His name is Fred.
Fred stole my parking spot this morning.
Fred is a jerk.
Fred talks too loud and spits when he speaks.
Fred eats with his mouth open.
Fred is a cow, mindlessly chewing at the cud that is his ham and cheese sandwich, bleeding
mayonnaise with every bite.
Fred is a brute, a pug-nosed, mouth-breathing oaf with a hairline that starts halfway down his
forehead, a Neanderthal in a cheap suit.
Fred is a living fossil and should be on display for the amusement of the masses.
Fred is the noticeable pit stains on a first date.
Fred’s intelligence could power a city. Not a real city, but an ant city that has just passed a series
of stringent energy conservation laws.
Fred smiles too much.
Fred has yellow teeth, stained by cheap coffee.
Fred says we’re friends, but Fred is mistaken, because Fred thinks he’s friends with everyone.
No one is Fred’s friend.
Fred is a charlatan, a pettifogging mountebank.
Fred does not stay in Vegas.
Fred has the charm of a leprous homunculus.
Fred has the grace of a quadriplegic manatee tumbling down a mountainside.
Fred is the swollen pimple on society’s forehead.
Fred is a festering cyst on the lowest sphincter of humanity.
Fred is the skid mark on the underpants of existence.
Fred is the dead tooth that poisons the world’s mouth with his rancid stench.
Fred waves at me.
I smile and wave back.
I hate Fred.
You are a stain that hides
underneath my skin,
behind the real, chewy scars
You painted on me.
I remember the fear that hung my eyes open
with sharp hooks digging into my lids.
My head splits apart
with a dull wedge
every time I remember
what You did.
It drills. Deeper.
For every hit of the mallet
which drives it in.
And why did You
lock me away,
in my bedroom,
all day?
Was it just so You could
escape
into Your world
with Your drug of the week?
Did You ever hear me scream
and beg to be let out when You did that?
Do You even remember?
I wish I didn’t remember
so much
To flinch at the open hand.
To cry at the sound of a raised voice.
Have I been damned?
Why do You make me recall
the time You pushed me
out of Your car and onto the conrete?
You ran away from me,
that night you disappeared
for weeks before you came back.
Hiding from who you made.
You Coward
You lamented the sound of a martyr
to keep your firm grasp
over the pen that wrote my voice away.
Why must I wake up with a dream
reminding me about te time
You abducted me from my home?
Where I struggled to crack
my nails into the carpet,
like a tick’s lone head
piercing into my skin.
While You pulled,
You popped my joints,
tearing the seams of my pants.
The same clothes
That I wore when we
Took family pictures.
With false smiles
and hidden tears.
Those photos are gone now.
Just like You.
All I ask
and all I can do now
is to hope that one day,
I might just be
Over You.
Red Curtain by: Bethany Huey, Acrylic on canvas, 2015.
Pineapples by: Jessica Gallo
I remember the pineapples on his shirt.
From the back seat
they seemed bright in the dim car.
I remember the yellow line flashing by
and the road work.
I avoided eye contact in the mirror
while he joked.
Something about a tin can
and a boy.
Father had a way of joking
only when he had nothing else to say.
His pineapples,
they did not match his smile.
Nostalgia by: Gracey Brower, Charcoal on paper, 2015.
Untitled by: Gabriel Schmidtt
“Your teachers only punished you
Because you’re smarter than them.”
Whether or not it was true,
It’s still not something to tell
A seven year old boy.
“I’m sorry, dear.
I gave you my eyebrows.”
Of all the things you could have apologized for
You are only sorry
For my eyebrows.
“I only ever got one B in school,
But I was pretty ashamed of it.”
You’ve tried saying
My worth doesn’t depend on my grades,
But even you don’t believe it.
“You’re the good one.
I’m glad you didn’t end up like your sister.”
Well I’m sorry mother,
But my sister raised me
As much as you did.
“I hug you because you need it
Not because I want it.”
Thank you, Mother,
For making me human.
I wish I knew how to show you
Contemplation by: Lyvia Alvarez, Ink on paper, 2015.
Queen Mood by: Franklin Posh
I remember it because it was real, because it was the closest thing I ever knew to love, and because she didn’t want me to. I would walk her to class, every class. Some days, if I felt charming enough, I would try and convince her to go upstairs with me before she went inside; sometimes it would work, sometimes it wouldn’t. On the top floor, I would hold her hand and we’d look at the panoramic view of the neighborhood behind our school campus. I could buy you a house there, I’d say.
She turned to look at me, I’d need someone to live with me, she said. I don’t like being alone. Would you keep me company?
Of course, dummy. Otherwise, nothing would stop that house from becoming a cat shelter.
I was always pretty good at making her laugh; even after we agreed not to be physical and I did it anyway and she wasn’t able to stand the sight of me. She slit her eyes and I could feel the hate burning hot, like heat from the sun. Strange to think of all the ways the people you love could break your heart. But, I was lucky that she’d never be upset for long.
Some days, she’d skip class completely and take long walks with me. Nine times out of ten, we’d end up at the cafeteria and I’d fall for her as she ate french fries; her walnut-brown skin and deep, almond-shaped eyes; the gentle slope of her neck and the graceful hollows under her clavicles; her long, black hair with crimson tips that dangled like flames licking at the air. I’d never seen anything so beautiful.
I would try and impress her with the things I’d learned about the campus from Jasmine. I know this place is kinda a depressing shithole, I’d say, but Jasmine told me that it’s one of the most environmentally friendly campuses in the U.S. They take this giant, sucking machine that sucks algae from the pond and converts it into energy. It doesn’t produce much, but it’s supposed to be innovative technology.
She was never quite impressed.
Funny thing is, I wasn’t impressed when I’d heard it, either. I wonder why I always had to keep my mouth moving, even when there was nothing to say. It’s like I couldn’t let a silence sit in between us. I was afraid if it was silent for too long she’d realize who I was: insecure, full of apologies, afraid to be forgotten.
Other days, I didn’t talk much and it would make her so upset with me. You’re always asking for my time and when I give it to you you don’t take advantage of it, she’d say. You have problems, dude.
When I sensed she was upset, I wasn’t afraid to be apologetic. I really was invested in her happiness, and I’d make myself sound foolish apologizing for things I couldn’t control: I’m sorry your sister can’t have a baby, mama. If I were God, I would put a hundred babies in her stomach. I wanted to be her hero. It’s a weird thing to want something so badly that you forget you’re human. You’d be surprised about the things you start punishing yourself for.
Before her, I’d never been fully aware of another person’s body; how infinitely beautiful and fragile she was; how perfectly she fit into the circle of my arms. Some days she would let me use my hands on her. I would stain her neck with kisses and tell her that I loved her. She was dirty because of me.
Some nights she’d wake up with a nasty feeling, like someone had a hand inside her stomach and was twisting her intestines. Am I going to hell? she asked, tears in her eyes. I just stared at the floor. I had no answers.
I spent time forgetting everything I knew, memorizing the outline of her body. Her warnings washed against me and dissolved into nothing, like the shoreline of a lake. We felt too good. We didn’t want to stop. My grandma tells me that’s a sign you have a problem. She also tells me that a closer relationship with God will fix anything. But why, Grandma?, I’d ask.
Because, mijo, that’s the way it’s supposed to be. These days we talk less and less. I’m reluctant to ask for advice anymore. I’m starting to suspect we’ll never have another real conversation.
Sometimes I’d be sitting down next to her while she looked out into the distance. With her and school and my horrible understanding of balancing time, I didn’t get much sleep. Plenty of days I didn’t have the energy to stand. As I’d look up at her, she’d place her hands over different parts of my face. The way she looked at me, if felt like she was trying to find a combination she wasn’t attracted to: nose-eye, ears-mouth, nose-mouth. Maybe she was admiring my face in portions, appreciating it more than I ever could. When she finally removed both hands, she’d look at me and smile. In moments like that, it felt like love.
When the year was winding down and she wasn’t talking about next year, I knew it was over. In the end, it sounded a lot like a reality tv show. I told her I loved her and she said I didn’t understand what love was. I was ashamed of how pulpy we’d gotten; I felt we were better than that.
Nothing could have prepared me for the end. I counted down the days. I wrote daily letters. I tried to say everything I ever needed to say. I guess I got too use to it being in the future, too use to Not Today. Soon, yes. But not today.
By the very end, she was already erasing me from her memory. Delete all the pictures you have of me and all our messages, she said. I don’t want you remembering my ass.
On the last day, she wouldn’t leave until she watched me delete the pictures and videos from my phone. I don’t blame her for not trusting me, I probably wouldn’t have deleted them if she wasn’t standing right there. She kissed me for the first time on the cheek and I knew it was her way of saying that she loved me back. She never said the words, though, and I got tired of asking. I walked her to her car and watched her drive out of the parking lot. I never talked to her again.
On cold mornings, wind’s howlin’
an old vacuum’s trudging along on
disheartened, discolored laminate floors
while ancient automatic doors
perpetually open and close
with a sound like a Tardis’ call.
There’s a constant chatter combined
with the metallic clatter of carts
squeaking, determinedly pushed down
aisles and aisles
of gluten-free, dairy-free Paleo boxes
and raw chocolate bars,
Only ten dollars each!
Out of the darkness emerges an
ungodly cacophony of sounds
only hell could conceive.
Shrill shrieking; sensations of terror
engulf me—
a tantrum begins on aisle three.
Three minutes of drama;
drumming echoes of the banshee call
emitted from the mouths of baby
harpies ring on in my memory.
Minimal damage has been done to my
psyche, but damn if that wasn’t loud, I
stand there losing myself
in a constant stream of beeps
shouting out at me through the
ringing machine.
It’s like instant replay all day, every
day, no way to escape the maddening
sound of inane declarations of the
same five thoughts all day.
Finally.
A deep sigh is heard
ringing ‘cross the register lanes
as the clock strikes 8:04 and those
obnoxiously maddening doors remain
closed another twelve hours more.
Stool legs scraping against those
damned discolored floors
and the clinking of coins as we all
count out our drawers is like sweet,
graceful music to brains saturated
from the script of the day.
[responsivevoice rate=".9" voice="US English Female"]
Sorry I Didn’t Call Back
by: Celina Smythe
I dialed your cell
And as the familiar tone of
High pitched ringing
Broke the arid silence,
I played through all of my
Confessions for you.
That I had realized I was wrong-
That after month after month of
Sweaty, unsatisfying, worthless trysts with
Faceless, nameless, unimportant bodies-
I knew that you were worth
More than the glistening
Blue of the Smithsonian Hope-
That I required you more basely than
Oxygen, Nitrogen, Hydrogen and Carbon-
That the curve of my hips and square of my jaw
Fit no cupped palm, nor lengthy finger-branches
Better than yours-
That I had reached the stabbing- deadly-
Acceptance- that you were Everything-
Like scraping, cracked nails, tearing against
The spongy, weak, fleshy walls of my insides-
And that only you-
Only ever you-
Were worth the wait.
I would do just.
If it was what you needed,
I would wait
Until the Earth and Humanity and
every vision to ever bring happiness
to any heartbroken lover
Crumbled back into the chaos and the stardust
it was birthed from-
As our world distorted and decayed and deteriorated
Into hour glass powder to be blown between the
Meager cracks within the tightly woven Universe-
Only if given the promise
That you would be with me
To hold my hands with your hands-
To caress my lips with your lips-
And to match my steady breaths with
those from your lungs
As we finally watched our everything dissipate
back into the ether.
I would wait.
But you didn’t answer
And I have voicemail anxiety
So I just hung up.
[/responsivevoice]
I dialed your cell
And as the familiar tone of
High pitched ringing
Broke the arid silence,
I played through all of my
Confessions for you.
That I had realized I was wrong-
That after month after month of
Sweaty, unsatisfying, worthless trysts with
Faceless, nameless, unimportant bodies-
I knew that you were worth
More than the glistening
Blue of the Smithsonian Hope-
That I required you more basely than
Oxygen, Nitrogen, Hydrogen and Carbon-
That the curve of my hips and square of my jaw
Fit no cupped palm, nor lengthy finger-branches
Better than yours-
That I had reached the stabbing- deadly-
Acceptance- that you were Everything-
Like scraping, cracked nails, tearing against
The spongy, weak, fleshy walls of my insides-
And that only you-
Only ever you-
Were worth the wait.
I would do just.
If it was what you needed,
I would wait
Until the Earth and Humanity and
every vision to ever bring happiness
to any heartbroken lover
Crumbled back into the chaos and the stardust
it was birthed from-
As our world distorted and decayed and deteriorated
Into hour glass powder to be blown between the
Meager cracks within the tightly woven Universe-
Only if given the promise
That you would be with me
To hold my hands with your hands-
To caress my lips with your lips-
And to match my steady breaths with
those from your lungs
As we finally watched our everything dissipate
back into the ether.
I would wait.
But you didn’t answer
And I have voicemail anxiety
So I just hung up.
Marydeth and I enter the high-ceilinged structure and walk down the center aisle. The lighting is so dim it seems like nighttime. The decor is sparse, with only the usual symbol centered on the front wall. We’ll have a bird’s eye view of the proceedings since we arrived early enough to sit on the left, directly behind the place reserved for the family.
All of the festivities are to be held in the same building and there are some gifts on a table to the side. There’s a brown paper sack like a child’s school lunch bag, and window blinds, which looks odd, but apparently it was something they needed. The blinds are an eyesore, and even though you can’t put something like that under wraps, the giver (no doubt someone seated on the other side) should have known better. The groom wears tinted eyeglasses make him look, well, shady, but he was “the one”, after all.
Marriage isn’t the only relationship that is till death do us part—our friendships also are for better and for worse, sharing joys and sorrows. Due to our position, we are unable to object.
The attendants make their entrance. There are twelve of them, so they will be seated during the ceremony, which shows every indication of being lengthy. Before they sit, we all stand. The bride is an angel.
After a brief address by the officiant, solemn vows are taken. It’s the usual procedure—various persons get up to speak, more vowing, readings. The husband sings a song which he himself wrote, although the words, unfortunately, are hardly original. The chorus is about how he thought he was going crazy, he cannot believe it, while the verse concerns how he thought she wouldn’t ever, etc., etc., ad infinitum (Marydeth and I both have seen far too many of these proceedings). The song had been recorded some time before, and a good thing too, since the groom had changed his tune since then.
The groom’s solo seems to last forever. I can see that many of the attendants, including Jeri, another friend of ours, are moved. The man in the family bench in front of us has his head bowed with one hand over his face. This gets me started because I can’t stand to see a man cry, and I know it must be harder for him than for me since he’s a member of the family. Meanwhile, the groom sings—like a canary, as they say. He must be going crazy, he wants to shoot himself, he cannot believe that he killed her, she wasn’t gonna let him see his kid. His confession, taped by the police dispatcher, is one of the pieces of evidence in the case, along with the brown bag containing the bullet that went through the blinds and the window after it hit her in the eye. He fired at such point blank range that there were powder burns on her face. They had been drinking at the kitchen table, where they had broken bread together many times in the past when, in the course of an argument, he killed her.
At the punishment phase of a trial, which comes immediately after the evidentiary portion like a reception follows a wedding, cold justice is served. The judge sits behind a bar like a communion rail and a bench like an altar, and pronounces the verdict. The husband will spend an overnight honeymoon in the county jail, then he will be “at home” at the big house till death us do part. What therefore God has joined together, let no man put asunder.
JoAnna Minaji by: Joelle Durdin, Acrylic on canvas, 2015.
The Great Crash by: Sarah S. Miles
The drop.
Release.
Return to climb.
Above branches. Above the past regrets.
Above the memories.
The hurt. The scars. The cuts
as the twigs catch me as I fall.
Jump. Fall. Slam.
Return ever higher. Above the dates.
April 23rd. February 13th.
December 24th.
Above the mistake of talking to you.
Above the tears. Above
the Monster and Red Bull I drowned
myself in. Above the hate I faced.
Jump. Fall. Crash. Pain.
The good kind. The kind I control.
Return to climb as high as I can.
Above my regrets.
Jump. Legs give way,
and my body crumbles.
My body aches. People gather round,
and I gain peace.
