then how do you think you’re going to get me to go?”
“Bailiff, are the nets ready?”
The bailiff nodded.
A startled look flashed on the old man’s face. “Bummer,” he muttered. Then, he disappeared under the conference room table.
“Bailiff, get him out of there.”
The bailiff darted around the table, trying but failing to grab hold of the old man who was scuttling about on his hands and knees. Women who were seated at the table screamed and pushed back their chairs.
“Bailiff, use the mace.”
A muffled voice rose from under the table. “I don’t want to go.”
“It’s for your own good,” the Senator shouted.
“Why don’t you let me decide that?”
“That’s not the way your government works. Bailiff, get him out of there.”
The bailiff pulled out a can of mace and sprayed a shot in the direction of the old man’s voice. There was a brief gasp from under the table. Then, the smell of the mace diffused throughout the room. Bailiffs, stenographers, witnesses, spectators—all started coughing. Some gagged and held their hands to their mouths as they stumbled from the room. In the chaos, nobody noticed the first puffs of smoke that billowed out from under the table. Soon, however, the smell of marijuana was unmistakable.
The Senator’s eyes were watering as he shouted under the table. “Stop that!”
There was no answer, just a swift intake of breath, and then a slow exhale.
“Will you come out of there?”
“So fuzz there can mace me? I don’t think so.” Another swift intake.
“We need to talk.”
“Come on down here, then. Just you.”
The Senator looked at his waistline, looked at his clerk, looked at the Bailiff, and sighed.
“And what about rock ‘n’ roll? Whatever happened to rock ‘n’ roll? It’s everywhere. Jimi Hendrix is selling Pepsi. Bob Dylan is selling lingerie. And the Rolling Stones sell Cadillacs. Cadillacs for God’s sake. What’s next – The Doors selling lighter fluid?”
“That’s capitalism, Mr. Toad.”
“No it isn’t. That’s hippytalism. Sex, drugs, rock ‘n’ roll. It’s all around you. We’re all around you. Hell, we’re not extinct. Hippies have taken over the world.”
“I hardly think–”
“We just morphed, man. I bet Sulphur’s running General Motors by now. Or should be.”
“We’re running out of time, Mr. Toad.”
“I told you, it’s just ‘Toad’.”
“I DON’T CARE IF IT’S ‘FROG’S ASS’.” The Senator stood and glared down at the old man, who leaned towards the Senator as he spoke.
“You know the problem with you guys? You think that, just because you’re the government, you can fuck with people’s lives; you can decide what’s best and how people should live. Hell, I lived my life so far without your help. Who says I need you now?”
“You aren’t going to let us help you?”
“And do what? Mace me? Net me? Make a bunch of rules for how I’m supposed to live? That’s a bad trip, man.”
“That’s not the way your government works, Toad.”
“It was five minutes ago.”
The Senator dismissed Toad’s statement with a wave of his hand. “You don’t understand.”
Toad spoke. “What were you planning to do, then, give me a bunch of money?”
“Your government doesn’t just throw money at problems, sir. It solves them.”
The old man took the remains of the hand-rolled cigarette out of his shirt pocket, looked at it in disgust and threw it away. “Whatever you’re smoking, it beats hell out of my stash. If you want to share it, you know where to find me.”
“We’re not through–”
“I am, man. I’m outta here.”
The old man glared at the Senator for a moment, and then his eyes softened. His right hand flashed a “V”. “Peace” he said. Involuntarily, the clerk and the bailiff responded in kind. The old man smiled. Then, he turned and walked from the room.
The Senator sighed deeply. “Bailiff, open the windows, let’s get some fresh air into this place.”
The bailiff walked over and opened the windows, and waved at the clouds of smoke that were the most tangible reminder of the old man who had just left.
“What’s next on the calendar?”
The clerk peered over his notes.
“We’ve got a Rastafarian at two.”
“High-jumping Jesus. Okay people, we’re going to take a break until two.” The Senator rapped his gavel, arose, and retreated from the Senate chamber.


Once safely inside his office, Senator Orpheus Broadchaser flopped in his chair. “Hey, Jasmine honey,” he called out to his secretary. “Hey, get me a drink.” The Senator took an orange prescription bottle from his pocket, dropped a pill on to his palm and swallowed it, using the bourbon his secretary brought him. After a brief grimace, he settled back in his chair. His eyes caught those of his secretary. She smiled a knowing smile and turned to lock the door. As he watched her hips sway across the office, the Rolling Stones’ “Satisfaction” began to play over the piped-in Capitol sound system. Senator Broadchaser smiled. Life was good. He loosened his tie and decided that he would not let the delusions of an obviously crazy old man ruin his day.

THE END

The Things Inside Us--Fred Skolnik

Pamela Smith woke up early. She generally didn’t look at herself in the mirror in the morning but when she did she didn’t like what she saw. She had never been attractive and now she was haggard. That hadn’t mattered in the first flush of conjugal bliss and shouldn’t have mattered now when she was middle-aged and no one looked at her that way anymore, but nonetheless it depressed her somewhat. Her husband was still asleep, a lump. She brushed her teeth and washed her face and stared at the bottle of sleeping pills in the medicine cabinet with many wordless thoughts flashing through her mind. Then she went downstairs and had her coffee. She felt listless, out of sorts. After a while her husband came down, already dressed. He kissed her cheek and had his coffee too and after looking at the paper dragged his golf clubs out of the hall closet and said, “I’m gonna run.”


“Have a good time,” Pamela said.

“I always do.”

“Will you be back for lunch?”

“I always am.”

He smiled. This was his sense of humor. After the late lunch he would watch the football game and Pamela would do some housework. She heard the car start up and looked out the window and saw him turning into the street and didn’t know if she was glad or not to have the house to herself for a while. She went back upstairs and thought about getting dressed but decided not to because there was no point in getting dressed if she wasn’t going out and it was Sunday after all and no one was expected. She made the bed and straightened out the bedroom. Then she went into the bathroom again and cleaned the sink and toilet. Downstairs the house was fairly dark so she opened all the curtains and a few windows as well and glanced at the lawn. Soon the first winter weeds would be coming up, their seeds buried in the ground all summer long. She glanced at the newspaper too. Nothing there interested her. As time went on she was becoming less and less interested in things and didn’t have anything like golf or football to keep her occupied. She was becoming less and less interested in the children too now that they were grown. At first she had tried to control their lives but soon enough she had realized that there was no point to it and they would have to make their own mistakes and find their own way and she wasn’t going to get too excited about their ups and downs. Not having the burden of her children’s lives weighing down on her had been a great relief and she liked to say that not worrying about them anymore had added ten years to her life. They of course worried about her but she insisted that she was just fine and enjoying life like anyone else her age.

Pamela wasn’t hungry. She didn’t have much of an appetite these days. She looked through some magazines and turned on the TV and then it was noon and she took out the leftover chicken and made some chicken salad. When her husband got back the table was already set. She got out the Diet Pepsi and watched him eat. He didn’t have too much to say, other than that he had run into Donald Foster and his new wife.


“What does she look like?” Pamela said.

“About twenty.”

Pamela nodded. "I figured as much."

Her husband wiped his mouth and said, “I’m gonna watch the game,” and got up and went to the den with the newspaper. At halftime he’d come out to get some snacks so she put the snacks on the table and did the dishes and straightened out the kitchen. She thought about getting dressed again but decided not to. She went out back and did a load of laundry and swept up a little and checked the houseplants. She scratched her ear and felt a short, stiff hair deep inside which proved too tiny to pinch out with her fingernails so she got some tweezers and tried to remove it but couldn’t get a grip and found this very annoying and worked at it for a quarter of an hour without success and had to leave it where it was. Now her ear felt raw. Clearly there were things you couldn’t get at, like parasites or an itch in the wrong place, and would have to live with.

After the football game her husband spent an hour looking for some golf magazine and she helped him turn the house upside down. Then they had a light supper and watched some TV. One of the kids called and they chatted for a while. It was chilly in the evening so she put on a sweater and watched some more TV. One of the commercials reminded her that they were running out of toilet paper so she got up and made a note on her shopping list. She asked her husband if he wanted coffee or anything but he said no, he was fine, so she came back and sat down in the chair she always sat in when they watched TV together. At eleven o’clock her husband turned off the TV and said, “Let’s go to bed.” After they got into bed he signaled to her that he wanted to have sex, but she couldn’t get into it so she lay there like a zombie until he finished. Then she went to wash and heard him snoring. She opened the medicine cabinet and took out the sleeping pills. The bottle was almost full. She poured half the pills into the palm of her hand and looked at them. Then she counted them and for no real reason rounded off the number. The glass was in a glass holder with their toothbrushes. She filled it and took a sip, holding the pills in her other hand. Then she looked at herself in the mirror, without thinking, without anything in her mind at all. After a while she poured the pills back into the bottle and went back to bed, blinking very hard in the dark room. She had come very close to ending her life without really knowing why or even wanting to.

What's Done Is Done--Deborah L.Reed (Part One)

I’ve always had a calm personality--placid is the word my mother would say. When I was a child and lived in a real house, not in this Home, she was always saying big words like that. Even though my mother was really smart and I had a hard time understanding her, she would explain things to me, like telling me placid means calm, like a placid lake or a placid personality. “You’re like me, Sue,” she would say. “You have a placid personality.” Placid means calm and that’s the way I am, calm.


But my daddy was not placid. He was not calm. He had an “explosive” personality. Explosive is another big word my mother used, and I still remember what it means. It means he could explode at the drop of a hat. I never understood the hat part, but I still remember how bad his temper was. When someone has a bad temper, my mother told me, it means he has an explosive personality. He explodes. My daddy exploded a lot, but I still loved him. I miss him a lot, not as much as I miss Mommy, but still a lot. When I do my Deep Thinking, sometimes I think about him.



Eduardo is having one of his bad days, and I wish it wasn’t Sunday. If it wasn’t Sunday, I wouldn’t be here, I would be on the bus, doing my Deep Thinking, or else at my job, scrubbing pots and pans. But it is Sunday, and Eduardo is having a bad day. Eduardo is different from the rest of us. He is smarter. He knows a lot of words and no one has to tell him what they mean. Sometimes he yells things and even when I beg him to stop, he won’t. I tell him please be quiet, please stop, but he can’t. Sometimes he says the same words over and over until I have to put my hands over my ears. Today he is saying “Son of a ...” He doesn’t say the last word, but I know what it is. Today he is saying these same words every few minutes and finally Miss Mancini walks over to him.

“Eduardo, Eduardo,” she says, “look at me.” But Eduardo does not look at her, instead he looks at the ceiling. “Son of a..., son of a ....” he says twice, right in a row.

Miss Mancini puts her hands on Eduardo’s shoulders, but I know she is not hurting him. She does not squeeze hard when she does that, not like Mr. Grayson does. One time Mr. Grayson squeezed my arm so hard I got a bruise there but he said if I told anyone I would never ever get dessert again, so I didn’t. But Miss Mancini never squeezes hard, so I know she is only trying to get Eduardo’s attention, which she finally does.

“Eduardo,” she says in her calm, placid voice. “Did you take your medicine this morning?”

Eduardo looks right in her face and says “Son of a ...”

But Miss Mancini does not get mad, she only asks the same question again.

“Did you take your medicine, Eduardo?”

Eduardo does not say anything this time. He just shakes his head no.

“Then go take it now, Eduardo,” Miss Mancini says and Eduardo gets up and goes to his room. Miss Mancini has learned how to get her way by being nice, and I wish Mr. Grayson would learn that too. Or I wish I did not have a placid personality, then I would do the thing I would like to do. I would tell Miss Mancini what Mr. Grayson is like when she is not around.



When I was a child and lived in a real house, not this Home, I liked to say things over and over again, too. One time I heard this lady on TV say “for your information” and I thought that was a fun thing to say, so I started saying it a lot. I did not say it over and over again like Eduardo, though. I only said it when it made sense. If Mommy asked me what kind of cereal I wanted I would say, “For your information, I want corn flakes.” Or if Mommy asked me if I knew where Daddy was, I would say “For your information, he is in the living room, reading the paper.” I did not just say it any old time, over and over again, looking at the ceiling, I only said it when I wanted to tell someone something. But one time when I said it, my daddy exploded. He used his explosive personality.

“Enough!” he said, and then he banged his hand on the table, really hard, hard enough to make the dishes shake.

My mommy put her hand over one of his.

“Charles,” she said in her placid voice, “remember what Dr. Bill said.”

Daddy hit the table again, three times, really hard.

“I don’t give a flying what Dr. Bill says!” Only he said another word after “flying”, one my mommy did not like him to say. “I’ve just about had enough of this!”

“Charles,” my mommy said, still quiet, but not quite as calm, “we have to remember she can’t help it. Dr. Bill said...”

Daddy hit the table again, this time with both hands. He was really exploding. “I am so sick of hearing what Dr. Bill says, of seeing Dr. Bill, of obeying Dr. Bill’s every little word!”

Daddy stopped hitting the table, but he was still in his explosive personality, and little drops of spit were coming from his mouth. I was scared, but suddenly I understood. I did not have to do my Deep Thinking to understand, it just came to me, like in that flash I have heard people talk about. Daddy did not like Dr. Bill.

I did not understand how someone could not like Dr. Bill. I loved Dr. Bill. He talked to me like I was a real person and never looked at me funny, no matter what I did. And Mommy liked Dr. Bill. She liked him a lot, I could tell. She was always touching his arm or hugging him goodbye or something. I liked Dr. Bill and Mommy liked Dr. Bill, but at that moment, when the spit was coming out of his mouth, I realized that Daddy did not like Dr. Bill at all.


While I was thinking these thoughts and making this understanding, Mommy and Daddy were having one of their big fights. This fight made me even sadder than the other fights because it was about Dr. Bill.

“Who invites a child’s doctor to her birthday party?” Daddy had stood up while I was thinking and now he was waving his arms around real big, like he was going to fly away, he was so mad. Mommy was still in her chair and she was looking up at him. I could tell she was scared but she was still talking to him placid.

“Charles, she has no other friends,” Mommy started to say but Daddy would not let her finish. He was still standing, but he reached down to bang the table again.

“He’s her doctor, Rita, her doctor, not her friend. He does not belong in our home. My God, I didn’t think the man would ever leave.”

“They were playing with her new dolls, Charles. She has no one else to do that with. You should be happy he cares so much about her.”

“What kind of man plays with dolls, anyway?” my daddy said. He said this quieter, but I could tell he was still mad. Then his mouth got a funny line to it and he said something about Dr. Bill playing with real dolls, dolls forty years younger than him. Does he mean baby dolls? I thought. I was trying to understand, but there was so much noise that I could not figure it all out. Mommy glanced at me, then at Daddy and said something about little pitchers and the whole thing was so confusing that I just left my food on the plate and went to my room. Mommy and Daddy fought a long time that night about Dr. Bill. I could hear them yelling until I fell asleep.

WHAT HAPPENS NEXT? CLICK HERE TO GO ON TO PART TWO!

What's Done Is Done--Deborah L.Reed (Part Two)

Today is Monday and I am glad it is not still Sunday. Yesterday was such a bad day and I need this bus ride to do my Deep Thinking and sort it all out inside my brain. Eduardo did not cause any more problems, in fact, he was quiet almost the whole rest of the day and even played checkers with Fat Bertha, which is her favorite thing in the world to do. Poor Fat Bertha, she is really, really fat, but I do not think people should call her that. Mommy told me that it is mean to make fun of someone when they cannot help being the way they are and I do not think Fat Bertha can help being fat. She is so big, though, that she cannot fit in a regular chair and she has to sit on the couch in front of the table when she plays checkers. She takes the same bus as me and people stare at her when she gets on and that makes me feel sorry for her. I know that they stare at me, too, but not as bad as they stare at poor Fat Bertha. It was Fat Bertha that caused the problems yesterday, but I am not mad at her because it was not her fault. Fat Bertha has what Miss Mancini calls “seizures” and she had a really bad one right after supper, when she was playing checkers, which made me even sadder because she never finished the game and playing checkers is her favorite thing in the world to do. All the others were gone to their Mommy’s house, but Eduardo and I never go because my mommy and daddy are dead now because of a truck and Eduardo’s mommy will not talk to him anymore. So it was just me and Eduardo and Fat Bertha and Miss Mancini and Mr. Grayson.

“Oh my God, there she goes,” I heard Mr. Grayson say and I looked over and Fat Bertha was falling on the floor and shaking really bad. There were checkers all over the floor and Fat Bertha was even laying on some and she was shaking really bad. She was shaking so bad that she made the bookcase fall over and some of the stuff fell on her and some fell on the floor and broke. Mr. Grayson used the phone while Miss Mancini tried to hold Fat Bertha down so she wouldn’t hurt herself. Eduardo and I just sat together on the other couch and Eduardo held me real tight because I was shaking, but I wasn’t having a seizure like Fat Bertha, I was just shaking because I was so scared. I closed my eyes when the men came in, they scared me really bad, they were so noisy and it seemed like they took up the whole room and that there was not enough room for me. When they left, they took Fat Bertha with them and Miss Mancini left too, so that just left me and Eduardo and Mr. Grayson, so I finally felt like there was enough room for me.

Mr. Grayson is mean and he is also lazy. He always makes us do work and hardly ever does any himself and after the men left, he stayed in his chair like a lazy person and told me and Eduardo to pick up the mess that Fat Bertha had left all over the living room. We had a hard time putting the bookcase back on the wall but lazy Mr. Grayson just sat there and did not get up to help. Eduardo told me to pick up the checkers and that he would put the stuff back on the bookcase, which I did because Eduardo is smart and always knows the best way to do things. I was picking up the checkers when I heard this most awful noise. I turned around and Eduardo was holding the snow globe his mother had given him. But it wasn’t the snow globe that was making the awful noise, it was Eduardo. He was looking at the ceiling but he wasn’t saying words, he was crying really, really loud. He was crying because the snow globe was broke. His crying got louder and louder and it finally made lazy Mr. Grayson get out of his chair. He grabbed Eduardo and I could tell there would be a bruise and then he started shaking him.

“Shut up, you little freak!” he yelled, but I do not think Eduardo even heard him, even though Mr. Grayson was shaking him it was like Eduardo couldn’t think about anything but the snow globe, it was like Eduardo was broken too.

“Listen to me, retardo,” Mr. Grayson said, even though Eduardo is not retarded, he is very smart. “It’s broken, accept it, what’s done is done.” But Eduardo kept crying and looking at the ceiling.

But I know one thing, and that is that you cannot cry forever no matter how sad you are and after a while Eduardo stopped crying and Mr. Grayson let go of him and then he told us to just go to our rooms, go to our rooms, he was sick of the sight of us. I laid in my bed all evening after that and tried to think of nice things to think about so maybe the nice thoughts would push the bad thoughts like Fat Bertha shaking and Eduardo holding the broke snow globe and crying to the ceiling out of my mind. I finally decided to think about Dr. Bill and how he came to my birthday party and I thought those thoughts until I fell asleep.



Sometimes my mommy would go shopping and I would be left alone with my daddy. I always hoped that Daddy would play dolls with me or maybe he would say we could watch cartoons together, but he never did. He did what he called his naptime. As soon as Mommy left, he would tell me it was his naptime and he would tell me to be real quiet while he was on the couch. So what I would do was to get my dolls and play with them behind the couch where he could not see me, but I would still be close to him. I did not talk to my daddy, but I was still happy because he was on the couch in front of me. But one day it did not matter that I was being quiet because this man and this lady knocked on our door and Daddy had to stop his naptime and get up to answer it.

The man and the lady were dressed alike, but they did not look alike. The man was real big and had a mean look, like Mr. Grayson. But the lady was a lot shorter and I decided I liked her better because her face was kind. I saw them, but I do not think they saw me because they didn't say anything to me, only to Daddy. I listened really hard because they were talking about my friend Dr. Bill. I could not understand all of what they were saying, but I did understand they were asking about my birthday party, which was very confusing because why would a man and a lady I never saw before want to know about my party? And then Daddy started lying and I wanted to say something but I didn’t because even if he wasn’t on the couch, it was still his naptime and I knew I had to be quiet. Daddy told the man and the lady that Dr. Bill did not come to my party, and that was the lie because he did. He stayed a long time and paid a lot of attention to me and I know he was at the party but Daddy kept saying he was sure, that Dr. Bill was never here. Then the man said that a lady had been hurt real bad but Dr. Bill told them he did not hurt her because he couldn't, he was at my party. And Daddy said sorry, but he wasn’t. The kind lady said are you sure, we do not want to put the wrong man in jail and then Daddy lied again and said he was sure.

I did not know what to do. I did not know what to do. I did not understand about the jail part or how a lady got hurt real bad, but I did know that it was important that I tell the big man and the short lady that Daddy was lying. I had to say something even though it was naptime. The man and the lady were walking to the door and telling Daddy thank you for his time when I realized I could not use my placid personality now, I had to do something.


The thing that I did was to run around the back of the couch and run up to the man and the lady. They both looked really surprised to see me. I grabbed the lady's sleeve and said “For your information, for your information!” I said it really loud because I was scared and confused. The big man did not like me to do this and he moved my hand away from the lady’s sleeve and said “Hey!” Daddy grabbed me and held me close to him and was telling them not to listen to me because I was retarded. Part of me got my feelings hurt that Daddy would say that, but the main part of me just wanted the man and the lady to understand about Dr. Bill being at my party, so I just kept saying “for your information”, hoping that if I said it enough they would listen to me. But they didn’t. They just left and I never saw Dr. Bill again.



So now it is Monday morning and I am on the bus to go to work. Fat Bertha is not here, and I hope she is somewhere where people will not stare at her. Eduardo is having one of his noisy days and I wish so much for him to be quiet because I really need to do my Deep Thinking. I need to think about Dr. Bill and the wrong man in jail. I need to think of a way to fix things. But I worry it is too late for things to be fixed. I worry that it is like Eduardo's snow globe. It is broke and what's done is done.

Do not Repeat. Do not Repeat--Paul Handley

I came home wasted, and put my eyeballs in

a glass with seltzer and then cradled them gingerly,
scraped off what appeared to be hardened salt
as if someone had mistaken my eye rims for a margarita glass.


The day had started badly with a mescaline delivery
from the Devil May Care biker gang,
whose representative mistook my place
of employment for my residence.
The former roadie for a boy band
breaking in and later shanked in prison on pedo suspicion.


Phone call.
Um, Stephen, with the usual emphasis on
the ph from an insult trading session during a lull,
of which I had completely forgotten the substance
of that particular verbal exchange.
Do you know a Mr. Hundred Proof?
I mouth garbled protestations.
Interesting. Feigned yawn.
He seems to think you sleep in the stock room or something.
I mumble and bumble coincidences, may have yous, slanted transmission.
OK, Gregory says don’t bother coming in tomorrow.


The nightshift girlfriend arrives and dispatches
me so she can sleep. I walk blocks. Watch a dog park.
Watch what appears to be sincere enjoyment of kites,
hacky sack and Frisbee golf. Get asked reluctantly
to play 2 on 2 basketball. The heart jumps erratically
as if being tasered from the blind spots,
since lately, my vision often fuses two objects.


A ceremony of sorts, involving a lecture
about responsibility and expired insurance cards,
leaves me upended from the wheelchair,
between two fresh mustard lines
on the glistening blacktop. I drag myself
to another parking lot behind a liquor store
with temporary homies.

Charming--Paul Handley

Good luck comes in ones.
A single event, slotted into circumstance,
sometimes an inexorable force,
the big Mo if there is a play by play narrative.
Like dominoes or a Rube Goldberg gadget,
where seemingly unrelated events,
of a silver ball falling into a white funnel,
landing in the incised parietal of a puppet’s skull,
coughing open the jaw, lead to free concert tickets
due to conflicting schedules,
caused by the sudden appearance of out-of-town guests.

or

briefly slotted in between the numbers on a roulette wheel,
providing keyhole glimpses, view finder clicks of
riches that are gone, before disappointment or hope
can set in. The clicks like hand slaps
saying no, no, no, no, no.

Duality--Dan Cirilo

I have learned to live with

the duality within me;
to accept masculine & feminine,
the opposites which do not attract,
rather repel one another
in constant conflict...


***

Cocksure machismo struts

in arrogance, testosterone drenched

& diseased; a testicular cancer

of homophobia, the side effect

of every erection.

While the quiet wisdom of the Goddess

watches serenely, calming the brute,

allowing tears of compassion to flow.

she wraps him in a soothing lullaby;

melodic security blanket returning him to
the safety of the womb.
& there, on equal ground, where the seeds
of their consciousness began,
the sibling twins of Gemini
each see themselves reflected
in the other; no longer separate,
he not the dominant male,
& she not his femme fatale.

"Duality" by Tom Besson
www.tombesson.com

Field Towards Road--Chris Crittenden

clutches of grass

crack in droves.
jackstraw game
of phalange and snare.
deer tracks
in the half-hard mud.
clouds phlegmish
in a cold larynx of blue.


i have thinsulate soles,
hands of nylon,
and a neck of sheep hair.
neanderthals and scientists
embrace over my skin.
no saber tooths
or wooly rhinos,

only trash near,
scurrying with the jiggle
of a retinue. and cars
herding at dawn
without zeal.


whoever’s behind the windshields
i can’t say.
they exist only
as the victims of gadgets
they are.

Mountain Guide For Avoiding Bears--William Neumire

To go safely into the dark you must make a lot of noise
                         and know what you’re after.
Pretend you’re the only one
                          who deserves to get your way.
The less you think about other theories, the better.
                           Sometimes it works,

this loud flashlight tunnel toward the lake,
banging pans together at the water.

And sometimes even when you’ve carefully followed
                 the instructions,
a hungry bear can’t be fooled.

Sunset On Some Place You've Never Been--John Grey

On a distant planet,
we sit on a flat gray stone,
a couple of pilgrims
encased in purple sunset;
in the distance
above the stunted tree line
we follow the progress
of a great-winged flying beast
and down below,
in its ravenous sites,
a small white furry creature,
frozen and fluttering,
the prey’s front paws
pressing against its mouth
as if muttering a prayer.
while the rest of its terrified pack
scurry to the safety
of their holes in the rock.
You hum an old show tune,
I twiddle my thumbs.
On a distant planet,
far from the first thirty years
of our lives,
from everyone we’ve ever known,
all the old familiar landscapes,
we’d be alone
but for each other
and the sunset,
and the pouncing beast
and the dying act
of a small white thing,
a creature we’ve not named yet.

Various Crash Landings--John Grey

You'd be glad your
face did not rot.
You're frozen solid.
Saves us from hiring
a sculptor at least.
No such luck for
Cornwall and his crew.
They crash-landed on a warm planter.
They've decomposed
beyond all recognizable features.
Pity. Science Officer Tennant
was such a beauty in her day.
But your face was saved.
It's a shrine
to all you have accomplished.
Cornwall was a fool.
He didn't know his warp speed
from his transporter beam.
Poor Tennant.
Her loveliness is broth for birds,
scraps for scavengers.
But you're a statue.
Your stalwart features
are what cryogenics
was invented for.
People can see you for miles.
It's a good thing really
that Tennant's death
has left you in a cold place.
No burning up.
No feast for worms.
Once you're over it,
you can thaw out.
You can get on with your life.

It All Becomes Fiction--Steven Mayoff

A character in the film, Storytelling,
spelled it out for you in no uncertain
terms: Once you start writing, he

said, it all becomes fiction. The hubris
of that statement is of some comfort whenever
you think you aren’t getting things right.

Then imagine an army
of fact-checkers magnifying
your words under loupes
like grim jewelers
seeking out facets of God

in a flawed cut: a hidden
contract, sometimes known
as the Emancipation Approximation.

And yet all details are bound
by a devilish oath to accuracy
for that moment
when you start writing.

Gratification comes only after
you find yourself in a darkened
room, aware of an image

reflected in oblivion’s window, the outline
of something almost human, who
for all intents and purposes could be
a character from the film Storytelling.