Born: February 1, 1927, Providence, Mendocino College

RI
Died: October 28, 2014, Sheffield, Fort Bragg Campus
VT

Galway Kinnell, a Vermont poet laureate and Pulitzer Prize-

winning poet, died October 28, 2014, at his home in Sheffield,
Vermont. Born February 1, 1927 in Providence, Rhode Island,
Kinnell won the Pulitzer Prize and the American Book Award for his
Selected Poems. From 1989 to 1993 he was Vermont's poet laureate.
According to the National Poetry Foundation, "Critic Morris
Dickstein called Kinnell 'one of the true master poets of his
generation."

I have no more made my book than

my book has made me. Montaigne
Good Words 33 November 14, 2015
Good
Words
33
 Good Words 33

Good Words is a collection of the best poems, fiction, and

non-fiction, written and performed by students attending
Creative Writing classes at Mendocino College, in Fort
Bragg, California.
This years performance was held
November 14th, 2015 at the College.
Good Words is edited by Instructor, Norma Watkins,
and Instructor, Katherine Brown.
Layout, graphic design, and printing made possible
through the generosity of Doug Fortier.

Michel de Montaigne, 1533-1592. Essayist and philosopher

of the French Renaissance. Known for his masterful balance
of intellectual knowledge and personal storytelling.

Published in 2015
Copyright 2015 by the individual authors

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used

or reproduced in any form or medium; written,
electronic, oral or other without permission of the
author and the publisher.
 Table of Contents
Henri Bensussen Bread
Barbara Lee Food for Thought
Sharon Gilligan Running
Bill Baker What Do You Want to Say
Cathy Hollenback In the Blink of an Eye
Diane Semens A Trick from the Grave
Piper Tulley Operation Revolution
Catherine Marshall Deep Water
Nona Smith A Seven-Letter Word for Calm
Marian Brannan Bootsie
Balan Balkely-Hall How it Would Be
Orah Young Our Journey to Israel
Doug Fortier Poem Crazy 2008
Roberta Belson My Life With Mara
Bob Callan Sex Education
Eden Lorentzen Destiny
Alice Bonner The Phone Call
Carol Refell Vernacular and Introversion
Beth Richmond Empty Nest
Intermission
Donald Shephard RockDove
Sue Gibson Heartburn in Sicily
Joan Hansen - Poems
Paul Townsend Divine Prologue excerpt
Priscilla Comen Portrait of a Man
Derek Hoyle Zombies Ate Bob Dylans Heart
Christie Holliday Perceptions
Cinnamin Price Fire Fight
Mary Shepherd Lost
Debbie Pacheco In the Eyes of a Cat
Molly Bee At the Strasbourg Cathedral
Rosalie Winesuff The Room
Chrissy Sullivan The Office on Skids
Frieda Feen He Fixed the Souls
Amie McGee Salt
Mare Dunham The Dark Room
Malcolm MacDonald Rune
Juliana Van Meter My Dream, My Bees
Barry Bryan A Study in Time
Bread Henri Bensussen 1

Sourdough starter nurtured to life

on back steps, flour, water, yeast
I thought drifted in on the breeze
worked as I worked all into a dough
to rise in the dark
warmed by our iron stoves
pilot light, baked in its oven.

We ate the loaves, gave them away

made a batter of sourdough for Sunday
pancakes, and every other day
loaves baked to nurture
a family of four
until one by one we left, leaving
the yeast unused, no longer useful
the stove sold for a cleaner model
without that wasteful pilot light
to warm the dark.

Food for Thought Barbara Lee

Im a Foodie. I like to purchase, smell, combine, slice, chop,
crumble, fry, boil, bake, broil, saut, cream, scramble, grill, and eat all
foods. Vegies, meats, fish, fruits, breads, pastas, rice, cheese, eggsyou
name it, I like it. What I havent done with food is write about it unless
you count the recipe cards, which I have typed, printed, shared, and stored
in a little wooden recipe box.
I remember liking the food my mother cooked. In fact, when I got
married I knew how to cook because I watched as she did her kitchen
duty. She did not, and still doesnt, regard food as important in a sensual
way. Its a chore that needs doingyou cook for your husband and
children. She took no joy from it. We kids got to do the dishes.
Food for Thought Barbara Lee 2
These days, my husband and I sit for a spell each evening and the
topic of tomorrows dinner always comes up. Whats in the fridge? What
are you in the mood for? Want to go out? Want take-out? How about a
gourmet vegetarian pizza from Papa Murphys? A feeling of calm comes
over me when I know what Im doing for dinner the next day.
Leftovers are always a brand new deal. Sometimes I put together
stuff from the fridge that is so good, so tasty and satisfying, when we eat
it, we say: Its too bad the ingredients for this meal will never come
together again.
Some favorites, recipes that never fail to please, have been my own
creation, like my Mediterranean Chicken, made of browned thighs,
onions, red bell peppers, crushed tomatoes, marinated artichoke hearts,
button mushrooms, and lots of garlic.
I taught my daughter to play in the kitchen. At five years old she
learned to make chocolate chip cookies, which she gave as Christmas gifts
to her grandpa Homer, her uncles Davey and Billy, and her cousins Tony
and Bobby.
She formed the cookie dough into little round balls, placed them on
the cookie sheets, and after I put them into the hot oven, she sat cross-
legged on the floor in front of the window in the oven door for twelve
minutes while they rose. When the hot morsels came from the oven, I
recognized her joyful smile as satisfaction for having created something
that was good to eat and made others happy. It took only two Christmases
before she altered the recipe with M&Ms to form a smiley face on each
cookie. The last time I saw her perform this Christmas ritual she was forty
and the happiness was still there, but instead of placing her cookies into
little Christmas tins, she put them in cookie jars she found at garage sales.
Some were fancy, some were goofy, and some were downright ugly, like
the ceramic be-hatted cat from Green Eggs and Ham. She still makes a
batch for Grandpa Homer. Hes been gone sixteen years, but youd never
know it from her Christmas bake routine.
As a child, she liked to write down recipes. Like how to make a
bologna sandwich: Take two pieces of bread, put lots of mayonnaise on
both, slap two pieces of bologna on, press the slices together, bite and
chew. Youre done. She also wrote instructions for making Kool-Aid,
Food for Thought Barbara Lee 3

scrambled eggs, and tuna sandwiches (dont let too much pickle juice get
in the mix). Her little 3x4 cards, in green, red, and pale blue, are peppered
throughout my little wooden recipe box.

Running Sharon Gilligan

On a beautiful spring day in Boston, Mickey was invited to join her
daughter and grandson to the Patriot's Day celebration to watch the race.
But the pain in her arthritic hip said no. She sent Michael and Beth off
with a wave. Frustrated by the limitations of her ailment, she had to keep
moving and decided to clean the garage. She could do it at her own pace
and take lots of breaks.
Soon the gravel path between the house and garage hosted two weed
whackers, a gas lawn mower, a push mower from her younger, healthier
days, and assorted hand tools. Her joints crackled with pain as she stooped
to unearth a wad of rags from beneath the work bench. Far back, she saw
what looked like a trowel. She grabbed a long rake to drag it out; it was a
pair of shin guards Michael lost last fall.
Hed come to her is a panic. Ive got a game Wednesday, and
Moms gonna kill me if I cant find them.
Think about it. Where were you the last time you remember having
them?
I stuffed them in my gear bag after Saturdays game. Thats all I
know, Grandma.
After a few more minutes of trying to retrace a nine year olds
activities, Mickey and Michael had dashed to the sporting goods store to
replace them. It would be their secret.
Beth was great as a single mom, but Mickey thought she tried too
hard to be a stern father figure to replace Michaels negligent dad.
Holding the thin plastic shells Mickey smiled recalling the boys on
the soccer pitch. Bending his leg around an opponent he could deftly
Running Sharon Gilligan 4

redirect the ball. He could slide with both feet and send it to a teammate
for an assist. He was even a decent goalie. Michael had grown over the

winter. She wondered if the shin guards would fit him when the new
season started. She looked forward to watching him run and play hard
even if walking across the torn up field challenged her pain threshold
every week. The boy was her analgesic.
She was almost ready to quit her project when the phone rang inside.
With effort, she made it before the machine picked up. She heard only
sirens and electronic pagers until Beths sobs broke through.
Mom, I need you. Boston General. Please come. Michael
Is he alive? Are you okay? Mickey waited for an answer; her heart
pounding in her ear.
I dont matter. The bomb. It tore my baby up. His leg, its justits
gone.
"I'm on my way. Tell him I love him. And you matter a lot, baby.
As she ran through the garage to her car, Mickey's foot kicked the
shin guard. Her work boot smashed it into the concrete floor. Michael
would never need a pair of them again.

What Do You Want to Say Now? Bill Baker

What Lew Welch said to Joanne Kyger, in a letter written in January, 1960

First you must love your body, in games,

In wild places, in bodies of others.

Then you must enter the world of men and

Learn all worldly ways. You must sicken.

You must then return to your Mother and

Notice how quiet the house is.
What Do You Want to Say Now? Bill Baker 5

Then return to the world that is

Not Man

That you may finally walk in the

World of Man, speaking.

Tell me what do you want to say now, to the silent one with you
from the beginning?
To the one present at the instant of your conception,
When egg met sperm, DNA linked hands, and life began a new
dance?

What do you want to say to the silence who sailed with you into the
sea of a womb?
Who witnessed your attachment, watched you grow from a single
cell, divide, and multiply,
The only one who saw you differentiate, inside from outside, head
from body, to become a new
and original being?

What to the one whose silence stayed with you through the chance
of abortion, miscarriage, or
premature birth?
Who squeezed with you through the canal, from the smooth water
into the raw air?
What to the one who felt your first warm breath, and heard your
first cry?

What do you want to say now, to the one always with you, as you
became a person,
With you through laughter and tears, joy and torment, triumph and
disappointment,
The only one who never left you alone, never broke a promise, and
never lied?
What Do You Want to Say Now? Bill Baker 6

What do you say to this deeper shadow of yourself, umbra wrapped

in a penumbral shroud,
That, when you stand in the light of a long days sunset and look
back, seems one with you?
So close, you are twins, shade against shadow; self so nearly self,
but not quite so.

What do you want to say, now that you hear a whisper: Be still.
Peace.
What do you want to say to the dusky silence and the two words
you were conceived to hear:
Its time.

Tell me, so I will know. What do you want to say

now, while you can still speak?

In the Blink of an Eye Cathy Hollenback

Nineteen and newly married, I found myself pregnant the same year.
I was scared, happy, and excited all at the same time. My husband
appeared shocked and happy at the news, but was concerned about the
added financial expenses and the need to find a larger house. He became
distant, condescending, and selfish. His way of dealing with all the issues
was found in a bottle.
My pregnancy progressed well except for a few fainting spells and
morning sickness. I learned how to clean, cook, and become the dutiful
wife. I often spent many evenings at home alone while my husband went
out.
At a routine doctors visit, protein was discovered in my urine
sample. The test shows how well kidneys filter blood; proteins should stay
in blood, not in urine. If protein levels stay or increase along with In the
elevated blood pressure, it could be a sign of pre-eclampsia, a potentially
serious condition for both mother and fetus.
Blink of an Eye Cathy Hollenback 7

Meanwhile, I took a leave of absence from my job, we found a larger

home, and I kept busy by getting our new home ready, decorating the
babys room, purchasing furniture, clothing, and other necessities. I was
having fun and felt overjoyed. I also read, rested more often, and took
Lamaze classes.
But at night my dreams, although I couldnt remember most of them,
gave me a sense that either me or my baby would die. I woke up drenched
in sweat, terrified, and breathing heavily, while my husband slept soundly.
I prayed in silence
I tried to talk to my husband about the dreams, but he never took
them seriously. He said it was my own apprehension of the labor and birth
process.
In my ninth month, another checkup resulted in bad news: higher
protein levels and dangerously elevated blood pressure. I was admitted to
the hospital early the next morning for induced labor. My husband and his
mother sat across the room against the wall. I was hooked up to
monitoring devices and an IV. The last thing I remember was my doctor
leaning over me, frowning and saying, I am sorry.
For what I wondered?
I was standing in a meadow with luscious green grass covered in a
multitude colored wildflowers that swayed gently from a slight breeze.
Although I had no sense of my feet ever touching the ground or the
coolness of the wind, I did have a sense of weightlessness in unlimited
space and time. I was in awe of the beauty everywhere. There was no fear,
no pain. An incredible feeling of love and peace enveloped me as a figure
in white, faceless but male-like, appeared. This is where I wanted to stay.
No words were spoken, but I received the a message: There is unfinished
work for you to complete.
A voice called my name, Cathy, Cathy.
I opened my eyes and saw my brothers face.
Tearful, he smiled.
What time is it? I only registered pain.
Eight Oclock in the evening.
My mind reeled. I was in the wrong place. He couldnt be right. I
started to close my eyes.
Cathy, you have a son.
In the next few days I learned I had a difficult birth and delivery, but
also a beautiful, healthy boy.
A Trick From the Grave Diane Semans 8

I remember Dad,
The surgeon, naval officer, prison physician, husband and father.
I remember his burial at Arlington National Cemetery with full
military honors,
The funeral at Fort Myer Chapel,
The white horse drawn caisson, led by the United States Marine
band.
The solitary bugler, the eerie soul- searching sound of taps, then
silence.

I remember the Irish Wake at his beloved Belvedere home,

Overlooking San Francisco Bay.
I remember the front parlor,
Cleaned and polished, fresh flowers on the baby grand.
I remember his flag-draped casket, elevated on rollers,
Resting on the hearth in front of the fireplace.
The open casket. Dad in his naval uniform,
Head elevated on a white satin pillow.

When they came for the casket to fly him to Arlington,

I remember that solitary poker chip,
Lying on the tile floor.
Mom was dumbfounded.
How did it get there? I had this room cleaned and polished.
Your father loved to play tricks,
And he loved to play poker.
Operation Revolution Piper Tulley 9

Scene 1
(Scene opens on a well lit forest. Townspeople in drab clothing mill
about from stall to stall at a little farmers market. A hunched over old
woman stands near a cart upstage, the hood of her long cloak pulled over
her head. Three guards enter from stage right. They begin to pull people
to the side and ask them questions about a young girl. )
Guard 1 : Maam, have you seen a young girl? ( Guard steps up to
Catarina )
Catarina : ( In a feeble old womans voice ) No, no. I havent. ( Tries
to leave )
Guard 1 : Are you sure? Shes about sixteen years old, yea tall,
description of actor.
Catarina : No. Sorry, havent seen her. ( Tries to leave again )
Guard 2 : ( Approaches from where he had been asking someone
else ) Hello? Have you seen this girl? Shes about, what would you say,
yea tall?
Guard 1 : Just about, yeah.
Guard 2 : Same description of actor .
Eleanor : Whats going on here? ( Eleanor enters from stage right,
looking angry ) Have you found her yet?
Guard 1 : ( Looking scared ) No, Maam. Not yet. But we will!
Eleanor : ( Looks past guards, sees old woman Catarina ) Whos
this?
Guard 2 : She hasnt seen her.
Eleanor : ( Steps past Guard ) Youre sure? Shes sixteen, about yea
tall, exact same description of actor.
Catarina : Yes, Im sure.
Eleanor : Wait a moment. ( Catarina stops. Eleanor walks around to
her front, Catarina tries to look away. Eleanor throws back her hood,
revealing her face ) Ah ha! Found you you little twat. Guards! ( Eleanor
snaps her fingers, the two guards grab Catarina by the arms and begin to
drag her away ) Castle's this way. ( Guards turn around and exit
stage left)

Scene 2
( The next scene opens on a well lit room. There is nothing but a
backdrop and one gilded throne in center upstage. Catarina and her
escorts enter from stage right, Catarina following with dismal
resignation.)
Catarina : What are you going to do to me?
Operation Revolution Piper Tulley 10

Eleanor : Well the the royal court are on their way and because of
you the guard is in a shambles and Ill have to fire the royal locksmith.
Way I see it, theres only one thing to do.
Catarina : You dont mean...
Eleanor : Yes, I do. ( Eleanor snaps her fingers, guards start
dragging Catarina across the stage. Catarina cries out and pleads mercy,
but no one listens. Guards take Catarina and tie her wrists onto the arms
of the throne, then place the crown on her head. Catarina sits reluctantly )
Catarina : This is humiliating.

Deep Water Catherine Marshall

I floated face down in the Caribbean Sea, enthralled with the fish
flitting around me. The ocean was as warm as bath water on this steamy
August morning. The Mexican booze cruise had stopped to allow a few of
us into the water to view the sea life. My boyfriend, Fred and I were
among those who were not yet inebriated, so we donned life jackets and
snorkeling masks and plunged in. We were warned by the captain not to
go far, because wed only be at this spot for about thirty minutes before
moving on to Isla de Mujeres.
I spotted a large turtle and pulled in my legs, worried Id get bitten. I
grabbed Freds arm. Stay with me, please. Im a little nervous in the
ocean and Id feel better if you were nearby.
My boyfriend and I were on vacation in Cancun, one of those cheap,
all-inclusive deals where every meal was a buffet. He and I had an on-
again, off-again relationship and this trip was another try as a couple. Fred
was a nice guy with a steady job. He was funny and a good lover, but he
wasnt much to look at, stocky, balding and plain as a block of cement. It
didnt help that he had a roving eye. Despite this irritation, I thought he
had potential.
A stingray swam too close and I panicked, jerking my head out of
the water. I reached for Fred, but he wasnt there. Concentrating on the
view below, I must have floated away from the boat and the others, and
Fred must have drifted off, too. How could he leave me?
Deep Water Catherine Marshall 11

I pushed up my mask and surveyed the sea. Some distance away I

saw other day cruise boats and clusters of floating tourists. Which boat
was mine? I tried to recall the name of ours, written in tiny letters on the
side. I couldnt swim fast in the life jacket, so I dog-paddled to the closest
one, bobbing through the gentle, but now-daunting swells. I hoped Fred
felt terrible when he discovered I was missing.
Without my glasses, I had to swim right up to the boat to see if I
recognized anything. The Captain of this one didnt look familiar. His
back was to me so he didnt see me waving and he couldnt hear me over
the blaring music to help me up.
I spotted an identical boat in the distance and swam toward it. I
swallowed seawater, grew tired, and treaded water to rest. Would I be left
here? Surely Fred would say something and theyd look for me. I was
feeling sorry for myself and embarrassed for having a boyfriend whod
abandon me.
A small fishing boat motored nearby. I waved my arms, the motor
was cut and I swam over.
Hey, Senorita. Que pasa? The thin young man, piloting the boat,
wore a baseball cap and ragged tee shirt. His two companions, tending
their fishing gear, watched with amusement as I explained myself.
Tengo verguenza. Olvide el nombre de mi barco. My Spanish was
ridiculous, but they got the gist. I was embarrassed and lost. I got a hand
up while the two seated fellows provided counter weight. I heaved my
chubby, middle-aged body onto their boat like a landed sturgeon. After
some wobbling and laughing, I pointed at another boat I thought was mine
and we headed toward it.
Fred stood alone on the deck of the day cruiser. He was dry and
dressed now, with his hands in his pockets. He looked sheepish, hopefully
ostracized by the rest of the tourists. I thanked my rescuers as they
maneuvered their boat so the captain could help me aboard.
I stood on the deck facing Fred, my hands on my hips in a What the
hell! that left no doubt as to my state of mind. At least he had the decency
to look ashamed, this man I once thought had potential.
A Seven-Letter Word for Calm Nona Smith 12

Its a fog-drippy morning at the ocean today. I sit at my kitchen table

drumming the eraser-end of a pencil against the newspaper, folded back to
the crossword puzzle. Its a hard one for a Tuesday. Im stuck at three
down: a seven-letter word for calm. Scanning the kitchen looking for
clues, my gaze lights on the wall clock: 10:00 a.m. If I dont get a move
on now, I will miss yoga class.
I arrive at the large, wood-floored studio breathless and unfurl my
mat in time to hear Catherine, our attractive, lithe instructor give her
welcoming shtick.
How are you feeling today? Any problem areas? Remember, take
my instructions as suggestions and let your body tell you what it needs.
Her voice is soft, soothing.
To create yoga ambiance, she brings a tiny electronic device that she
perches on the windowsill. It plays what I think of as yoga elevator music.
Its supposed to be in the background, except with my hearing aids, which
are equal opportunity amplifiers, everything gets louder. I situate myself
away from the music, but still within clear sight of Catherine so that I can
read her lips, even if I cant actually hear her instructions.
She guides us through warm-up twists and stretches and breathing
exercises until she feels we are centered, have left our worldly worries
behind, and are ready to assume more rigorous postures.
Lets stand in Mountain Pose, she suggests. We stand tall, heads
held high, shoulders back. Now close your eyes and challenge your
balance.
I can do this pose easily and with stability. Its what comes next
thats the challenge for me. Catherine gives further direction, but with my
eyes closed, I can only guess at what shes saying. Something, something,
foot to shin, something arms, wave something. I slit my eyes open to find
Mountain Pose has morphed into Tree Pose, and I rush to catch up. Its not
so relaxing to fall behind in yoga class. My body craves the stretching and
bending; its what brings me here. But my brain hates that my ears wont
permit me to fully relax into the experience.
For the next half hour, Catherine suggests us into downward facing
dogs, cat/cows, plows, planks and windmills. From time to time, she
inquires, Are you still breathing? At last, we are rewarded with
Shivasana, which she insists is a really vital pose, although in every way
A Seven-Letter Word for Calm Nona Smith 13

it reminds me of how my body is positioned in bed right before I drift off

to sleep.
We stretch out on our mats, and Catherine begins a guided
meditation designed to gentle us into a blissful state of relaxation. Find
that sweet spot at the back of your head to connect with the floor. Allow
your feet to splay and your eyes to close. Her voice purrs on. Now bring
your attention to your forehead, to the place between your eyebrows.
Relax your eyebrows. Relax the bridge of your nose. Relax your nostrils.
When I first began attending this yoga class, eyes closed, I
concentrated very hard on hearing Catherines voice during Shivasana. I
tried so hard to make out her every word that it took me to the opposite of
calm. As time passed, Ive learned to let her words drift over me and not
worry too much about actually hearing them. Ive found that I can get to a
calm space all by myself. In fact, Im feeling pretty relaxed right now.
Wait. I count the letters on my fingers: r-e-l-a-x-e-d. BINGO! Thats
it, a seven-letter word for calm!

Bootsie Marian Brannan

In the shadow of Mt. Shasta,

In a valley filled with pine
Is a love-filled little farm house,
There are few of its like kind.

One cold and wintry evening

Snow had begun to fall.
Papa washed his hands and face,
As he heard Mamas supper call

He glanced outside just one more time

To admire his work that day
The final post hed sunk with pride
To the fence he started in May.
Bootsie Marian Brannan 14

He saw that things were changed

Beneath the tree a mound
It was something little and dark and round
Under a pine, in the snow on the ground.

He shook his head twice then squinted,

No, his eyes were not playing a trick.
It was tiny and black, he saw it move
And the snow was getting thick.

His boots made foot-prints in the snow

As he made his way to the tree
The figure moved to meet him
As if to say,Its me!

This little orphan tad of a pup

Has been left for us, my dear.
Someone had abandoned her
To them it was quite clear.

They stroked and cuddled and petted and fussed,

But still she shivered so
In the crook of Papas arm
He rocked her to and fro.

They determined that this forgotten pup

Would come to no more harm,
So, they placed her on the oven door
With a blanket to keep her warm.

She was nursed her well into the night

But still they heard her cry
Their common thought until the dawn
Was that the puppy would not die
What could be done to warm her through?
Papa searched his head for a clue.
Bootsie Marian Brannan 15

The blanket and oven were good, its true,

But I know something even better to do!

He took the dog and his warm wool sock,

And gently wrapped her up.
To him it seemed so natural,
Like the sock was made for the pup.

Then he tucked her snug inside his boot,

It was a perfect little space.
She quickly closed her eyes and slept,
Content and at home in this special place.

They looked at one another,

Then down at the tiny mite
A doggie for them to care for
What a lovely sight.

The cold and fear

Were a thing of the past
BOOTSIE had found her home at last.
How It Would Be Balan Blakely-Hall 16

In my world there would be soldiers and armor

You could be a knight even if youre a peasant or farmer
There would be arrows flying and swords clashing
Gladiators in the arena fighting and smashing
There would be heroes and villains all across the land
Epic tales told every day and sung by every band
There would be trolls and goblins and even dragons
We would ride horses and go back to using wagons
There would be wizards and mages using all sorts of magic
Im king and if u mess with my castle it will be tragic
I would grow rich and be known as being a hero
My name would be spread across the land as king zero
Eventually I would grow old and then I would die
Waving my people and this beautiful world good bye
Bards, jesters, and musicians would tell my story
From whom I loved and battles that were bloody and gory
This is the end and no more battles to fight
So I close my eyes and let my soul drift away with the night
I just hope everyone listening can see
That this is how my world would be.

Our Journey To Israel Orah Young

We arrive at the Tel-Aviv airport. No trains into the city until the Sabbath is over. The
Jewish Sabbath begins at sundown on Friday and ends at sunset on Saturday. During
these twenty-four hours, Jews are forbidden to work--not light a fire, ride in a vehicle or
push a button or turn a switch. This is a day of rest, specifically commanded by God.
Modern life comes to a halt.
Eli, our taxi-driver says hes too wounded from some war to help load our suitcases.
Steve and I stow our luggage in the front seat and climb into the back.
Where you from?
California.
He pushes a button and yells over Caifornia Dreamin, "You need taxi later? I take
you where you want to go. You want to see Tel Aviv, tomorrow? I show you. Go to
Jerusalem? I drive you.
Our Journey To Israel Orah Young 17
He doesn't stop talking till we arrive at our rented apartment. We yank our suitcases
from the front seat, pay him what he demandstwice the going rateand stand dazed in
what appears to be a sleazy neighborhood.
On the ground floor is a restaurant with outdoor tables, so crowded the overflow
spills onto the sidewalk and street. Nearly everyone is in costume: little girls in princess
attire, little boys in cloaks with swords, adults in masks and Technicolor wigs. We are
overwhelmed by noise, rock from the cafe, techno from a couple of blocks away.
"It's Purim," I say to Steve, worried that he might think all Israelis are mad.
Our landlord meets us on the sidewalk. We drag our luggage through the crowd and
up three flights of stairs into a modest, clean but shabby, apartment.
Despite our jet lag, we are anxious to experience the evening's celebration. We
descend into a throng more numerous than when we arrived.
A cross between Mardi Gras and Halloween, Purim celebrates with fancy-dress
costumes, dancing and special foods, the deliverance of the Jews from their enemies. We
follow the loudest music. A half-block away, we find a crowd of teenagers wearing Goth
costumes, dancing, hands above their heads. Electronica blares from the corner cafe.
Revelers pour in from every direction.
Night falls and colored lights play on the surrounding buildings. The noise is
deafening. We weave through narrow streets. Competing music blares from every corner.
Swarms of young people in rainbow wigs, clown and sailor suits flow past.
We round a corner and find a jazz band playing in front of a restaurant. It is now
dark. Outsized pornographic cartoons are projected on the apartment walls across the
street: turtles with outsized genitalia perform unspeakable acts.
I'm not a prude, but these are bad. I hope no one sees me watching. After all, I'm old
enough to be these peoples grandmother.
It's late and we are hungry. We decide to return to our street where we spotted a
decent Italian restaurant named Papa's.
In the light of the moon and the occasional streetlight, we walk through narrow
alleys, past homes and apartments, paint peeling from their walls, iron bars on the
windows. I had imagined Tel Aviv as a pristine white Mediterranean beach city. Nothing
could be further from reality. For all its high-rise buildings, theaters, and museums, Tel
Aviv looks like a third world countryshabby, dirty and shop worn. Plaster crumbles
from walls, weeds abound, and graffiti decorates the buildings. The larger ones look
vacant and abandoned.
The cats, however, are great. They form two distinct tribesone orange, the other
white and gray. They are sleek, healthy and everywhere.
A blond bewigged ballerina with curly black chest hairs enters the restaurant before
us. Steve and I share an excellent pizza and an even better bottle of Israeli wine. In the
street, the noise shows no sign of abating. We decide its useless to go back to our
apartment.
Steve wants to hear more of the jazz and I'm curious about the porno. We return and
the images have changed for the worst, from Disney to Japanese-style Manga, so graphic
that I turn bright red. But Steve has only eyes and ears for the musicians; he barely looks.
We forget our age and dance.
Poem Crazy 2008 Doug Fortier 18

Asking whales stunned by diamonds

if widescreens open any further
is amnesia masquerading as a margarita.

Symbols asking for notice

deepen macaroni in black boxes.
How can boulders bark while sleeping
without asking for free shipping?

The view plucked taught strings

marked for the year of the marathon.
Verde margins scream nonsense
through the center of the coffee house.

Over the canopy's tip the chances failed

a final prayer suffocated on my lips,
I want a cocktail.

My Life With Mara Roberta Belson

Mara made progress over the next five years at the Deveraux school,
learning reading, writing, and independent living skills. She progressed
from living in a highly supervised dormitory, to a smaller group home on
campus with only a couple of group parents. At seventeen, Mara moved
into an apartment with three other students. They were visited a couple of
times a week by counselors, who helped them with budgets and shopping,
but otherwise lived semi-independently.
During these years at Deveraux, which was two and half hours from
our home in Los Angeles, Mara often told me she wanted out of there.
When I explained she needed special schooling, she couldnt understand.
It was too painful for me to explain her handicaps. I told her Deveraux
helped her learn to live independently.
Living without supervision opened a large new world for my
My Life With Mara Roberta Belson 19

daughter. She was free to cruise the area and pick up guys. Unfortunately,
her taste was not good. The young men she was attracted to were from the
dregs of society.
One day, after she turned eighteen, I received a telephone call from
the school. Mara had run away with a homeless guy. Gary, a born-again
Christian, was living on the streets in Santa Barbara. He convinced Mara
to join him, convert to his church, and leave behind her apartment and her
belongings. He told her she was eighteen and could legally do what she
wanted.
Mara had disappeared and nobody knew where. I was frantic. My
husband drove me to Santa Barbara and we combed the streets and parks.
We learned Gary had a brother who owned a gas station. We found the
station. The brother said he had no idea where they were, but he promised,
if he saw Gary and Mara, to tell them we were concerned and to please
call us.
I didnt hear for months. I was worried sick. When Mara finally
called, she said, Im so scared Mommy, please come and rescue me. I
dropped everything and drove north, to a movie theater in Santa Barbara,
where she said to meet her. Mara was not outside, so I went in and found
her sitting next to Gary. When I asked her to come with me, she didnt
budge. I had to pull her, screaming and crying, to the street. She had
changed her mind, or Gary convinced her to stay.
I was so wound up and exhausted by the long drive and fear for her, I
lost control. I pulled a wild and yelling Mara into the car. I strapped the
safety belt around her and started to drive. She tried her hardest to get out
of the moving car. I had to hold her down with my right arm and steer with
the left. After ten minutes on the freeway, I realized we would never safely
reach home. Furious and shaking, I turned the car around and drove Mara
back to the movie theater. She flew out to be with Gary on the streets.
I was too upset to drive, so I stopped at a restaurant. Drinking my
Diet Coke, I realized a cord attaching me to Mara had been severed. I was
still her mother and I loved my daughter, but I would not be so co
dependently entwined in the future. My thick tie to Mara had miraculously
loosened
Sex Education Bob Callan 20

She weighed about 400 pounds and seemed highly motivated. Me, I was a
skinny 130-pound boy sent to do a mans job.
It was the second week of June, 1936, and I had just celebrated my
fifteenth birthday. This was the first day of summer vacation. I should
have been enjoying my freedom, but no, my dad wakened me at a little
after 5:00 a.m.
Get dressed, Bobby. Somethings the matter with Beauty.
Now that I was awake, I could hear our cow bellowing.
Shes been at it all night, Dad said. She must be sick.
I pulled on my clothes and went with him to the barn. Beauty looked
at us hopefully, but when we just stood there, she started heavy-duty
mooing again.
Lets go see Fisher, Dad said. Hell know whats the matter. My
father grew up on a small Scottish island where his family owned cows.
Our cow, Beauty, was named after one of theirs. Yet he always went to
Fisher for advice. We knocked at Fishers door. He opened it and said,
God damn it, Mac, I know why youre here. I could hear her clear across
the valley. He chuckled. Theres nothing wrong with your cow that a
date with Romeo wont cure. Phone old man Furtado. Bobby can take care
of it.
My dad had to go to work at the Ford factory, so he lucked out,
leaving this new and challenging task to me.
I entered Beautys barn. She quieted and I was surprised by her
cooperative attitude. She was obviously experienced in these matters, and
lifted her head so I could snap the rope lead into the harness ring under her
jaw. That was easy. I relaxed a little as I opened the gate of corral. That
was the end of easy. She broke into a trot, heading for the alley, made a
right turn, and charged into a run. I took two turns with the rope around
my hips and leaned back, attempting to control her speed. That was the
fastest mile I ever ran, and up the steepest part of Ridge Road. Her
sleepless and stressful night did not in any way impede her dash for
Romeo. I had to keep up to avoid being dragged, and my feet only
occasionally touched the ground.
Rounding Farmer Furtados big red barn at full speed, Beauty headed
for Romeos pen. The bull, all 600 pounds of him, rammed the gate,
Sex Education Bob Callan 21

snorting like a dragon. He reared onto his hind legs, pawing at the fortress-
like fence built to contain him.
Clinging to Beautys rope I noticed several men standing around
laughing. Whenever Romeo had a date, I came to realize, it attracted an
audience. I began to feel a little sorry for those frustrated men who came
to watch.
The furious sexual coupling was indeed a spectacle. I feared for the
safety of Beauty, who seemed diminutive alongside the monumental bull.
She survived, and when the coupling was done, Romeo ambled over to the
water trough. He drank long and deep, interspersing gulps with deep
breaths and diminishing snorts. Beauty followed, rubbing her side against
him a couple of times, before turning to where I stood waiting with her
lead. I snapped it on and we headed for home. She stopped to look back. I
looked, too, and it was then I saw the faded but gilded crown nailed over
King Romeos door.
Our walk home was the easiest I ever had with Beauty.
Between our two cows I made this trip six times over the next four
years.

Destiny Eden Lorentzen

Your head pulses and the world spins beneath you. Your mouth too dry,
skin too hot, hands too large, phone too bright as you fumble it out of your
pocket, drop it, catch it before it hits the ground. Little book so fragile,
paper so thin as you turn the cover open to see the inscription on the first
page:
Property of Destiny. If found, please call: 1001-100-02.

Keypad beeps as you type in the number, loud like the heart monitor
that counts how much time you have left in a scale of hours as the clock
counts how much time you've wasted on a scale of centuries where each
tick marks a regret and each tock marks the opportunity that went with it.
Destiny Eden Lorentzen 22

The phone rings, sending vibrations up your arms, into your heart and
skull, anticipation builds like a flood tide behind a dam and
Hello, Erin.
And it all stops. You gasp realize you've just called a stranger's
number and she knows your name. But you know hers. Destiny?
How much did you read?
You don't know what she's talking about. Maybe everything.
Confusion. The moment of clarity starts to fade. The neurons fire and you
hear the electricity crackling. The light seeping in under the door reaches
out to grab you. Destiny's voice is your only anchor.
You weren't supposed to read that much, Erin. Listen to me. I''ll be
right there. Just one minute, okay? Less than a minute. Fifty seconds.
Forty-nine. Forty-eight. Forty-seven...
A letter unfolding, crisp white paper: Congratulations on your
acceptance to Cambridge University. We are pleased to
...Solemn duty to inform you that your son (A man in a dark suit
holds out the folded flag) ...killed in action last week while
not defending my position, you're defending yours, the captain of
the debate team snaps. Humiliation. Let's take a break, everybody, be
back in
Thirty-five. Thirty-four. Thirty-three. Thirty-
Two more minutes. Please?
We're going to miss the fireworks!
It'll be the same show next year.
You have something better to show me?
Her lips on yours, so worth it, light cast from above as the rocket
Booms, shaking the whole house. Mummy, I'm scared.
You pull him into your lap: It's okay, sweetheart, I'll always be here
for you.
I don't like bombs, Mummy.
They're not
Grenade lands close, too close, no time, his friends haven't noticed;
they're laughingwhat would Mum do for him if she were here, she said
she'd always be there, only one option, diving toward the
Water, splashing each other, first camping trip with your own family,
thinking how good your wifeOh, god, your wife, even after a year that
Destiny Eden Lorentzen 23

still gets youhow good she looks in a bathing suit

Even sick, even thirty years since you fist kissed beneath the
fireworks, she's still beautiful, even in the hospital bed, even counting
down the days she has left to live
Seventeen. Sixteen. Fifteen. Hold on, Erin. Thirteen. Twelve
Years old, birthday, surprise party, all your friends and the shiny red
bicycle you've wanted for so long, cake, and candles
On an altar, non-denominational like you would have wanted, lit for a
slightly-faded picture of you and placed far enough away from the dried
flowers so they won't catch fire
Burning through your lungs, can't breath, heart monitor speeding,
slowing, counting,
Three. Two. One. Zero! Erin, I'm here. I'm here. Look at me. Hello,
dear. That's it. The whole book, eh? Nobody's read the whole book since
me, and that was centuries ago. Are you okay? Well, of course not. I'm so,
so, sorry, but we have a lot to discuss. What's your opinion on the name
Fate?

The Phone Call Alice Bonner

With one phone call, my life took a ten-year detour. As the result of that
call, I drove my way into a world of abuse, neglect, drug addiction, and
mental illness. I was not prepared.
When the multi-line phone buzzed, I was jarred from contemplation.
Before me lay stacks of papers. All summer, three teachers and I had
worked on curriculum for a brand new academy. Service Learning was a
powerful way for at- risk teens to make positive connections in the
community. Kids at Olympic High School, where I was a Career and
College Advisor, were going to love it.
I picked up the receiver. Hi Dad. Whats up?
Kayla is in foster care. I dont know why, but all three kids were
taken from their mother. Will you please call the social services
department?
The Phone Call Alice Bonner 24

Kayla was his granddaughter, our niece. I sat up in my swivel chair.

When did this happen?
I dont know. A few days ago, I guess. A woman called me. Will
you get in touch with her?
Part of me seethed. It was like my father-in-law to be vague and
passive. He drove me crazy. The other part of me acted. I called the
number and talked to Sharon, a social worker in nearby Pittsburg. She
invited me to her office. I grabbed my keys, told the office manager where
I was going, and rushed to my car.
During the twenty-minute drive, I thought about the seven years of
Kaylas life. I wasnt surprised her mom, Chris, had finally been caught by
authorities. I tried for six solid months to see if I could get Kayla away
from her, to see if she could come live with our family and have a chance
at a happy life. I had reached a dead end, learning unless you can prove a
child is physically abused or utterly neglected, it is impossible to get Child
Protective Services to take action.
Chris entered the Bonner family with a lie. She told both my
husband Ric and Mark (Rics brother and her boyfriend) that she was
pregnant. Mark had been in trouble with drugs since high school, in and
out of his parents home. They never knew when he would appear and
didnt have the strength to give him tough love. With a baby coming and
no place to live, Chris and Mark moved into my in-laws home. Only she
wasnt pregnantthen. Months later she began to show. They claimed to
get married one weekend in Reno. We never knew if that was true either.
Rics parents adored Kayla. They were present at her birth and took
care of her as much as her mother did. Chris and Mark moved into an
apartment three months after Kayla was bornMom and Dad couldnt
stand their fighting. Their relationship ended shortly after, and Mark
disappeared for weeks, an absent father. Chris blackmailed Mom and Dad,
knowing they would do anything for Kayla. She would call: My rent is
due and I dont have groceries. You need to come help me out. Or,
Theyre about to shut off my electricity. You need to pay the bill. They
never refused.
Now, seven years later, Kayla had a brother and a baby sister, both
by different loser fathers. Mom had developed Alzheimers. Dad was
overwhelmed trying to deal with her, his drug addict son, Chris, and now
The Phone Call Alice Bonner 25

Kayla. We tried to help, but he was so passive-aggressive we, too, felt

helpless.
I wheeled the Miata into the Social Services Department parking lot.
Now we would have a chance to rescue Kayla.

Vernacular and Introversion Carol Reffell

I never fit in. I was never someone's best friend. Sometimes I was
second or third, but never the really, really best. Take a plain, introverted
little girl, move her from place to place, and you get me.
I entered eighth grade after the semester began. I was a skinny late
bloomer with a training bra, while some girls, when changing for gym,
showed off fully filled out black lace undergarments.
There was my accent. It had been Border Scots, Edinburgh Scots,
Glasgow Scots (That one Made my mother shudder), middle class
London, and lastly, upper class snobby English. One boy, when told I was
from Scotland, marveled. But you speak English so well. Okay, I made
no friend there by muttering, Much better than you lot.
Even the stupid piece of rubber on my pencil had a different name.
Then there was art, an utter humiliation. My stick figures were
unrecognizable. The room had round tables with three people at each,
when I arrived on my first day. The harried teacher pointed at a table at the
back, occupied by two people, and said, Sit there. Kids snickered as I
checked out my table-mates.
One boy sat, legs sprawled out, pen behind his ear, a look of
incomprehension on his ruddy face. The other one was Jimmy, who
smelled of cigarettes and sported an air of jaded disdain. He dressed in
tight pegged pants and a black shirt. Over it was a black leather jacket
with silver studs.
He wore scuffed motorcycle boots. Yes, boys and girls, Jimmy rode
his Harley to eighth grade. He had an angular face, long, greased, curls,
and the most protruding Adams apple I had ever seen. He acknowledged
my tentative approach with a nod, tacit permission to be seated, then
Vernacular and Introversion Carol Reffell 26

ignored me.
Over the next week, I got used to Jimmy and realized that while he
would never include me, he chose not to be cruel. We drew pencil
sketches. The boys did cars with stylized flames on their doors. I don't
remember mine, probably stick figures. I erased so often, the paper began
to look ragged. The unfortunate thing on the end of my pencil dried up,
crumbled, and fell off.
One of those unnatural hushes in conversation arrived as I turned to
Jimmy and asked in a loud whisper. Can I borrow your rubber? Silence,
then his buddy started to howl with laughter. Jimmy joined in, and
everyone turned to stare. Jimmy fell off his chair, as he usually leaned
back, balancing on the rear legs. I had no idea what I had said, only that it
was embarrassing. We got lunch detention for disrupting class. Next day, I
hunched miserably over a book and Jimmy slid over to me.
You don't know what you said, do you?
Tears in my eyes, I mutely shook my head.
Well. He began, then stopped. I can't do this.
He dragged me to Suzanne, who filled out her 36B bra bountifully,
and who knew things and perhaps did things. Suzanne explained
condoms and how they were sometimes called rubbers. I fled back to my
chair. I had no idea what she was talking about.
The year dragged on. I sat with the bad boys who ignored me.
Jimmy's henchman came to school beaten up, then disappeared. Suzanne,
who apparently didn't know enough things, grew chubby and went to
live with her aunt. Jimmy went to Juvie for borrowing a sports car.
I sat by myself, still nobody's best friend.
Empty Nest Beth Richmond 27

Even when we were three

it was just
you and me.
Downey soft
baby curls
wet with
my tears.

Long nights in the

guest room.
The lumpy brass bed,
your slumbering breath
and sweaty limbs a
blessed anchor.

Those years in our

tiny house where the
light and wind
pierced every crack,
rent paid by
scraping and the
miracles we came to
depend on,
learning together the
meaning of
abundance.

Redwoods shielding us,

you grew tall
and beautiful
and kind,
ready to try your
wings.
Go on now,
baby.
Scoot, scoot.
Mommys right
here.
Rock Dove Donald Shephard 28

Almost all islands and rocks along our

coast constitute the California Coastal
National Monument. One such rock on the
south side of Frolic Cove harbors the nests
of three speciesWestern Gull, Black
Oystercatcher, and Rock Dove. You may
know the latter birds as Rock Pigeons or
Feral Pigeons because the American
Ornithological Union has recently waffled
on the subject. Not that it matters a jot to
our birds billing and cooing on a Frolic
Cove rock.
I consider the local species identical to the Rock Doves nesting
on the White Cliffs of Dover. They share the same binomial
Columba livia. True Rock Doves nest on cliffs in Europe where
natives domesticated them thousands of years ago. Europeans
introduced them to North America whereupon they escaped
domestication (rather like my three sons) and became the familiar
city-dwelling pigeon.
The avid birder ignores this feral immigrant. Take a closer look
and you will see a gray body, dark blue-gray head, neck and breast,
with glossy yellow-green, and red-purple iridescence along its neck
and wing feathers. Two black bars grace the wings and a dark
terminal band highlights the gray, rounded tail. Note the orange
iris with a paler inner ring, and the bluish-gray skin around the eye.
Observe its pink or red legs.
Predators include Peregrine Falcons, opossums, raccoons, Red-
tailed Hawks, Great Horned Owls, and Common Ravens. For
millennia, man has hunted them for food in their native lands.
More recently, carrier pigeons have also come under fire while
playing significant roles during wartime, with many birds receiving
bravery awards and medals for their services in saving hundreds of
human lives.
A notable example of pigeon courage occurred at the battle for
Verdun in France in World War I (the war to end all wars that did
not.) A British pigeon named Cher Ami earned the unenviable task
of flying a message for 194 Americans trapped behind enemy lines
with little ammunition. The men faced slaughter. Distraught
Rock Dove Donald Shephard 29

soldiers witnessed two previous carrier pigeons shot from the sky.
A sniper hit Cher Ami leaving only a tendon attached to his thigh
with the message strapped to it. A bullet blinded one eye. Yet Cher
Ami delivered the message to headquarters before he died.
Reinforcements rescued the trapped men.
French General Petain awarded the Croix de Guerre to the
dead British carrier pigeon for saving American soldiers. Cher Ami,
who certainly no longer cared, was stuffed and acquired by the
Smithsonian Institute. I cannot fathom the purpose of any of these
incongruous actions.
In World War II, G.I.Joe, a bird in the United States Army
Pigeon Service flew twenty miles in as many minutes delivering a
message that prevented the slaughter of over one hundred men by
friendly fire. He became the twenty-fifth of thirty eight pigeons
to receive the Dickin Medal for bravery in that war. Maria Dickin,
founder of the U.K. charity, Peoples Dispensary for Sick Animals,
created this quintessentially English award. In addition to thirty-
eight pigeons, other recipients of the Dickin Medal include twenty-
nine dogs, four horses and one cat. I wonder what to conclude from
all this nonsense. Does it indicate the relative courage of birds,
dogs, horses and cats? Does it illustrate the inane vagaries of war?
Or is it yet more evidence for the eccentricity gene in the English?
No doubt the Rock Pigeons at Frolic Cove care not at all about
these questions. Next time you walk along the bluffs and your
binoculars focus on one of these brave birds, consider its beauty
here on the peaceful northern California coast.

Heartburn in Sicily Sue Gibson

Bill and I were in Signella, a US naval base on the isle of Sicily. We had
plans to leave the next day on the Boat Train to Rome.We sat at the table
and discussed tomorrow, wondering if we could get to the train by local
bus and how the train got on the boat.
Heartburn in Sicily Sue Gibson 30

I said, I have no idea how that train does it, but it has been doing it
for ages. It must be as safe as anything else in Sicily. I am going shopping.
Be back in a couple of hours.
At the commissary, I gathered up salami, cheese, wine, and a couple
of books in English. Back at the hotel, I was greeted by the manager. He
said, Madam, your husband is in the hospital and I will drive you there.
What happened to him? Did he fall or hurt himself?
I do not know the cause of the hospitalization.
I felt like someone had hit me with a sledgehammer. I left him
happily drinking a glass of wine and now he was in a hospital 3,400 miles
from home.
Bill sat in a hospital bed with a bevy of Navy nurses tending to him.
He waved to me, said he was fine, and had no idea what was going on.
Best you see the Doctor, I said.
I found Dr. Cohen in the hall. My husband was in great shape when I
left him a couple of hours ago, and he ends up here.
Mrs. Gibson, I believe Commander Gibson is having difficulty with
his heart. I want to keep him until I can make an appointment with a
cardiologist. We dont have one on base and I will have to send him to a
civilian doctor. It may take several days. I will arrange transportation and
you can go in the ambulance with him.
While I was shopping, Bill had gone to the dispensary to refill a
prescription, become dizzy, and was immediately admitted. Thank God we
were on an American base. I extended our hotel stay indefinitely and we
spent the next four days waiting for the cardiologist.
The doctor called. Good news. Commander Gibson will be seen by
Dr. Rafanelli tomorrow at 2:30.
Bill was strapped on a gurney and shoved in the back of a tiny Italian
ambulance. I climbed in the front and introduced myself to the driver. His
nametag said Capriotti and I told him how glad I was that he was Italian,
since I spoke none of the language. He said, Maam, I dont speak no
Italian. Im from the Bronx and the only thing I can talk is English. I got
this GPS, but it dont work and well have to figure out how to get there.
Hope we dont have to ask directions.
We zipped off and got instantly lost. My job was to reset the
passenger side mirror as we scraped along narrow, cobblestone streets. We
Heartburn in Sicily Sue Gibson 31

trundled through three vineyards, two cattle pens, many olive groves, and
several street markets where the chickens went crazy. He tried his cell
phone, but it didnt work any better than the GPS. Bill bounced around in
the back and I thought, if he didnt have a heart problem, this was sure to
cause one.
After three and a half hours, we found the cardiologists office, and
heart patient Bill, had to climb three flights of stairs. He was hooked up to
an appliance closely resembling an old-fashioned permanent wave
machine. Three people fiddled with the wires, one of which sparked. We
were told Bill had congestive heart failure and we should return to the
States immediately.
We did and I got the first appointment at Stanford. He did not have
congestive heart failure. He was just fine and we celebrated.
My advice to travelers is, dont get sick in Sicily.

Poems Joan Hansen

What is a Dog to Me?

A dog is more than just a pet,

A dogs a friend, who always stays,
Even through your darkest days.
All they ask are small rewards.
A smile, a stroke, a few soft words,
Some nourishment to feed their souls,
A little more to fill their bowls.

A warm and cozy place to sleep

A toy to chew while at your feet,
And when youre blue and sad they stay,
But if youre happy they love to play.
Whatever your mood, they are willing to share
As long as they know you really care.

So very little they ask of you,

Poems Joan Hansen 32

So very much they give,

A life of love, a friend forever
As long as they may live.

Wedding Day

Who is this that walks beside me?

This beauty in ivory lace and cameo.
Is this the babe I held, wrinkled and red,
So many years ago?

Is this the child I nourished?

With love and patience.
Who came to me in times of need
And never was turned away

She came to me in womanhood today

Beautiful with grace,
And asked a blessing for this time and place.

Oh, such a feeling of joy and pride

For this my child
Today a bride.

The Divine Prologue excerpt P. B. Townsend

The boys were separated to one side, the girls to the other. Kitanetos tried
to think of the arena and the competition to come as handmaidens bound
his hair and applied ochre pigment to his bare skin. They rubbed the dye
over his face, chest, back and down his buttocks and thighs. He closed his
eyes to their touching only to imagine them applying the white powder to
Ariadnhs thighs on the other side of the courtyard. When the
handmaidens giggled he ignored them. This is a Holy Day. We want to
win the favor of Posedao, fathers life could depend on me. Kitanetos was
barely aware when the harden mantle was fitted over his organs, held in
place with fine linen.
The Divine Prologue excerpt P. B. Townsend 33

When the handmaidens finished their ministrations Kitanetos

relaxed and opened his eyes. He noticed the beating tambour. When had
that started? Once he identified that sound, he also heard flutes and lyras
playing in the cavern and imagined butterflies and bees flitting and
dancing to the music. It grew louder as the two groups of athletes were
ushered together at the entrance to the underground shrine. He glanced
around the team and noticed how, except for their skin colorings, they
looked very similar to each other. They were all young. Their hair was tied
back in a cue. Their loins were covered with the same linen wrapped
mantles. And their skins were still smooth and soft, in sspite of their
muscles. None of the boys had facial hair yet and the breasts of the girls
were small or yet to arrive.
The handmaidens stepped aside to allow a high priestess of
Eileithyia, Theklah, to come forward.
When you devote your life to the Goddess, you pledge to submit
to Her in all things. Today, by Her will, sacred truths will be revealed to
you. Once you know these truths you will be accepted into Her service.
You must accept Her as She has accepts you. This twining can only be as
strong as the threads of the strings it is woven from. As an anchor rope is
only as strong as the strength of the one twisting the strands, you must be
strong in your obeisance to Her. These truths are not to be shared with
uninitiated, and if you reveal them or speak of them to others you will be
foresworn. Your strength and power will be as weak as a thread twisted by
a newborn. Theklah, the Glory of the Goddess, stared at each of the
initiates.
They had heard this lesson before, but under her glare Kitanetos
felt his lower stomach and groin contract. Without being asked, the
athletes bowed their heads.
Have you fasted? She called out.
Yes, I have fasted. The acolytes responded together.
Then drink the kykeon. The priestess instructed. The
handmaidens stepped forward with cups of the sacred brew.
Have you drunk the kykeon? The priestess asked.
Yes, I have drunk the kykeon. They all answered.
You may enter Eileithyias sanctuary. The high priestess turned
and led the way down the trail to the caves stone entrance, the
handmaidens followed, swaying and dancing to the music. Kitanetos
expelled a breath he hadnt realized he had been holding. As they went
down the short path, he too, started reacting to the energy while his
The Divine Prologue excerpt P. B. Townsend 34

stomach was reacting to the kykeon. He felt his heart tingled. His ears
pounded, matching the beat of the tambour.
Hed been prepared for the dark but not for total blindness. They
were admonished not to remove the masks until told to do so.

Portrait of a Man: Alexander Priscilla Comen

My parents named me Alexander; they probably wanted to put "The
Great" at the end. I attended Princeton University and every evening we
dressed for dinner in formal suits and ties. They thought that was a perfect
way to make fine young men out of boys.
Now, retired in Malibu, I change my clothes before I bring
"Mama" her double-scotch. Mama is my wife of fifty years. We have two
children, both grown, a son and a "queer" daughter who come visit
occasionally. My dog, King, a German Shepard, is always by my side. He
protects me by growling at everyone.
I keep a parrot on my shoulder when I'm in Mexico. We built a
round house in Puerto Vallarta, and Mama and I go there every six
months. We swim in the Bay, play cards with our friends, and drink until
we fall asleep. I take my guns for hunting pheasant. Its illegal, but I have
never been stopped at the border.
I hate niggers but I employ a colored woman named Exola to help
Mama clean the house and do the laundry in Malibu. I give her extra
money to help her daughter go to college. I also bought her a car. I am
fond of her. She's a hard worker. I also help my boat boy, Lochi, in
Mexico. When he drowned in a diving accident, I gave money to his
family
I'm over six feet tall and skinny. I carry a cane so I can beat on any
dogs that try to attack my dog or me when we walk on the beach.
When old women butt in front of me at the market or scream at my
dog, I say in a loud voice. "Madame, are you going through your
menopause?" At other times, I open doors for them. In Mexico, I help
Portrait of a Man: Alexander Priscilla Comen 35
Senoras onto seats on the bus. I don't mean to be rude, that's just the way I
am. I probably won't get into heaven. I don't care.
My neighbors, the Comens, moved into their new house next door
in Malibu. I had met the men of the family, but never the wife. One
morning I spied her on the road at the mailbox. She was wearing a long
navy blue bathrobe. I walked over. "Hello, sweetie," I said in my gravelly
voice. "What have you got under there?"
She backed away. I could see she was afraid. I pretended to lift her
robe for a peek, but she ran down the driveway. I laughed.
I'm not all bad. No villain is. I enjoy being grumpy. I'll growl if I
meet you on the street. Watch out.

Zombies Ate Bob Dylans Heart Derek Hoyle

Bob Dylan was a beat poet extraordinaire.
Playing folk festivals, with his shades and long hair.

A new breed of singer, beyond compare.
Deeper lyrics, made him folk music's new heir.

One day he went electric, with great fanfare.
Old school troubadours cried, Blasphemy there!

Press and fans, took a dive for a week or three.
But most came back, just to see.

What happened to Bob? He wasn't the same.
It was kinda scary. Who was to blame?

This is the story you see, of how Bob turned to electricity.
Late one night while walking home, he met some zombies standing by a
phone.
Zombies Ate Bob Dylans Heart Derek Hoyle 36

Asking for an autograph, and offering him a cig.

They got talking, and decided to gig.

With no acoustic instruments, Bob almost lost his wig.

Yet he jacked in a guitar, and turned it up BIG.

The zombie cats were cool, and man, they could play.
They jammed electric for hours, ending before day.

And when Bob awoke, he got an awful start.
The zombies were gone, they'd eaten his heart!

Zombies ate Bob Dylan's heart.
And that's when folk music fell apart.

Droning amplified zombie spawn into the night.
Killing folk music without a fight.

Never to forget this awful plight,

Bob cleaned the mess while still in a fright.
An electric troubouder now set free,
they'd stuffed cardboard where his heart used to be.

So no matter how hard he tried, he was completey denied,

the creative muse had died.
And despite all things smoked, and all things imbibed,
he couldn't get back to that folksy vibe.

Zombies ate Bob Dylan's heart one night.
An acoustic singer using electric might.

Singing electric zombie songs into the night.
Killing folk music without a fight.



Perceptions Dedicated to Gregorii Christie Holliday 37

These Trees
This Sun
These Perceptions
Heat
Breeze
Spiraling Out On The Great Gyration
The Crimson Fans Of Maple Leaves
The Sloping * Speckled * Throats Of Foxglove
Ariot On Their Lilting Stalks
.

Is the Observer The Author of Such Beauty?

Does Beauty Exist Where There Is No
Eye To Shape It?
Does Exuberance Lie Coiled In Chrysalis And
Bulb Beneath The Soggy Quilt Of Winter?
DOES IT? . DOES IT EXIST?

Or:

Imbued By The Awestruck Observer,

Does Beauty Take Flight With The First Swallowtail
Opening The Psalms Of Its Wings
Over The Chapel Of My Garden Like Jesus
Breaking Bread
Fire Fight Cinnamin Price 38
Eyes devour,
Every sinuous twisting shape,
Licking in and out of existence
Within firelights gleaming lace.

Nostrils flare,
Acrid scents assaulting each breath,
Remains of mute, keening sentinels,
Hollowed and empty in death.

Muscles burn
Skin sweats, while water rushes from brass,
As bitter foes ceaselessly battle
In an age old timeless clash.

Heros heart
Trembles little, nor does steady gaze,
As steadfast limbs carry them forward
The relentless duel is waged.

Villain roars,
As it swallows with voracious greed,
Engorged and ravenous, feasting
In its swiftly growing speed.

Singed sorrow,
Burdened hearts that twist weeping with strain,
Smoky shadows, silhouettes of dreams,
Desiccated ruin remains

Charred bones,
Still warm embers, a blanket of death,
Villainous leavings of wars despair
Consuming more without rest

Scalded breath,
Scratches sooty throats chocked with wear,
Dauntless against the enemys wrath,
Fire Fight Cinnamin Price 39
Defending all who live there

Rancid taste,
Heartbreak and fear fall through weary lips,
Heroes fight, enduring and faithful
Steady through horrors tight grip.

Eerie sound
Crackling insidious advance
Whispered moaning as if in mourning
Twisting in unearthly dance

Bravely fight
And fight still, is what the hero does.
Like Odins warriors of old
Neath starred skies and scorching sun

Shining hope,
In darkest hours they strive forward,
Saving what can be of what once was,
Lifes present day shield and sword.

Lost Mary Shepherd

Mom and I are in Hales Department Store. It is getting close to Christmas
so Mom promised to take me up to see Santa, but she is taking so long
going through those stupid pattern books. My feet hurt. Its so hard
climbing up on those big stools so I just lean against her hoping she will
finish. Its getting late and Santa might not wait for me.
Finally, she finds what she wants. Now we can go to the third floor. I
wish I could run, but I have to learn to be ladylike and walk. Look at the
line. Its going to take forever to get to the front. Why couldnt we have
come sooner?
Lost Mary Shepherd 40
Mary, I need to do some more shopping. Stay here. Ill be back
soon. If you see Santa while I am gone, stay in this area until I get back.
Okay?
I nod, but I feel kinda sick to my stomach. I dont like being left
alone. Im only six, but I am a big girl. I can do this. I watch Mom leave
Santas workshop. The line is moving, so I go over my list just to be sure I
remember everything. Ive been a pretty good girl. I do hope I get the doll
I want.
Whew. I told Santa and he said hed do what he can. I just have to do
what my parents tell me and help at home. Now wheres Mom? People are
leaving, and she still isnt here. Im afraid she might have forgotten me.
Were supposed to go to Dads office from here. Did she go there without
me? She told me to stay, but shes not coming. I better get to Dad and wait
for her there.
Going down the escalator scares me. What if I miss the step and
those teeth grab my foot? But I did it. Now to get to Dads. I know he is in
the Monadonack Building on Sutter Street. Its that way, no, maybe its
this way. Oh Im getting confused with all these people rushing by. I
thought I knew the way. Im scared.
Are you lost, little girl? Dont cry. Wheres your mommy? The
lady seems nice. Maybe she can help.
My dads office is in the Monadonack Building, but I cant
remember which way it is.
Thats all right, Dearie; its just a block away. Ill walk with you.
Whats your name?
I feel better. We are close. There. My dads office is on the third
floor. Thank-you.
Im so proud of myself as I open the door. Dads surprised to see me.
Wheres Mom? he asks. Why are you alone?
I tell him what happened, so he gives me some paper and a pencil to
draw while we wait.
Mom rushes into the office about an hour later. Before she says
anything, she sees me. I expect her to tell me how grown up I was to find
my way to Dad all by myself. Instead, she is shouting at me. I told you to
stay put. I have been hunting for you all this time. Cant you do anything
right?
My world is falling in around me. I am still a useless little girl. When
will I be a grown-up?
Through the Eyes of a Cat Debbie Pacheco 41
My name is Grommit. Im a Russian Blue. This story begins when the
people who found meabandoned and pitiful, moved and didnt take me.
What will happen to me now?
My owners sister comes and, for me, its love at first sight. Will
she want an eccentric old boy with a quirky sense of humor? I hope shell
see Im playful and affectionate.
Her gentle touch melts the hardness in my heart from the time
spent on the streets. I long to be hers. She says, Yes. However, I ride in a
box for four hours. Screeching doesnt faze her. Maybe this isnt a good
idea after all.
In my old house the front door had an L-shaped handle that opened
when I hung on it, although I couldnt close it. My owners didnt like that
since I usually went out at night. My new home has those funny round
knobs. I hang on but it doesnt budge. Bet I look quite silly.
When Christmas comes my favorite place to hang out is under the
tree branches to watch the lights while everyone looks for me. How far
can I knock those shiny balls hanging above me? The whole tree goes
over. What a commotion. Everyone comes running and I skid out fast. In
the next few days they put a bright red bow on my head. That does it. I
give the meanest look I can hoping to get it off. They remove it, but not
before taking pictures to show their friends.
My person loves me and I love her. When she puts clothes in a
box, I know shell be going away. Getting in the box myself doesnt work.
She sends me scampering. When she comes home, I ignore her until
bedtime. I sleep with a paw on her cheek.

I get bored when the she leaves. No catnip. No one to play tag
with. One time when I was home alone she had one of her lady friends
come daily to give me food and fresh water and to change my litter.
Nothing worse than stinky litter. She was walking very fast down the
hallway. I ran to tag her. Boy, was she surprised when I jumped on her leg.
It couldnt have hurt since I have no claws. Bet the neighbors heard her
scream. Ill never do that again, not to her anyway.
A scary thing occurs one summer day while I nap, minding my
own business. Startled, I awake to a sound that sends shivers down my
tail. Is that a meow? If so, its one Ive never heard before. My person
Through the Eyes of a Cat Debbie Pacheco 42

brings in a gooey-eyed, grey kitten. He looks like me when I was young.

My person tells the family I shrank in the dryer.
They call him Rufus. I would have called him Dufus. He isnt too
bright. They say his name means, Gift from God. Whose gift? Certainly
not mine. He follows me like a reflection in my peripheral vision, batting
my tail. He tries touching my feet. Only my person, whom I love dearly, is
allowed to do that.
Over time, Rufus grows on me and matures a bit. He doesnt get
any smarter. We play around some, but I always let him know his place: at
the bottom of the pile.
Over the years we become friends. We even come to like the dog.
That is another story altogether.

At the Strasbourg Cathedral Molly Bee

Guided by the spires from the outskirts of Strasbourg, Alsace, I found my
way to the colossal Strasbourg Cathedral, and went in to admire its the
ornate opulence. Between two stained glass windows, mounted high on
the wall, clung the most impressive, enormous, and elegant array of organ
pipes I had ever seen. As I marveled at them, a man stepped into the organ
console and sat down to play.
The sound rose in a hundred-foot swell, submerging the
churchgoers in a chest-pressingly loud Bach fugue. Waves of melody
crescendoed and crashed, surging back through bass layers and
rebounding off carved alcoves and marble ledges. High notes rose to float
at the surface of the swirling sonic ocean, and listeners on the vast
cathedral floor swayed like swaths of seaweed.
That feelingnot as the music played, but right at the point when
it ended, when the air still vibrated majestically between the cold walls
and bright stained glass, falling upwards from the floor, tumbling
dizzyingly out in all directions, curling around pillars, and finally trailing
away into the echoing footsteps of the receding organistthat feeling of
At the Strasbourg Cathedral Molly Bee 43
awe and overwhelm, thats what I felt for Fritz. Those reverent
reverberations off the cathedrals gothic faces, God-thick spaces, matched
the ache of love I carried in my bosom.
The sense of profundity, of drowning in too-muchness, overflowed
from my center. I stood in the Strasbourg Cathedral, an atheist with no god
to guide me, no point in the heavens on which to fix my beam, and
realized my bewildered, uncontainable, holy joyfulness was projected at
another human being. In my longing to know absolute love, I had cast my
heart and soul, not into the infinite abyss of the divine, but into the shallow
muddy trenches of the mundane. Fritz was never really an actor in my love
play; he was an audience member I corralled onstage. In his general
direction I carried on my own monologue, only pausing to look at him for
reference. He was not a dramatis persona in my scenes; rather, he was a
persona non grata. It was not he whom I adored, desired, and sought, but
the emotional high I experienced in the process.
Now that the flimsy image of Fritz was ripped away from my line
of sights, what was left? A wide-open world of chaotic complexity. Was I
going to turn my focus directly onto yet another human being to
experience the love I needed? Was I going to be reduced to religious
fanaticism to feel the fervor I wanted? Or was I going to do what that
naked guru Baba Fats said, and find it within myself? Most of us spend
our lifetimes wrestling with that one.
I climbed the cathedral spire, up a narrow staircase, thinking of the
German writer Goethe. I had read he climbed that very spire daily as a
young man, working to overcome his fear of heights. I imagined what he
would have seen in the early 1770s, looking out and over a younger
Strasbourg, before so many taller buildings, before such a population
explosion. I lingered on the thinly-railed balcony, wondering if Goethe had
a fear of the heights of love. Me, Im not afraid of heights. I can look up at
tall things just fine; its when I look down that I falter. Im afraid of
depths.
The Room excerpt Rosalie Winesuff 44
Naomi awoke slowly, stretching her arms overhead and opening her eyes.
Startled to find herself in a strange bed, she sat up with a start, catching
her breath.
Where was she? Whose bed was this and whose room? She
wriggled to the edge of the mattress and looked down at the floor. Slats of
rough wood covered the entire room. Her shoes were on the floor and she
slipped them on to investigate. One window in the middle of the far wall
was nailed shut. The door was closed and the handle did not have a latch.
Her head felt like a bag of rocks causing a low throbbing over her
eyes. Slowly she began reviewing the past two weeks, how she ran away
from home after a fight with her mother and met Marion, a woman who
invited her to stay for a while. They had worked together cleaning houses,
and at night she continued her school homework. Cleaning was hard work,
but no one yelled or beat her. Marion encouraged to finish high school and
think of college, something her mother had never mentioned. And now she
was here, in this room.
Naomi looked around and saw a large cloth bag on the floor. Her
sweatshirt was inside. Was she carried here in this bag? It was certainly
big enough. Now the room felt like it was closing in and panic rose in her
throat. She started towards the door, stood for a moment, and then shoved
against it. The door opened a crack. Suddenly, a man came running up and
pushed against the other side.
"Where you going?" he demanded.
"I have go to school, my finals are today."
"School? No school for you, school is only for boys. Girls work.
"I won't graduate if I don't take the final tests."
He slammed the door shut, threw the bolt, and walked away.
Banging on the door, she yelled as loud as she could. "You can't
keep me here. I'm an American citizen. With rights.
"You are my citizen now, with my rights."
"Where is Marion?"
"Marion sold you. You are mine now."
Naomi froze. Could this be true? Was she someones slave? This
can't be happening. She sank to the floor next to the bed, laid her head
back, and began to sob.
The Room excerpt Rosalie Winesuff 45
Her past flitted through her brain as she finally drifted in and out of
consciousness. Her mothers face and her fury broke through as she
remembered their fight and her anxious escape from her previous life.
She had been rushing to get ready for school, frantically stuffing
her backpack with homework and books as her mother screamed at her.
Her mother had once been beautiful, slender, with a heart-shaped face,
curly red hair, and piercing eyes. Today she was tense, pacing across the
living room floor and smoking furiously. She looked hard, used, and
angry.
Naomi came into the room and stopped short.
"Aren't you ready yet? You know I have to meet someone in
twenty minutes."
"I'm not quite done, I can't find my notebook." Naomis voice
quivered. She was afraid of her mother when she was upset.
In a flash, her mother crossed the room and slapped her hard across
the face. Naomi stumbled back from the blow and tears sprang to her eyes.
"Get in the car now" her mother yelled as she picked up her purse
and ran out the door. Naomi followed. She jumped into the car as her
mother backed out of the parking space and slammed the door. Naomi
turned her face away from her mother, hiding the tears. She could feel the
hotness in her cheek and imagine the large red splotch blooming. They
didn't speak during the short drive to the school.
Her mother barely slowed when they arrived. Naomi jumped from
the car and walked away from the entrance so that no one could see the
likely red hand print on her face.

The Office on Skids (September 28, 1948) Chrissy Sullivan

I'm going over to the new office in a few minutes. It's easy to forget, but
change is usually for the better. The company office is no longer in our
tent. I enjoy the extra space, to say nothing of the privacy. We needed it
desperately, for the company's sake, since the tent has proved to be too
damp for the papers and files we've accumulated. Two weeks ago, Miles
The Office on Skids (September 28, 1948) Chrissy Sullivan 46
had the carpenters build a temporary office on skids. Its ten by sixteen
feet, has two windows, a door and a counter with shelves and drawers.
We have two swivel chairs, and soon there will be a desk and a file
cabinet. Its so much better not having the men coming in and out of our
tent.
Once there, I get started on the payroll tax form, determined to figure
it out. I'm about half-way through the instructions when Miles pulls up
outside in the truck. He comes in with the mail and says. A letter from
Joe came in. It sounds just like him. Listen. He opens a sheet of paper
and reads, Dear Miles, Hope you found you pack okay in your pickup. It
was good as always to see you and to realize just how much time and
effort you and Georgia are putting into things at Wheeler. The enclosed
checks are not what we would like them to be but are at least an
indication of our appreciation and approval of your efforts.
We are now just about 100% in accord on going ahead at Wheeler
in the most efficient manner possible with a view toward early production
this Spring. Best always, Joe.
Miles bends forward, his right hand pressed to his belt, and holds an
envelope out towards me. For your majesty.
I take the envelope and slide my finger under the flap on the back.
The Wolf Creek TimberCompany check is made out to me for eighty
dollars, signed by Joe.

He Fixed The Souls With His News Frieda Feen

boy of four
sent alone to the store
meat, bone and marrow
and a little bit more
a quarter lost
buried in the snow
tears melt circles
as they fall below
He Fixed The Souls With His News Frieda Feen 47
boy of ten
tries again
selling papers on the corner
for a penny now and then
nothing left to do
he fixed the holes in his shoes
kept his toes warm too
he fixed the souls with his news

boy of fifteen
started acting pretty mean
took up nipping on the bottle
and a little in between
helped him find his swagger
put a smile in his charm
walk the gritty streets
pretty lady on his arm

boy of twenty-two
knew exactly what to do
acting smarmy
joined the army
crossed an ocean
with a crew
landed on a shore
in a great big war
knew that nothing anymore
could be what it was before

boy of thirty-four
cant take it no more
a family man
without a working plan
a wife two kids
responsibility
when did all this happen?
what the hell became of me?
He Fixed The Souls With His News Frieda Feen 48
boy of fifty-five
tired of all the jive
tried to take early retirement
found no place he could hide
everywhere he went
there exactly he would be
is there nowhere in this world
I can be free of me?

boy of ninety-two
is still unsure of who
looking in the mirror
is staring back at you
the face I claim as mine
the face so changed by time
the face that knows that Im

running out of rhyme.

Salt Amie McGee

Youre out of Kosher salt, the lady with the clippy-cloppy shoes
growled. I turned from Rose, the kind, grandmotherly woman for whom
I was thumping a watermelon to face the sour voice.
Pardon?
You. Are. Out. Of. Kosher. Salt. A clammy jumble of Virginia Slims
and Tanqueray ambushed me. I slanted my head back to deflect her
second exhale of death. I drove clear across town for nothing. Her stale
bark transferred blame directly to me.
Thats odd, I replied trying to will my nostrils shut. Stocked that
myself just before we opened. Are you sure you looked in the right
section? I immediately knew the question was a mistake. She was
Salt Amie McGee 49
certainly not the kind of woman people ever questioned, catered toyes
but never questioned.
She squinted her remodeled eyes and crinkled her nose in a
contemptuous snarl, Amie, is it? She flicked my name tag. Unlike your
usual clients, she gestured a dismissive hand, rolling her wrist toward
Rose, I am not dense. I am perfectly capable of finding salt when
finding it is at all feasible. She spoke with the fictional accent of money.
I took a deep breath to preserve my calm, her stench making me
instantly regret it.
Perhaps we can look for it together, I suggested. Rose, dear, Ill just
be a sec. When I get back, well hunt you down a flawless cantaloupe.
Rose smiled and patted my hand, her lipstick covered teeth were always
endearing. I cut back to the salt woman, Shall we?
She bashed through the store, walking on tiptoes in shoes too
modern for her true age. I fancied her slipping, crashing head first into
anything spike-shaped. All the training videos warned against impaling
messes where customers were involved, but there were times I longed for
rogue broom handles to fall from the sky, sharpened by invisible-
grocery-store-gods knowing my plight. Is there a particular reason you
need Kosher salt? I asked. Could we substitute Sea salt by any chance?
Sea salt? No, she dismissed me. Sea salt has far too many calories.
What? I stuttered to hide my laugh. I dont think there are any
calories in Sea salt. Its salt. I sucked air through my teeth and smiled as
we turned down the aisle and stopped in front of literally the wall of salt,
Kosher being just below eye-level. I picked up a jar, handed it to her.
Here you go, Kosher salt. Full shelf.
Well that wasnt there a minute ago, she snapped. Obviously
someone just filled it.
Probably right. I nodded wanting to go back to sweet old Rose. I
wondered if it was time for my break.
Clippy-cloppy flipped the jar in her hand. Oh my God, she
exclaimed. There is far too much sodium in this salt! She shoved the
jar at me and stormed o, evading all falling brooms.
The Dark Room Mare Dunham 50

Mary Lou handed the admittance slip to Mr. Beauchamp.

He looked at the last name and rubbed his chin. Parson? A certain code of
behavior is required when youre in my class, especially in the dark room.
Your sister, Jane, took photography a few years ago, lets see now, that
was the fall semester 1948.
By now he held the slip out at the very end of his thumb and index
finger, as though he had just wiped his bottom with it. He shook his head
and turned to her. Your sisters dark room behavior was not acceptable.
Are you like your sister?
No, sir, Im not, she said.
He signed the admittance slip.
Two weeks later, in the dark room, while she waited for her turn at
the developing table, a warm hand touched her skin and moved slowly up
inside her blouse to her breast. A chill washed over her. Kenny, youre
going to get us thrown out of here. But wait, Kennys hands? They were
scratchy from working on his carthese fingers were smoothheavy,
plump. Mr. Beauchamp?
She walked to the table by the door, picked up a hall pass, and left
the darkroom.

Physical Education teacher Ollie Anderson sighed and plunked her round
body onto the chair at her desk. Her three classes were done for the day
and she felt tired, not from the classes, but from what she had to do now.
She filled out a pink memo, wrote Mary Lou Parsons name, and a
message: please come to Mrs. Olsons office as soon as possible.
When the office helper, the tall and skinny one with long dark braids,
entered the English class, she first spoke to the teacher who looked at the
pink slip, then at Mary Lou. Mary Lou, Mrs. Olson wants to see you in
her office. You may be excused to go now.
Ollie started in on her the minute she came into her office. Mary
Lou, when I passed out the towels this morning after gym, I heard what
you told Patty in the shower.
Uh, I was lying.
No, you werent.
Yes, I was. She was crying now.
The Dark Room Mare Dunham 51

Ollie reached across her desk and patted Mary Lous arm. Why?
Why would you not want to tell the truth?
Mary Lou was bent, digging at the cuticle on her left thumb. Hell
pull my photo from the contest if I tell on him.

Absolutely not. Not true. Fred Beauchamps hands were clasped across
his ample belly. They sat at a rectangular table. A glass of water and two
typewritten pages had been placed in front of each board member.
Well, Fred, why do you think she would make such a serious
accusation? Mr. Forrest, the chairman of the board, waved the papers
containing the girls statement. Why would she do that? He looked at
Mr. Beauchamp and waited.
White trash, Fred Beauchamp said. He put his hand on the paper
and slid it back away from him. Scum of the town, always causing
trouble.
Everyone on the board asked questions until Mr. Beauchamps
hands grew sweaty. Some looked as if they felt a fierce loyalty toward
him; others looked simply overwhelmed, confused, and weary.
The knock on the door startled everyone. Miss Baker, the school
secretary, opened the large oak door, stepped in, and closed it behind her.
Pardon my intrusion. She scanned the faces of the board members and
avoided looking at Mr. Beauchamp. There are five students waiting
outside. They are asking to address the board. I think you should hear
them.
The chairman shot Beauchamp a look and did not ask for consensus
from the board. Yes, of course, please have them come in. Four girls and
one boy entered with their parents. Miss Baker closed the door behind
them.
Rune of the Ancient Mariner Malcolm Macdonald 52
The Captain and I gaze out his window at the tulip tree floating by. Were
often struck by the oddest things.
What is the color of those blossoms? The Captain seldom sings.
Almost crimson.
Magenta mayhap.
And so, on the sea of reverie we turn to the book of books the Captains
daughter brought aboard. Magenta, it turns, is a town in Italy, purplish-red
if your maps the same as the one above the Captains squared-off bunk.
Carmine, I call.
The Captain shakes his head. So we bounce and roll from page to page
in that worldly book of words, the one the Captains daughter left for us in
her stead. We plunge from carmine to cochineal, a red dye from dried and
pulverized bodies of female kermes.
You dont say.
I did say.
I read on. From alkermes.
Related to alchemy?
No, replies page 42. Al is just Arabic for the.
The Captain twinkles. I was stationed there.
No you werent Where?
Magenta. Sometimes he goes like this; the Captains older, much,
than me. His sails are full, but his mind will drift it tumbles and swells,
temporarily fails til we set a new course and go:
I thought it was a magnolia?
No. He shakes his head, sage and scold. Idve thought youd
know. Tulip tree, carmine blossoms.
Now I know - not to mention magenta, or hell be off again.
We watch the rain bobbed tree and the birds flitting in - and out again
which the Captain likes to see. Hung the feeder from the poop deck this
morn. He beams. Have you ever seen a dickcissel?
He only gets a snort from me. We rifle the book of books once more,
return to the gulf of words that the Captains daughter rigged for us not so
long ago. Magenta, he says and I grip the arms of the Captains chair, in
which hes graciously let me sit. They fought a battle there, eighteen and
fifty-nine.
I look it up and, sure enough.
Rune of the Ancient Mariner Malcolm Macdonald 53
Thats the color, he commands.
I nod and he nods, nearly off; his eyes affixed outside the window upon
the rain blackened tree, bobbing and weaving mystical runic dreams. At
last, he wanders aloud, What kind of tree is it, you say?
A tulip tree.
He sighs and glances at the big book of words, the one he bought and
the Captains daughter brought aboard. I look long at her picture on his
desk, amongst the charts and notes.
What is the color of those blossoms? The Captain swims the old
refrain.
Crimson, I offer.
Magenta, I think.
There it sits in my lap, thick enough to contain a map of all we speak
and think, yet not one sweet scent remains from the daughter who brought
it to the Captains room not so long ago.
So we bound through again, carmine to cochineal, down to the insect
world. Kermes bugs. He gleams and I smile. They pulverize em til
theyre dye.
The dinner bell strikes at five. He rises and I salute. He shambles down
the hall, looks back and grins. He seldom dines alone nor often recalls the
odd things that struck us just the hour before. However, he is reasonably
aware just how much I once thought of the Captains daughter.

My Dream, My Bees Juliana Van Meter

I live in a house on top of a mountain. I am asleep in the attic room with
my brother. I dream a giant lifts off the roof, opens an enormous barrel,
pours out hundreds of bees and closes the roof again.
I wake with my heart like a drum in my ears. I lie still and realize the
buzzing from my dream is still there. The room looks strange. Tiny shafts
of light appear and disappear. I climb out of bed to have a look. Bees
cover every inch of the window.
My Dream, My Bees Juliana Van Meter 54
I wrap myself in a blanket and make my way to my brothers bed. I
dont want to wake Aaron. If he cries, I am afraid of what the bees will do.
My brother is so allergic he has to have a shot if he gets stung.
The window next to his bed moves with bees. I cover Aaron, tucking
the blanket around him. I take my blanket and stick it behind the
headboard to make a tent over him. When Im sure hes safe, I walk out to
the landing.
My parents door is closed. I press my ear to it, but hear only Max, our
200-pound Great Pyrenees, and Daddy, snoring. No buzzing inside.
On the stairway, clouds of bees float above me. In the dragon window
between the two landings, so many bees crawl I cannot see the stained
glass dragon. Colored light glitters under their wings. The fur on their
bodies shimmers with gold. Color moves with the bees and I am inside a
kaleidoscope.
From the landing I see thick clouds of bees in the kitchen The
windows are black with them. The buzzing is so loud, my skin tingles. I
feel it in my teeth. I am afraid to go further.
I go to my parents room, careful not to let any bees in. I crawl along
the floor to my mothers side. I reach my hand up to shake her awake. She
mumbles.
I whisper in her ear. Mommy, I dreamed about a giant and now there
are bees in the house. Listen.
She rolls toward me her eyes still half closed. What?
Bees in the house.
She listens. Her eyes open wide and I know she believes me.
Wheres Aaron? She asks so quietly I can barely hear.
I covered him up. Come see.
Mommy slides from the bed without a sound.
Closing the door, she sees the bees and I know I am not dreaming. She
scoops my brother up inside his blanket and heads down the stairs, I
follow.
What happened? She looks at the kaleidoscope window.
I had a dream. She is not listening.
I follow her outside. My brother wakes when she puts him in the Jeep
and begins to fuss. She hands him his Superman doll. He sticks his thumb
in his mouth and falls asleep. Mommy checks his blankets for bees.
My Dream, My Bees Juliana Van Meter 55

Stay in the car until I get Daddy. Keep the windows rolled up.
I watch her climb the front porch and open the front door.
I stare out at the open door for what feels like a really long time. I hear
screams. Daddy and Max come flying out of the house, barely touching
the porch stairs. Daddys swatting his hair and yelling all the words I am
not allowed to say.
He jumps inside the Jeep. Jeesus. What the hell is going on?
I had a dream. A giant put the bees in the house. Aaron cries. Daddy
doesnt hear me.
I open the car door.
Where are you going?
To find Mommy. Dont worry. I like bees.
She is on the back porch with the phone cord pulled tight through the
closed door, talking to someone about the bees. A man is coming to
collect them, she says. He thinks they swarmed because their Queen
died. I wonder how they got inside?
This time I dont say anything. I trace a finger on the glass over the
golden bees filling my house.
My dream, my bees.

A Study In Time Barry Bryan

Tendrils of morning light crept across the floor to the edge of the worn and
faded roll top desk where the man sat, slumped into himself. His thoughts
shifted as his eyes moved around the room he called his study. The dry
leather chair creaked as he shifted his weight. He had retired the chair
from his last job twenty-one years before, which meant he had taken it
when he left work. No one questioned him when he rolled it out of the
building.
Framed photographs, perched atop the desk, sat in haphazard order on
shelves, and occupied wall space. Photographs of him and his wife
chronicled their life together. Captured images of them on beaches,
vacations, dressed up, dressed down and as a young couple grown into an
A Study In Time Barry Bryan 56

old couple. Other than his tattered and faded memory, the photos were all
he had left of her now.
From the walls, photos of their children kept vigil over him as he
struggled with his life, past and present. Most of his days and nights, he
spent in this room. He spent days at the desk or in the Morris chair. Nights
were spent on the day bed at one end of the room. He retained a receding
awareness of his days and nights merging into a seamless web of now and
then. He woke at daylight in the chair or the bed. He often laid on the
daybed after lunch and didnt waken until near midnight.
Old growth redwood paneling absorbed the daylight that made it into
the room. Puddles of light from the computer screen and antique brass fire
extinguisher table lamp illuminated the nights. Old growth, antique,
country primitive, repurposed no longer held the same mystique for him
as they once had.
Curios and collectables gathered dust around the room. Tribal masks,
a small animal skull, blues gig posters, guitars, wooden carvings, all had
been collected in the throes of temporary emotions.
After his wife was gone he had retreated into this room to avoid the
pain caused by their empty bedroom. The pain was lessened now, but he
preferred to stay here. He felt protected and safe here in the darkness. The
room represented life as he now lived it. Old, small and filled with
memories.
He bravely ventured into their bedroom and slept there when one of
the children made their annual pilgrimage. During these visits he struggled
to stay engaged and moored to normalcy. The kids were concerned and
affectionate, but he knew their good intentions would one day take him
away from here. He loved them and was happy to see them, but he sensed
their doubts about him staying alone. They had talked to him about
making a plan for the inevitable day when he had to move.
He had thought through all the ways to live the rest of his life.
Hobbies, senior centers, clubs. He considered and rejected them all. He
did not want to start over to arrive at the end with an unfinished project.
Of all of the options, moving terrified him. That day grew closer and with
it the silent beast of nothingness. Not the nothingness of death; he was not
afraid of dying. He was afraid of separation from his wife. She existed
here in this house. Their time together had soaked into the walls and
A Study In Time Barry Bryan 57

floors. He often heard her moving in the kitchen. Disappointment in not

finding her stopped him from looking. He was satisfied that if he heard
her, she was there.
To leave here would be to lose her again. This was the last place she
had breathed, the last place her heart had beaten.
His strongest memories of her were in the study. She came there to
lay a hand on his shoulder or to lightly kiss the side of his neck
accompanied by, Come to the kitchen and talk to me or, Come to bed
now.
In the study she was most real. He wanted to be in the study waiting.
He clung tenaciously to a future moment in the study when she would
come for him with a soft touch and the words; Its time. Come with me.

Good Words 33