Ella looked up from where she knelt at the fireplace, raking cinders from the bottom of the grate. Her father loved a log fire in the evenings but, like a small boy begging for a puppy, he had no notion of the time and energy lost in feeding it and cleaning up its mess. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “I’d love to, Gris, but you know what it’s like.” Continue reading “Anne Goodwin: Her Knight in Shining Armour”
Lewis rolled onto his back. He first noticed it when he could see the dark outline of the tip and bridge of his nose against the morning light leaking through the window blinds. No no no, he thought. As a test, he raised his right hand toward his bedroom ceiling and opened both eyes wide. Beyond the front edge of his nose, he only saw his hand and the beginning of his wrist. He slowly moved his arm left. It was not until his arm crossed his torso that Lewis could see his forearm. “Shit!” he shouted. He pounded the bed with his right hand clenched. “Not today.” His breath quickened. Moisture built in his eyes. Continue reading “Matthew Andrews: Seeing Tomorrow”
Jimmy Belino sits up in bed, his heart pounding. He looks around his room. He breathes slowly, through his nose and out his mouth. He knows the routine. He has battled anxiety and depression in this room more than any other place. Damn this insomnia, he says to himself. He falls asleep for a couple hours, then wakes up. It takes him another three hours to fall back to sleep. It plays hell with his anxiety.
“St. Therese, why am I still here? Why didn’t you take me last night?” he says out loud. Continue reading “Chris Pellizzari : Trapped in Darien”
One night when Dan was out of town, I awoke in the middle of a rain storm, sure I had heard a voice between the bursts of thunder coming from outside my bedroom.
“Look in the cistern,” the voice whispered in my ear. “Look in the cistern and you will find . . .”
The final words were covered by a timpani roll and I couldn’t make out what it was the voice was telling me. In fact, I figured the message was intended for my husband. Ghostly voices didn’t usually speak to me in the middle of the night. Continue reading “G. W. Clift: My Husband Had a Mid-Life Crisis”
Jack Hillyer waited on the deck while the Masons made a last tour of the house. He studied the scene below him: Easton, tucked against its curving harbor with a ferry standing at the dock, the pale green landing strip carved between dark woods and golden meadows, and, beyond, other islands floating like green hummocks on the shining water.
The cove where he and Patti lived was down to the left, hidden from this vantage point, but he knew exactly where it was and could picture everything in its place: The woods, the cabin, the patch of garden, and Patti. He set Patti on the porch, reading in the butterfly chair, her legs folded up, long red hair pulled back with a rubber band. Not that she was a big reader, but he had seen her that way one afternoon and liked the image. He carried it in his memory like the faded photograph of his two children that he kept in his wallet. He would call it up and say to himself, “This is Patti, the woman I love.”
He glanced at his watch and took out his cell phone to let her know he’d be home soon, but the muffled sound of a door closing made him put away the phone and turn back to the house instead. Continue reading “Alice K. Boatwright: Life Sentences”
Before retiring to his cottage outside Chiangling, the peasant/poet Chen Hsi-wei had always been on the move. When the news spread that he was able to receive visitors, several came. Among the most welcome was Liu Qing-sheng, who, before his own retirement, had been a second minister in the last years of the Sui dynasty. Liu and Hsi-wei had been pupils together under Shen Kuo, an exacting and formidable master. As the two friends shared recollections, both noted that the pains of their youth were somehow more delightful to recall than the pleasures. “The alchemy of age,” Hsi-wei mused, “is magical. It seems to have transmuted resentment of our Master’s sarcasm and fear of his bamboo cane into something almost like affection.” Continue reading “Robert Wexelblatt: Hsi-wei and the Three Threes”
If the stars had aligned better, the boy could’ve been the son of a teacher, a scientist, or a business tycoon. He might’ve spent his days blowing out birthday candles, playing catch outside with dad, or singing silly songs with mom, full of elaborate gestures.
The itsy-bitsy spider, perhaps. Or He’s got the whole world. That one about that bridge that kept falling down. He’d settle for the alphabet song. Johnny Cash. Sabbath. The Doors. The son of son of a sailor. Anything, really. Was it so much to ask? Continue reading “Bobby Horecka: Lubbock 1974”
Our school district’s special education director told me before the annual IEP meeting for John Manor that his parents had been a nightmare to deal with for years. He said Mr. Manor was an attorney who headed a firm that represented parents of special needs students in lawsuits against districts they felt weren’t supporting their children adequately; they’d already gone to due process twice with our district over what they deemed lack of services for their own son. The director rarely attended IEP meetings at the district’s sites, but always made a point of presiding over theirs. Although I’d be there as the administrator of record, he advised me to stay as quiet as possible, especially since I’d just started in my new position as assistant principal at the high school. Continue reading “William Cass: The View from Here”
The wide-open field across the road was not dotted with life like most fields around this area of Kentucky. No cattle or horses or even goats or sheep roamed there. Instead, it looked untouched and imperfect with its overgrown patchy grass, green and golden-brown, with sprinkles of purple and yellow weeds that looked maybe like wildflowers but were just plain old weeds. The landscape was tarnished-looking with the yellow patches, scorched from the sun, but it was also incredibly beautiful, wildflower weeds and all.
There was an old abandoned barn that seemed to be ready to collapse at any moment. Lining the road was a bent, flimsy looking fence that at one time was brand new and useful. The land was broken into weaving hills that told a story about the history of this land and how it got its shape, although I didn’t know that story. Continue reading “Jessica Martinović: Mr. Thomas’s Gift”
I miss you so much but they won’t let me receive letters here unless they read them first so I guess you might have written but got censored. I’ve asked Jill to play go-between for us since she’s the only one I trust and she puts on her bland nice little girl act when she visits. Otherwise only my brother has visited (once) and Daddy (twice). But he puts on a cheerfulness that he never had to fake before. I know it’s because that bitch my stepmother Caroline has made him promise not to see me. She’s the one who put me here of course in the sanitarium. Nightingale’s. They don’t call it Nightingale Sanatorium or Nightingale Booby Hatch of course just Nightingale’s. Maybe you can write one of your poems about it, sort of an anti-Keats poem. I know how much you love the ode and one of my best memories is of you reading it to me under the big oak at the high school. Continue reading “George Held: Night Falls at Nightingale’s”
Bobbi woke with a start with him kneeling by the bed, his face inches from hers.
“The toaster isn’t working,” he said. “I can’t make toast.”
It wasn’t Derrick, her husband, but Aaron, Derrick’s older brother. Bobbi was relieved because if it’d been Derrick, well, what on earth would he have been doing kneeling beside her? She wasn’t surprised, though, to find Aaron there or anywhere else around the house—as long as he was in the house. Aaron rarely went outside. Continue reading “Dennis Vannatta: Adoration”