You used to be vibrant and alive,
the perfect match,
for two of a kind.
as the years marched on,
every aching step seemed to take that terrible toll.
Seeing as your tongue and sole,
tore away like hide from the bone,
that wretched night
the sprocket pierced your steel mould.
Alas you give way,
fraying to pieces,
for you were not right once that day.
You fell apart like a melting Reece’s Pieces,
leaving the other
in total disarray.
The shoe Left,
is now lonely forever,
for the Right,
has descended to a place of no return.
For without the right one,
the one left,
will forever yearn.
Hand by: John Owens, Acrylic and string on paper, 2010.
The Perfect Wife by: Curtis Craig
The sun floods the room. I wake slowly. It’s Sunday morning, another day to spend with my husband. I walk down to the kitchen and begin making breakfast, like I do every morning. I enjoy making breakfast for my husband, which is what a good wife does. And I am, of course, a good wife. In fact, I am a great wife. I cook, I clean, and I take care of my husband and never complain a bit, as mother always said that a good wife does. The coffee is going, waking him up with its aroma. Finally he joins me.
“Good morning honey,” he says with a kiss.
“It is about time you wake up; you plan on helping me with breakfast?” I firmly say.
“How can I help? Would you like me to start the toast, or maybe scramble the eggs?” He asks with a smile. I quietly laugh. I make the best scrambled eggs and my toast is always a perfect golden brown.
“We will end up with burnt toast and dried, cold eggs. Don’t bother!” I quickly responded. The expression on his face is that of a hurt child.
“Well then I will pour us coffee.” he says as he pulls down coffee cups. I swiftly grab the mugs.
“Now you know these are only for guests, we never drink out of them. Don’t trouble yourself with the coffee; you always put too much creamer in it. I’ll do it myself.” He shrugs his shoulders and goes to the table. He picks up the sports page and begins to read. The nerve of him, just sitting there waiting for me to serve him. Here I am always pulling my share and there he is doing what he does best, being second-rate.
I think for a moment, this is the fourth time in a row that I have cooked him breakfast without him even lifting a finger to help. He’s far from a good husband, far from perfect, and nothing compared to me. The timer goes off.
“What’s all that smoke coming from?” he asks.
“The toast is ready.” I quickly remove the scrambled eggs from the microwave as they bubble over the rim of the bowl.
“Breakfast is done. Your plate is on the counter.” I sit down at the table with my plate, another flawless breakfast. He is so lucky. What would he do without me?
Her hands were like porcelain, smooth to the touch and perfect. I see her now, under the mulberry tree with that withered old book thumbing the pages as if they weren’t really fragile. This place, this unintended collection of trees was our safe haven. She always dressed as she is now, in a fine dress and a sun hat but never with her shoes. Truly a dastardly habit for a lady of her position.
Our eyes connect and she listens to the vocalization of my curiosity before she answers,
“I, darling, respect them.”
“So the lovely Cecilia respects her hands yet not her feet?” It’s rather a silly thing to tease but the pampered miss exchanges a playful glance with me. She bookmarks the withered tome with a ribbon and drops it on the grass.
“I’ve walked this earth without shoes since the days I was no taller than the fence post,” she fidgets with her hat as she speaks. “And I have yet to bear witness to disease or any other life threatening nonsense mother prattles on about.”
I smile as I sit, facing her but busying myself with pulling blades of grass from the ground. She smiles at me, wrapping her arms around her legs.
“What’s troubling you?” she asks.
“Do you still love me?” A sigh escapes her but she laughs it away. Snatching her book she beats my arm with it and I can’t help but join in the laughter.
“I swear I’ll have to beat that negativity from you,” she says, dropping the book. I’m not one to linger on things, bit it is she who is making the larger sacrifice.
“Cecilia your education, your status will be ruined,” I tell her. She rolls her beautiful olive colored eyes and smiles again.
“Yes, an education that won’t grant me ladyship or a suitor that isn’t French. To what do I owe this world?” Cecilia tucks her legs beneath her and smooths our her pale violet skirts.
“It’s just-“
“Have a cigarette?” she interrupts. Defeated by her attempts to escape the conversation I pull out my gold tin full of Taddy’s Clowns. I hand her one, retrieving my matches and offering them over. She lights her cigarette and takes a long pull, allowing the smoke to ooze out of her mouth as if it were a liquid.
“God how I wish she would stop being so stupid.” Cecilia practically spits the intended insult. I follow her gaze. Her sister Millian, Millie for short, chases after ducks and shrieks with laughter as she flaps her yellow skirts to rouse them.
“It’s all just good fun,” I say. Cecilia’s eyes fix on me as she takes another puff. Her fine eyebrows pull together indicating an oncoming question, and I find myself returning her curiosity.
“Why are you so optimistic when Millie’s around?” Cecilia’s effort to conceal her smirk proves fruitless and we both succumb to another fit of laughter.
“I want children,” I say. Cecilia’s eyes are now following Millie as she dashes from the ducks that have mustered the courage to fight back.
“I want three. Girls,” she says with a nod, blowing smoke from her lips.
“No sons?” I ask. Cecilia shakes her head at me, wrinkling her nose.
“No sons.” Our attention is coaxed to Millie as she bounds across the field toward us.
“Ceci!” Millie shrieks with glee, but Cecilia only groans.
“Compose yourself Millian.” Before another word is uttered, the girl tumbles into her lap.
“Did you see?” Millie giggles. I frown a little at the look of irritation on Cecilia’s face but elect to stay quiet.
“I have a cigarette, Millie! I could have burned you.”
“Mama says you’re not supposed to smoke. Ladies never smoke,” Millie says as she sits back on the grass.
“I’m not a lady,” Cecilia says. Millie gathers the tangled mess of dark hair in her chubby hands and looks at me with identical green eyes.
“Aren’t you supposed to be working?” she asks me. Before I can respond, Cecilia swats at Millie’s ear. Millie cries out in surprise, but then begins to whimper.
“Why did you do that?” Millie asks, batting at Cecilia’s arm. Cecilia blows smoke into her face before flicking the ashes.
“It’s unbecoming to be rude like the child you are,” she says. Millie lets out an awful wail.
“You’re always so rude to me!”
“Cecilia,” I scold, but Cecilia only looks back at me, finishing her cigarette while Millian continues to cry.
“She shouldn’t act like a child,” she says at last. “She’s mother’s only hope after all.”
I place my hand on Millian’s shoulder, but she slaps it away.
“Go away peasant!” Cecilia slaps her this time, and Millian returns the favor.
“Apologize, Millian,” Cecilia says.
“Cecilia, it doesn’t matter,” I reassure her. Anything to stop the argument.
“I’m going to tell mother!” Millian declares as she jumps up on her feet. Cecilia lets out a sharp sigh before she reaches over and pushes the small girl down on her rear. Millian lets out another shout, trying to swat Cecilia’s arm away. Cecilia dodges and grabs me, slapping her lips against mine. I hear Millie’s gasp but am too entranced by Cecilia’s tongue to care.
We pull away and I stare into her eyes to find that they burn like the fire in my belly. She smiles at me, and I let out a small chuckle.
That is when I remember Millie. She speeds off through the field calling into the air the secret we’ve practiced for the past two years.
“Mama! Mama! Cecilia kissed the servant girl!”
My gaze returns to Cecilia who I find is still gazing at me. An amused smirk spreads across her face.
“Have another cigarette?” she asks. I hold out the case and she lights another Taddy’s Clown. I join her. We blow at the same time, and she leans against the Mulberry tree. For a moment we are quiet, simply listening to Millie’s lingering accusations and the birds chirping in the tree above.
“The carriage should arrive shortly,” I say. Cecilia nods, continuing to smoke.
“Good,” she says, reaching for her book and placing it on her lap.
you have not yet heard the thunder
the lightning hit
and you with your child-eyes under cover
missed the news that the world is over
and you with your white hands
still reaching for the bright light candy
don’t you know the hall is empty
that the fear had been set free
and you with your skin still smelling of that baby cream
do not even know enough to scream
cannot find the words to ask me what I mean
when I say that it’s the end of the scene
that all that’s left is truth and that it’s obscene
and you just look and want to know if you’re the king
if I’ll be your bright light queen
and you wonder why, you wonder why I scream
you wonder
what put me under
what pushed me over this edge
and from the dark I’ll whisper
it was this, it was knowledge
and you’ll go back to sleep
because ignorance is cheap
California Vineyard by: Taresa Cardon, Oil on canvas, 2012.
Andy by: Luis CHavez, Jr.
Andy tells me that in a couple of days he is going to have more than thirty years working in this place. He says your nose learns to get used to the foul odor after repeated number of dives into an ocean of flies, that your eyes grow protective layers to keep your sanity in and the deranged thoughts out. The sun’s heat will mess with your head like that. And your hands, well they develop thick calluses, tough, permanent, necessary. I’ve been a pig farmer for a little over five weeks now, and I assumed my spirit would be made up of more durable materials. I remember at the end of a hard days work, Andy and I would go down to the end of the lake and observe people skipping rocks towards an exhausted sunset. But Andy, Andy saw dignity in those rocks. He envisioned honesty; he experienced poetry in the beautiful fact that when pushed, they briefly moved forward. Andy will gather tons of swine manure and fill up as many barrels as he possibly could, and for some reason he constantly moved twice as fast as the rest of us; he was always the farmer’s favorite. Andy gives me a thumb up. Most depressing expression I’ve ever seen. Sometimes when I come across that lonely thumb, I imagine the reason to why we were placed on this earth was to carry the wings for lazy angels who take others for granted. That we were exclusively chosen to polish the devil’s filthy boots using our hearts to scrub away the grime that refuses to wash off. Andy tells me there is integrity in this, a good day’s work for an honest man, that there is wondrous music waiting to be heard that all you had to do was just listen. But what kind of song plays from the mounds of shovels from the demon’s abominating shit? The liquid stench of terror, the mist that consumes every inch of my sanity that has me shoveling up my virtues from my soul! That has me paralyzed from the very breaths I take from fear of what I might conceive next. Even after being surrounded by a beautiful ocean of red roses, the mere thought of inhaling the slightest molecule of air is enough to revive my nightmare. Is there really glory in this? Or is that what they tell us skidding rocks so we can chisel our hearts out and continue skipping on with our lives. Andy says he can’t picture it like that, he says that if it wasn’t for people like us, than the whole world wouldn’t be able to spin in its pristine direction. That we are one of the selected few who chose to rise above all when it was just simpler to give up and run, and it might not be a real elegant living but it’s important to have someone step up, and yeah maybe he’s right. Maybe I am just an ignorant working class American who cheated his way into college. Perhaps now I am too good to be a part of the millions of people who struggle everyday to prepare a grand feast for their life’s, who will always be picky. So I take a deep breath and put my ego aside, return back to work. And on a hot boiling day, before a merciless sun, I make a kind note to help Andy fill up the last remaining barrels and I say, “I’ve had this thought for a while now man, maybe the reason why skidding rocks can’t skip backwards is because if they could, they’d obliterate the ones who threw them in an instant.” Instead we’re obligated to leap forward over a distant ocean hoping we can make it to the other side and once again become proud boulders ourselves but most likely drown on the way there, suffer for a common cause and never look back, we can’t even come close to comprehend, is this! Is this really worth it man? Andy gives me a thump up, most depressing expression I’ve ever see. Fades quietly into his work.
Oaken firmness planted the day
When mists crept dismal,
Hiding shadow;
Baking rays cut the haze
Praising
Medicines of different hours
Erasing walls between cyclical acts
Roots
Tender and remedial
Stretch love
Among tubers under grass
Feeding, breathing, storing;
Increasing in preparation
To courteously declare good night to mere loathing;
Maladies, melodies, still the conversation
Converting looking-glass seeming
To real thing clarifying-
Faint boot prints outlining style;
Wit and piano lessons playing,
Playing interpreter to winter moons
And whale-song moans.
Medicine-fruit sails around the room
In language lightships while
Complaining distant echoes
Bloom and bud in cacophonous cackles.
Wild Beasties by: Kathlene Lisle, Oil on canvas, 2012.
North of Paradise by: LD Novick
Sure as silence chases sound
And restless youth will turn the page
The warbled drone of days long past
Diminished by the early morning’s reverie
Echoes across a chasm of darkness
And into the canyon below
Paid in full by a fractured riverbed
Because Sheriff always keeps his word
Locked and left out the fool barred the door
Tonight children will sleep on the porch
Amongst dirty floors and discarded squares
A metal gate keeps the world outside
One chain-linked society of four
Sheriff skipped town Sunday
And nobody seen him since
We live and die by the dirt and grime
As dust choked lungs breathe a blazing sky
Where old men tell tall tales
To doe eyed children
Mostly lies of Highwaymen
And some dead hero from afar
But also of simpler times
In calloused voices of reason
God up and left
The rest who had nowhere else to go
Panicked by the prospect of paradise
They headed North to be
Cursed by those who remain
Like the drunkard throws a fit at the five and dime
‘Cause you still can’t buy a beer on His day
So we’ll scour our hands pink by the fluorescent light
Face grown roots long past due
Our paradise squandered by wills of wicked men
And yet, we still pray for rain
First Stage by: Hillarree Hamblin, Acrylic on canvas, 2010.
Too Close for Comfort by: Curtis Sternitzky
Water fell in sheets across the roads. White froth flowed off the aged sidewalks and into the gutters. Time had not yet taken its toll in the city sewer systems, so the streets remained streets instead of turning into rivers. Droplets danced on the roofs of abandoned cars before gaining enough mass to roll down the windows and onto the ground. The cold, gripping air of before had become an icy leech. The howling wind had become a droning roar in the rain.
Justin peered into the haze of falling water. He was deep in focus, in spite of the horrid smells clawing at his nose. A gust of chilling wind cut through his flimsy hoodie and into his torso. Muscles throughout his body shivered Aside from the rain, nothing was moving.
Kelsin saw Justin wave his hand. He got up from behind an overturned vending machine and made his way to Justin’s position. Water sloshed with each rapid step. The shadow of paranoia was now gnawing at the back of his mind. They were now near to the police station, which meant the Beast nest was, too. He glanced behind him, into the wet streets. The pain in his shoulders had dissipated to a throbbing burn. The gouges made sure they weren’t forgotten with each step. Clearing his mind, Kelsin brought his focus back to the task hand.
“We’re close now. It’s less than five blocks away.” He spoke in an elevated tone so his voice would cut through the din of the storm.
“I still haven’t seen any Beasts. I thought they didn’t mind the rain?” Justin asked the question wit out looking at Kelsin. He had always been taught to keep his eyes sharp during storms. The rain made it harder to hear.
“Only when there’s food available, otherwise they avoid it.”
“Which means they’ve moved inside. Fantastic. That doesn’t really help us when we hit the station.” Frustration bubbled through Justin’s response.
“Meh, details.”
Justin shook his head at Kelsin’s light-hearted response.
“Just don’t get killed. You owe me a drink now, remember?” Justin took off without waiting for Kelsin to respond. Water exploded out from under his already soaked sneaker with every footfall. It took him a few heartbeats to reach the next intersection. He loved running. Even when he was little, Justin remember how he liked to challenge his friends to races.
He came upon what appeared to be a old newspaper kiosk. Most of its shelves lay bare and abandoned. Green paint clung defiantly to the metal frame. The tattered remains of a red and blue awning extended from the top of the structure. Relief took hold of Justin as he took refuge from the storm under the canopy.
An old newspaper rested in silence in a wire basket hanging from the front of the kiosk. Its pages were curled and yellowed with age and exposure to the elements. The image on the cover was still visible. A mechanical dog appeared to be smelling a discarded piece of paper. The title read ‘Savior of the Future?
Justin moved to the edge of the kiosk and began scanning the intersection for threats. The sticky cold gnawed on his limbs and body. Nothing moved ahead. Dead cars silently accepted the pounding rain from above. Training told Justin that something wasn’t right. Even during heavy storms, a few Guardian Beasts should be out this close to the nest. His eyes darted across the skyline. Still, he found nothing. A growing sense of uneasiness was working its way into Justin’s mind. Something felt off to him.
A massive shadow began to manifest itself across the intersection. It was moving wit ha deliberate, slow pace in Justin’s direction. The dark mass stood nearly two stories tall. Heart racing, Justin slashed his hand sideways, signaling Kelsin to hide. After communicating the threat, he darted into an open doorway across from the kiosk.
Pausing for a heartbeat, Justin let his eyes adjust to the darkness. Metal shutters covered most of the windows. Once his eyes adjusted, he saw that he appeared to be in an old store. Justin dove over the checkout counter and landed on the tile floor behind it with a grunt. Rain drumming on the concrete sidewalk was all he could hear. Other than rain, Justin heard nothing. The silence did little to slow his racing heart. The he heard it, the distinct ‘thud’ of a massive weight falling on asphalt. The footfalls slowly grew louder and louder.
Then the sound stopped.
The Beast was just outside. Justin’s heart felt as if it was exploding from his chest with the realization, but he didn’t dare move from fear of being heard. The creature inhaled, a pause, then another inhale. It was smelling the air where Justin had just been. He had heard of this kind of Beast. Ones this large were called Behemoths. They were prone to cannibalism and would plow into small buildings in search of food. The fact that Justin was slathered in Beast blood didn’t help his situation.
Another huff came from the door.
Fear burned through Justin’s body. If the thing realized where he was hiding, he would have no chance of escape. The only thing he could do was lie there, and hope for the best. In spite of the cold, sweat rolled off his brow and onto the dusty ground.
A deep growl shook the building The particles by Justin’s face danced, his bones quaked. His breathing stopped.
The sound of a heavy step echoed outside. The another. A heavy sigh escaped escaped his mouth. Justin’s heart flooded with relief, as he heard the footsteps fade. He didn’t move, even though his limbs were starting to go numb from lack of circulation. Training told him to be certain the Behemoth was gone. Now his mind was on Kelsin.
A roar tore through the air. It was so powerful that the very atmosphere seemed to quiver in fear of it.
‘Oh, no…’ Justin thought.
He heard a boom followed by the sound of falling stone and shattering glass. It had found Kelsin, Justin was certain. There was nothing he could do. Helplessness overcame his brief sense of relief.
‘What’s happening to you, Kelsin?’
Kelsin was both amazed and horrified by how fast the Behemoth had moved. One moment it was sniffing the air outside the Laundromat he had taken refuge in. The next, it was shoving its massive body through the front of the building. the sound reminded him of a bomb going off. Old washing machines toppled to the ground, their metal frames smashing angrily into the tile floor. The ceiling buckled as the Beast propelled itself further. Fluorescent bulbs shattered in their housings.
Kelsin crawled into the office at the back Just as the hungry creature let out another earth shattering roar. Heart pounding, he began pulling at a door he believed led to the alleyway. It wouldn’t budge. Years of neglect had rusted the bolt shut. He began slamming his whole body against the door. His only reward was fresh pain in his already damaged shoulders.
The entire building rocked on its foundation as the beast crawled even further in. Beams groaned in the walls, spider web cracks streaked across the plaster, a metal chair fell to the office carpet with a loud thunk. After regaining his balance, Kelsin saw that the frame of the metal door was now contorted and stressed. He picked up the fallen chair and jammed it into where the gap between the door and its threshold was widest. Adrenaline frenzying his muscles, he began desperately prying at the door. Steel scraped against steel. The metal protested with the effort. The door began to relent.
He could feel the hot air of the Behemoths massive breaths washing over his body. One more push, and the creature would have him in its jaws. It was either that or the building collapse on top of him. Neither option seemed very appealing to Kelsin.
With one final effort of desperation, the door groaned resentfully open. He was sprinting into the alleyway before the chair he had dropped reached he ground. Being hunted by something so much larger than himself always awoke some primordial fear in Kelsin’s mind.
Now he had to fin Justin and get away from the frenzied Behemoth. He had seen his Scout run into some of shop just before he slipping into the Laundromat. He sprinted down to the kiosk and paused at the doorway across from it.
“Justin!” he hissed.
With the word, Kelsin watched his Scout come soaring over a counter and charge the doorway. Within a breath, both men were sprinting down the street in the pouring rain. Stealing a glance over his shoulder, Kelsin saw the massive thing was starting to pull itself from the rubble.
‘We can’t outrun it!’ He had been in this situation before. A manhole cover caught his eye. Pointing to it, he shouted.
“Get that cover off!”
Justin grasped the lid and slid it off. The sound of rushing water assaulted his ears.
“You sure this is a good idea?” Justin could barely contain his panic.
“Not really.” Kelsin looked back at the Behemoth. It was shaking the last bits of concrete and plaster from its shoulders and back. Raising its head, it locked eyes with the two men. Massive legs began propelling the Beast towards the duo with unimaginable speed.
This was all the prompting needed for Kelsin and Justin to plunge into the darkness of the sewers.
Lady of Industrial Green by: Tony Fuller, Charcoal on paper, 2012.
Canto 13 by: Anna Rashe
Scarlet seeps from my bitten leaves
unable to scab over and begin healing.
Roots tunnel in the dark soil
worming through the damp ground.
I have not ventured from this place since falling.
My twisted limbs beckon for consolation
but all souls around me are in the same predicament.
Bulging knots have formed over my charcoal wood.
Moans from above shower my leafless limbs
and shrieks from below feed my intertwined foundation.
Suffering is a continual downpour of blood and tears.
Pier della Vigna stands to my far left.
His worn bark shows the scars of years past.
I tried to run from the suffering in my life before
and unbeknownst to me, I ran into the dragon’s mouth.
