As If the Sea Opened Its Loving Arms for You Did she hit reef, jagged edge? Like ocean, memory recalls the surf, how it broke her spirit. Still, damage can shift, drift toward healing waters. She rises in currents of kindness, where human connection streams brighter, higher, softer. What appears as lean ripple can transform into abundance. There’s fulfillment in splashing joy, sensitivity, offering words of encouragement. Daily, she walks with empathy, besprinkles balm, interacts with others — You look lovely today! Seafoam green’s your color. She greets neighbors, Good Morning, stops to pat dogs, Good Boy, waves at cars, trucks, and passers-by. She smiles, tries to extend peace. Like ocean, she rises in currents of kindness, as if the sea opened its loving arms for you. When Dogs Bark, the Road I Walk In chill of afternoon, a gathering of light. Amber, coral, and honey cast color. Leaves hug base of maple — its trunk appears warm, as if wrapped in scarf, afghan. Oh, the scarves I’ve made, afghans too. As a kid, my mom taught me to crochet. Turning the hook felt awkward, yet, as stitches formed and rhythm developed, the awkwardness disappeared. A leaf drops — its scarlet sheen brightens my insides. Nature does that, as do dogs — how they bark and fuss, wag their tails, cheer a person. Good boys, I say. Are you good boys? Yes, you are! Pond smiles with reflection. Clouds stroll as geese launch from roadside tangle. Sumac lifts her crimson hues. Cattails fluff with seed. Oak’s bark ripples in gray, splits in brown and rust. My walk is a gathering of light and color, of dogs and memory. I recall my first afghan — stripes of soft blue, green, and pink, triadic color. For years, my mom kept it, that artless- looking blanket. Its stitches were messy, inconsistent. She and her dogs must have treasured all ten feet of it, how it stretched and morphed, ripped and unraveled, got messier — consistent with a well-loved life. How autumn falls for winter, how artful the turning seasons and the road I walk. Jeannie E. Roberts has authored six books, including The Wingspan of Things (Dancing Girl Press, 2017), Romp and Ceremony (Finishing Line Press, 2017), Beyond Bulrush (Lit Fest Press, 2015), and Nature of it All (Finishing Line Press, 2013). She is also author and illustrator of Rhyme the Roost! A Collection of Poems and Paintings for Children (Daffydowndilly Press, an imprint of Kelsay Books, 2019) and Let's Make Faces! (author-published, 2009). Her work appears in print and online in North American and international journals and anthologies. She is poetry editor of the online literary magazine Halfway Down the Stairs. When she’s not reading, writing, or editing, you can find her drawing and painting, or outdoors photographing her natural surroundings.
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12/22/2019 1 Comment Poetry by Alan WalowitzGrace Seems not quite right to trouble a little girl with that stately-lady name. But, sure enough, someone did, in hopes, maybe, she’d grow into a willowy tree or the gentlest rain. But it’s Gracie-- for now,--two long vowels make for a name she can wrap her mouth around. Though the preacher says, There’s nothing Now about Grace-- It’s like the rain that cometh--or doesn’t-- from nothing said, or done or, even, prayed. We’ve just gotta wait on the Lord. But what if it takes more than the time we’ve set aside, or the time He’s alloted--, or ends up being, as promised, but like the rain the time we didn’t want it, rumbling against our arrival at the beach, a short stay we’d long planned against life’s frequent confusion, bikes and chairs strapped to the roof, with no promise of surcease up ahead and, the way we’ve packed the back of the car, no hope of seeing what’s coming from behind? Or we get none out west where we need it most, while the almond-growers are squeezing the last ounce from the ground like a mop wrung dry. Whatever it is, He’ll give it to us anyway, but in His own good time. Still, How sweet the sound, the President sings, and despite any doubts I keep to myself, I’m sure that makes little Gracie happy-- She saw him once on Sesame Street. *First appeared in The Story of the Milkman and Other Poems, published by Truth Serum Press First Assignment for Jeanette I tell them, Write about an activity you enjoy, and the eager young woman in front asks, Can it be anything? Sure, I say, so long as it’s doing-- and I suggest, for suggesting’s sake, playing cards with friends, or frisbee in the park with your dog, or sitting in the shade and reading a book. That’s what you do, one anonymous wag offers from the middle of the room. And, write nothing you wouldn’t want your mother to read, I respond to the wise guy in the back, who’s more than happy to share with the class what he likes to do with his beneficent friend. Next day, she submits a piece about a friend she made named Jesus, and how he’s with her all the time. This is lovely, I tell her, and it’s writing from the heart, and I’m happy that you’re happy, and I cock my head in that way I do when I want to be sure to seem sincere. But, it’s not an activity. Not about some doing-- or perhaps you didn’t understand the assignment. But it is a doing, she insists. I meet him in church-- We talk. And he’s a very good listener. In a Corner of the Camargue for Betsy Before the call of home becomes too insistent, or before she heeds the call of here-- where, she tells herself, she might truly belong-- she folds herself into a corner one final time, a nook, she calls it, to make it seem cozy-- in what’s hardly a bed at all, this foam mat a few fingers thick and covered in blue marine-vinyl that seems to hug the humidity. Though more subject than many to the lure of gravity, she’s alone and has chosen the upper, closer to what passes for a window on this tub meant only to take on the locks of the canals and the wakes and waves of the other passing tourists. In the humid night-heat of the Camargue in summer up here she might breathe, or catch a small breeze when night finally takes hold. Still the mosquitoes will have at her-- the bargain she’s willingly made though she knows come morning her legs and arms will look like the odd speckled flamingo she saw today and made her laugh in recognition as kin. She’s weary from the wine, too many toasts to sailing success, and friends, but turns to the window a final time, to watch the spider, her bedfellow, who’s found his own nook in the window and spun out his silk in a magus’s pattern she can barely follow through the dim light of the moon off the water and reflection from the faraway town. She tells him he’s welcome here and should feel free to have a hearty snack to spare her more bites she’d gladly do without. When she was a girl, in fact, she would talk to the spiders when lonely. Now, she’s come to know there are no lonely nights in the Camargue-- the frogs will talk, and crickets, cicadas, and even the late mating flamingos will call to each other. There are only those who refuse to find sleep amid all the night-clatter, and cowbells, and busyness. She turns again in her nook and this night, more than any other, a celebration of what it’s like to become, she promises herself from now on, she’ll be neither lonely, nor alone. Alan Walowitz has been writing poetry, sometimes successfully and sometimes un-, for more than 50 years. He has a small portion of an MFA in Writing from Goddard College, and has an entire degree from Eastern Connecticut State University and several from Queens College of the City University of NY. He’s studied with poets Estha Weiner, Fred Marchant, C.K. Williams, Carol Muske, Colette Inez, and Stephen Stepanchev, among others who probably would not want their names mentioned with his. Though writing poems can be quite lucrative, he’s earned the bulk of his fortune as a teacher and supervisor of secondary English for 34 years. His poems can be found lots of places on the web and off. He’s a Contributing Editor at Verse-Virtual, an Online Community Journal of Poetry, and teaches at Manhattanville College in Purchase. Alan’s chapbook, Exactly Like Love, is in its second printing and is available from Osedax Press. His book The Story of the Milkman and other poems will be published in May, 2019 by Truth Serum Press. 12/22/2019 0 Comments Featured Poet: Linda ImblerAdvice One Can Use What’s one piece of advice I’d offer a newborn babe? As you grow and as you live, find the joy in all things and point it out, helping others see it. For there is so much to celebrate in life and your happy heart tends to rub off on people who are not you. The best things about this approach will be the spreading of bliss. The snowball effect of such emotion tends to perpetuate itself endlessly. So, smile big, let your eyes crinkle up grand. Say thank you, no matter how small the gesture. Applaud warmly others’ wins. Train your mind to recall words which benefit your neighbor’s heart. Words that cover all manner of kindness and love. Think of a Christmas tree with bright green needles upon which hang all pretty lights. Now, imagine the world covered with a lexical bed of soft needles which do not poke. A bed soft enough for a baby. A Message From Mom Angels walk on Earth in guise of mortal manifestation. A painted rock with one word, love, written on it and placed strategically inside a zoo rock garden by a kindly woman. Found by a recently motherless boy. His thought, my mother left this for me. Through heat of summer or chill of winter, children will remind us that those who left us leave messages, if only we act with the eyes and ears of our early years, and we look and we listen with the hearts of the innocent. The Gifting Forgive your foes and give them grace, Show them your happy heart with smiles. Among your friends give them a place. Forgive your foes and give them grace. Gift unto them goodwill of face That they may sit with you awhile. Forgive your foes and give them grace, Show them your happy heart with smiles. Linda Imbler believes poetry has the potential to add to the beauty of the world. Her poetry collections include “Big Questions, Little Sleep,” “Lost and Found,” “The Sea’s Secret Song,” “Red Is The Sunrise,” and “Pairings,” a hybrid ebook of short fiction and poetry. Examples of Linda’s poetry and a listing of publications can be found at lindaspoetryblog.blogspot.com. Егор Журавлёв CC Helpless, Helpless, Helpless An uncomfortable silence, after our fight. Prairie yellow comes the moon while it’s so quiet we can hear the clouds rushing between us and the stars as you drive the rental down the highway to somewhere or another, I’m too worked up to remember now. Prairie yellow moon, and I pick a CD for keeping us together. Your hand on the leather of the wheel, mine on the buttons, clicking through. I want this one, I say, holding Neil Young by my fingertips. Fine by me, you say. I’m thinking and you’re thinking and driving. I sway a little to the music. You and I, we’ve never had a house we owned, and we probably never will. North Ontario, haven’t been there. It’s likely huge, like this birdless night field we are continually passing. Then it gets into me, this song. Takes its steps going wounded, like a man on a bad leg making his way from place to place slow, admitting the slowness to himself, knowing he can’t get there the speed he wants to go. But going anyway. It’s getting late, it’s got late, it’s too late, I’m late; slim differences and vast. If you sing helpless, helpless, helpless, like the singer does, it evokes almost its opposite, but not quite. In that difference, there’s a great deal of feeling. The difference in the heights of individual wheat stalks in a field of millions. The differences in the distance between the sun and the earth and the sun and mars. Between us and the moon. Degrees of coldness, degrees of light. We get cold. I crank the heating; you, busy scanning the path the headlights give. All my changes are someplace else. I’m getting thirsty, you say. I put the water bottle up to your mouth and help you drink. The road makes no changes to itself, no lights are coming the other way. Only the moon is with us, touching the fields and the rare farmhouses. You swallow a mouthful of carwarm water and say thanks. The realms of the world are endless. I am helpless, you are helpless, the world is helpless. I couldn’t keep it, I say, and it’s no one’s fault, not yours, not mine, and if we can get over this we can try again. You make a tiny sound, look on down the road. Helpless, helpless, helpless, I sing, and I mean all of it. I don’t look at you again, but the moon looks in, and the song seeps in, to pool in the gaps we leave. Helen McClory's first story collection On the Edges of Vision, won the Saltire First Book of the Year 2015. Her second story collection, Mayhem & Death, was written for the lonely and published in 2018. The Goldblum Variations was published by Penguin in October 2019. Her stories have been listed as part of the Best of British and Irish Flash Fiction 2018 and placed in the Anthology The Best of British Fantasy 2018. There is a moor and a cold sea in her heart 12/22/2019 1 Comment Ice cold coke by Jackie CostillaIce cold coke The pounding heat was inescapable. Not a single pool of darkness lay amongst that plain terrain. My shirt, drenched in sweat, my only relief from the sizzling waves that grazed upon the cracked earth. And yet, all I could see for miles was the infinite stretch of bladed grass. Pinpoint straight. My eyes, swallowing nothing but green and blue and heat, began to cry. Letting the last bit of moisture in my body release. Wasting it on my internal doubt of survival. I cry in silence for I do not have the energy to let out even a whimper, a sniffle, a sigh. Lalo, his head below a red bandana, turns his head to face me and all I see are his eyes. My brother’s tired, swollen eyes. Eyes that have seen a many things. Ribcages that shackled with every breath. Flesh piñatas that hung from telephone poles. My brother, who held me tight as we jumbled on the packed, dingy bus. Who watched for wandering eyes and unwelcomed touches like a perched eagle. His height towering over me. The one who would saved me the other half of his torta, despite skipping breakfast. And the one who kissed my Mama on the forehead, promising that God would keep us safe. Our smugglers, the coyotes, followed his gaze. “We have to keep moving.” said one, a tall scruffy man with a skinny frame. In his hand, a milk jug that was once filled to the brim with water, not a single drop to give to my sandpaper tongue. The beer-bellied one walked up to me and nudged my chin up. The sweat stung my eyes as I mustered the last of my strength to meet his face, covered in sunspots and miscellaneous scars. “I can’t go on anymore señor...” I whimpered at last. The coyote paused and searched my face for what exactly, I wasn’t sure. Vulnerability to do whatever it took to get there? A resemblance in a daughter I’m not sure he has? But as the man went to speak, the first movement in what seemed an eternity captured the sound from his throat. The field rushed with a sudden funnel of wind. I followed their eyes to the blades that cascaded in one direction. A defibrillator of adrenaline pulsed into my veins as I looked up to the sky and bristled, the slicing helicopter zooming into vision. I cowered at the only English words I knew how to read, plastered on the side of the swinging machine. Border Patrol. “La migra! Run!” The coyotes shouted, swinging us around to search the clearing. My eyes darted from Lalo, who dragged me behind his long strides, to the scattered bushes along the plain. My legs sloshed like plump raindrops as I ran. Before I could get a second glance of the area I was shoved into a leaf-covered haven. “Don’t move!” the coyote, the thin one, hissed as he flashed past me. The propeller neared, pounding louder than my heart. Where’s Lalo? Where’s the other coyote? What if they capture us? What if they rape me, what if they kill me? The gears in my mind spun rapidly, convinced I was going to combust and set the bush ablaze. Pounding. Loud. Racing. Fast. You could hear the rise in pitch deep within the water, muffled screaming that always made me anxious. My heart, as though it were twisted tight and suddenly released, dispersed all my oxygen and I coughed up to the surface. I was greeted by boos and whistles as my heart continued to pound, getting slapped in the face by the water whipped up from my competitor’s hair. “Better luck next time, Claudia!” he sneered as I plopped out onto the bank. The children of our barrio met at the stream. We’d cup the water beneath our arms, frantically kicking and say “Watch me!” as we puffed our cheeks with oxygen and submerged into the sunkissed water. The children lining the bank and splashing around the competitors were the cheerful timers. “Trece! Catorce! Quince! Dieciseis!..” My wet shirt clung to my body, making me shiver as the sun retreated behind the clouds. The birds flew across the tangerine sky, twirling in groups. Flapping their wings as hard as they could, gaining speed. Was this their way of acting in vain? Were they aware of their gift? To take flight at the growl of a jungle cat. To fly through the desert slums and land on sandy beaches. Did they mock the peasant incapable of escape? The faceless men jumped from the helicopter, touching down to the field. Its wind ripping up the blades of grass. Watering the bush with my silent tears, I watched the men pummel the coyote to a pulp. He was dragged along the ragged earth, his face unrecognizable. Shoved into the back of the helicopter, it floated away with the man, who saved a girl, that didn’t even know his name. The field was lifeless again. And after what seemed an eternity, Lalo cried out for me. I coaxed myself to leave the shrub I so quickly attached to, gently pulling from its motherly twigs into the desert sun once more. Beside him was the beer-bellied coyote, waving his hand. “We have to keep going, we aren’t too far,” he said. I squinted my eyes toward the blazing star and felt my lip begin to quiver. The last of my strength had escaped me, a deflated balloon. Out from my cheap denim pocket, I pulled out the last of my pesos, holding it out the coyote in a crumpled fist. “My legs won’t carry me anymore. Please let me ride on your back, all I have is 500 pesos.” The coyote’s belly rose and then fell. Before Lalo pressed toward me to offer his last ounce of strength, the coyote pushed my fist towards me, then adjusted his cap. “You don’t have to pay me. I’ll do it.” Passing the miles of endless plain, I nuzzled my face into his cotton shirt, drenched in sweat. Convinced that no king plush mattress would amount to the luxury I felt at that very moment. I laid my fatigue on the coyote’s broad shoulders as I comforted my eyes with darkness, letting my bled-through shoes dangle over his side. It seemed like a blink in time when I was awoken by the familiarity of livestock, sheep humming in the distance. Lalo shook my lifeless arm as the coyote bent to the ground. “You made it,” the coyote said. I looked out to see a pen of sheep, filling the space to the very edge with fluff. “La migra passes through here. You’re going to have to crawl through the sheep. On the other side, is the rancher, Francisco. He will take you to Corpus Cristie with your aunt.” I looked at Lalo and he nodded, shaking the man’s hand firmly. “Gracias señor. I’ll never forget what you did for us.” As he got on his knees, my eyes hesitated on the man with the rough exterior. And in the eyes, his gentle spirit beamed and I wrapped firmly around the roundest part of his belly. “Gracias.” The grass was plush as we crawled between the hooves, pressing against their firm coats. The occasional lamb pressed its taste buds against our salty skin. After what seemed an eternity, a leather glove reached out to grab Lalo and I from over the pen. Francisco, a stubby man led us to his barn and welcomed us to a couch covered in misshaped quilts. “Bienvenidos! Welcome to Texas,” he said, handing us both an ice cold Coke. Jackie Costilla is currently a broadcasting student at the University of Nebraska-Lincoln with an interest in creative writing. Recently, she's begun writing fiction solely for personal enjoyment and for her fiction class assignments for which she's written several short stories. She is a Mexican-American and her culture often inspires her writing. 12/22/2019 0 Comments Rescue by Nancy JaskoRescue As she exits the car and looks across the shelter grounds, fifty yards away she sees him. He turns his head in her direction and speaks to her through his stare. A smile breaks across her face as she cranes her neck to reach him with her trustworthy eyes. Everything stops in that moment that they connect. He barks as she moves toward the entrance door and runs along the upper fence to get a better look at her. She turns just before pulling the glass door open and throws him a huge, knowing smile. He’s the one. She learns that he was left tied to a bench at a local animal hospital on a Sunday night. The poor boy must have been terrified and confused all night long, abandoned by the man who kept him some 10 or 11 years. Betrayed. She, too, had been betrayed, but unlike dogs who are loyal and could easily forgive wrongs done to them, she found no need to forgive her ex. They had built on a fragile foundation of doubt for over a decade, but perhaps he thought he would get away with an illicit affair. Her keen sense of intuition and sleuth-like gathering of hard evidence, however, helped her to expose his double-life of deceit. With no desire to discuss it or hear his pathetic excuses, she packed up and left with little fanfare. Today, though, she is one year and four months removed from that raw wound and working on healing. She rents a little bungalow on a quiet street only paces away from the harbor. Salt air drifts her way – good for her senses, good for her soul -- and now she is ready to share her life again. She gets approved to adopt and Keiko goes to his new home, an end-of-summer adoption, tongue dripping on his black and white coat as he hangs his head out the car window. One blue eye, one brown. The folded tips of his ears bounce in the wind and he smiles. Now Keiko was not a “new model” pup and came with some preexisting conditions. He seemed to drop his right rear hip a bit when he would trot. Twin balding patches on the dog’s hind quarters along with a few scattered scabs and a growth on the bottom lid of the right brown eye deem a trip to the veterinarian for an overall checkup as necessary. The homeopathic vet determines that these bleeding blemishes might be caused by something internal, perhaps a liver disease, but those tests could wait. The immediate fix was to see if the symptoms could be tamed with a dose of graphite. Within a month or so, fur begins growing back, scabs disintegrate, and one day the growth on the eye vanishes. The slight limp in his back leg disappears, too, and there is more pep in his step during his twice daily walk to the park. The treatment seems to be a cure. They are gentle and patient, perfectly complementing each other on their walks. Keiko stops seemingly every 15-20 feet to sniff a good spot where another dog had relieved himself previously, and she glances the area, taking in the scenery. Alternately, she pauses in certain spots to capture an ideal shot through the still lens of her camera while he pauses until he receives the signal to continue. People on the pathway at the park comment on how youthful Keiko behaves, many surprised to hear of his approximate age, many say he acts like a two-year old pup. A more careful look at the whitening of his snout is a better clue to guessing nearer his actual age, but it doesn’t matter. He is a happy dog and it shows, and his person is happy with her new dog companion. In the front yard, he lazes in the grass on sunny days and captures a seasonal breeze across his fur. She sits quietly and soaks in the same weather, leaning back in the patio chair, legs outstretched, stiff as a fallen wooden soldier. No rush, no place to go, they live in the moment. They live with an inner peace backed by their sensualities of the outdoors. They are kindred spirits. In all these day-to-day happy-go-lucky times, a nagging question always sits in the back of her mind, though she knows it will never be answered. What kind of life did Keiko live with his former owner? He still flinches on occasion when her hand comes to touch him, but she feels certain that Keiko has never been cared for so much in all his years. Brushings, caresses, and massages, all done with a loving, gentle touch, and the corners of his mouth turn up as he proudly lifts his chin for more of this kingly treatment. He greets her each day she returns home from work, pulling back his lips to bare his teeth in an understandable expression of happiness while his tail sets the pace of their reunion like a metronome. “Hi, baby! How are you? I’m so happy to see you! Did you have a good day?” She drops her keys, her canvas messenger bag, the mail, and ruffles the scruff of his neck while kissing the top of his head. He sits and lifts his paw, always the left one, and lands it on her forearm. The greeting must continue, the petting, the sharing of love and gratefulness to see each other again. “I’m so happy you came to live here. You belong here.” Her sincerity expressed, and he soaks it in, responding with a direct look in her eyes. As the seasons change, Keiko’s love for the cooler days is obvious. He barks in preparation for a walk, telling her in his canine language that she has come to understand: “Hurry up!” Even on the coldest nights, Keiko pulls the makeshift draft stopper, a rolled-up beach towel, away from the door and lies down. Old Man Winter’s breath seeps under the heavy oak door and whispers cool comfort through his heavy coat. He sleeps comfortably through those nights. The winter gets pleasantly active, spinning a few snowstorms in this coastal town, appealing to Keiko’s inner energy and spirit. When an occasional snow falls, he munches on the white piles with fervor, the husky in him radiating. But as change rolls into change and one season becomes another, soon enough the warmer, humid days return. Keiko signals a growing discomfort, displayed in more continuous scratching. Shedding commences, and the scaly scabs return. A morning yellow mucous begins to cloud the beautiful brown eye every day, begging to be wiped clean with a warm, wet washcloth. And lo and behold, the eye growth returns, too. At the next vet visit, blood is drawn because the physical seems to indicate a growing tenderness in the liver area, just beneath his ribs. Surgical treatment, if that is the only cure, really would be a risk because of his age, but that will be determined once the lab results are in. For now, antibiotics and a mild pain med will sustain him. The walks become less peppy, giving in to slower, more labored paces. More frequently, the walks end with open-mouthed panting. On the porch, he waits for her to open the door, but first she must execute her “back home” routine, and she does it as though she were an air traveler being processed at the metal detector. First, she empties her jacket pockets and drops the unused poop bags into the box on the floor. Then she peels off her jacket, tosses it on the chair, and pulls her feet out of her laceless sneakers. Her phone comes out of her back jeans pocket and is placed on the bookshelf along with a piece of sea glass and two red stones from her front pocket. Lastly, she tosses her hat atop her jacket before she reaches for the doorknob. Keiko struts in and then she follows, one giant step across the threshold, cautiously through the portal, and no alarms alert airport security. She continues to care for her buddy with unconditional love. Soothing rubs, soft kisses on his head. Continued brushings as his fur keeps shedding. Fur, more and more fur, and scabs of skin brushed away nearly every other day. She wonders if her allergies are more related to him than to the blossoms and pollens of the changing season. She sneezes and sneezes, sleep the only relief. He scratches and scratches, and he, too, seeks relief in slumbering. On the cooler spring mornings or overcast days, Keiko has a little more verve for his walk. He gladly walks along the beach and encourages her to keep going all the way down to the water treatment plant. She notices a tinge of pain in her left groin, right where her leg meets her torso. It is accompanied with a sort of Charlie-horse pain in her left butt cheek. It had been a while since she felt something like that; probably at least 5 years ago when she used to jog regularly. But she pinches her hip, extending her fingers to give a quick deep rub to the pain that caught her unaware. With that, she marches on down the beach to keep up with Keiko’s trot. Her mission along the way is to find the still-living washed up horseshoe crabs from the previous evening’s high tide. She eyeballs a long trail in the sand which, at points, veers off in a loop like a lower-case cursive “e”. The tracks continue in the wet sand, foot after foot of little claw scratchings until she arrives at a dark lump looking like a prehistoric motorcycle helmet. Towering over it and looking down, she draws in a breath of hope. She squats to rub the top of the shell to greet the creature first; then gently lifts a corner to detect movement. “Hey, buddy!” she gently begins talking when she sees the claws waving beneath. “We’re gonna get you home, back to safety. You gotta help me though.” At this point, she turns to Keiko and unleashes him. “Okay, Keiko. We gotta help this guy. Be a good boy. Don’t go anywhere. Wait for mommy.” He walks a few steps on the sand to sniff a piece of driftwood. Carefully, she grabs the two ends of the shell, tail away from her, and she lifts only a few inches off the sand. The crab senses the movement and bends his shell in defense, spike-tail shooting straight out. She moves the crab a few feet behind her through her straddled legs, heading toward the water. She tries again, this time scuttling backwards with the crab in front of her and makes progress quicker, gaining about 10 feet at a time. With each break, she looks up and says, “Good boy, Keiko. Thanks for waiting for mommy.” There he stands, her voice reinforcing his patience. After several backward shuffles to the water, eventually she reaches the lightly lapping waves. She extends her reach to get the horseshoe crab into the water without getting her sneakers too wet. Its shell digging in the sand, she lifts the corner on each of the next few waves. The water catches under the weight and the crab begins forward swimming motion into the bay. “Good-bye, buddy. Good luck! Have a beautiful day!” She snaps a photo or two as he swims free. The good days are good. Keiko pushes onward, a warrior of life. Even so, she senses the discomfort below the surface. She could almost see the change in his face at times and when he hits the floor to rest, he just seems to exhale all the pent-up struggle. She keeps the air conditioning and a fan on for him, knowing his discomfort in his own skin. He idles between rooms hoping for relief yet is restless through the long nights. He gets up and circles in search of a comfortable spot, but the enlarging unhealthy organ makes it difficult. He was always known to drink a lot of water since he came to live with her, but now it seems like he is always lapping away in his bowl and emptying it. She constantly refills it. He is shedding because of the season, but he is also losing more fur than usual. The evidence can be brushed off the carpet by the handful. There was even a clump under the occasional chair in front of the fan, moving like tumbleweed in the hot desert. His eyes no longer hold the curiosity of a toddler; instead, they sit more heavily-lidded, shading the jaundicing whites. And when they are closed, she swears she sees a furrowing of his brow, an indication to her that pain may even be filtering in to his dreams. If not in sleep, she worries, where else can he find peace and relief? The small sores grow back, oozing and crusting on the top of his skin like lava expelled from miniature slow-motion volcanoes. She soaks a clean scrap of monk’s cloth in diluted apple cider vinegar, gently rings it out, and places the sopping rag across his back, holding it still for a few moments to allow the remedy to sink in. Then she repeats the process on another sore-ridden area, and another. Then she gets him to lay down and works this process on his chest, on his belly, down his legs, until she has wet most of his ailing skin. He remains patient throughout, feeling the soothing temporary relief from itchy scabs. Then she gets a voice message from the vet. The lab results are in. She needs to call back during office hours to set a follow up appointment to go over everything. True to science, the outcome of the tests supports the clairvoyant vet’s diagnosis: liver disease, advanced stages. She just wants him to be comfortable, pain free. The vet prescribes lab-concocted remedies, ones which she’ll administer along with even larger doses of love. Most of all, she vows to not let him feel alone through this voyage of illness. She is forewarned that this is a particularly debilitating illness. The road ahead promises to be long and arduous, and additionally, she should expect for it to take a toll on her emotions. Any time you are ready, she is told, we can put an end to the struggle. Put him down is what is meant, and she gets somewhat insulted that they think she can’t handle it, when in fact, they are looking to keep Keiko from extended suffering. But how is a life so easily expendable? How can one determine the right time when this should be no one’s decision but a god’s? She couldn’t give up on him; she wouldn’t give up on him. Long and weary the passage through the pain might be, but she would not give up on him. Walks become shorter, more purposeful. No longer walking for recreation, a drive to the park replaces the leisurely stroll. Destination reached, they walk just enough steps to allow Keiko to expel the toxins from his bowel and excrete his liquid waste in a few select spots. Then they circle around and return to the car. He pants and his legs quiver a bit from the exertion of the walk. He tires more easily now. Just as well because her hip pain has grown more intense and moved down into her thigh, and she would describe it as the bone itself, her femur, actually aching. So the goal becomes simple repose, peaceful resting in each other’s company whenever they could. The small porch becomes a favorite spot, a magnet for summer sun early in the day, made more comfortable by the shade of the large maple in the front yard, but in the balmy evenings, a mild celestial breeze finds its way in the uncurtained jalousy windows along with a silvery glow from the moon as it rises in the eastern sky. Many a night she sets up a sheet on the carpet for Keiko and grabs a pillow and a sheet for the couch for herself. She sleeps lightly, like a mom with a newborn, and listens for any changes in his shallow breaths. One morning when she wakes, she finds a small irritation near her left elbow. Rather dry, the skin in the area is cracking. The ailment extends a bit down the back of her forearm, giving notice to a patchy redness. She pampers this with Benadryl lotion and covers it up with some gauze. Then she tends to Keiko’s skin ailments as usual, soothing his itches and aches as best as she could. Before long, even rides to the park become impossible as Keiko can no longer jump into the car and certainly there is no way for her to lift and maneuver his 55-lb. body into the back seat. A walk past a few houses on the block has to suffice. Along the route there is a fire hydrant and a telephone pole upon which he relieves himself, but as time goes on, he can no longer hold his leg up in a male stance; instead he squats, and not even a full squat at that as his joints pain him, just as the vet predicted. ~ It was a cold, dreary day in late November when Keiko breathed his last breath. He was laying on the floor on his favorite comforter; she was lying right beside him, petting his chin and neck, telling him it was okay. He lifted his left paw and dropped it on top of her forearm. Silent tears were streaming down her face when she heard the death rattle. She sucked in and filled her lungs, held the air to stop moving forward in time, and then defeated, she suddenly exhaled in a flurry of sobs. Her boy was gone. ~ The timing was right in her mind, just heading into the season of darkness, and so she spent many mornings in bed huddled up under the blankets, not wanting to move. She had no motivation to walk to the beach, no motivation to take photos of morning horizons. She thoughtlessly rubbed her scaly arm raw in her grief and had to peel a blood-blotched set of sheets off her bed on several occasions as the season of long-sleeves held secret her new habit resulting from her despondency. But every morning when she left the house for work, she took the long route to her driveway via the backyard memorial she set up for Keiko. Goodbyes, love-and-kisses, and I-miss-you’s always fell from her lips like a soft summer rain, accompanied by a rolling tear down her cheek. A quick pat on the frozen mound garbed with an evergreen blanket and she was off. As daylight begins coming earlier each morning after the winter solstice, she tries shaking off the grief hibernation she fell into after Keiko died, and begins, once again, taking early morning walks down to the harbor with her camera. She bundles up, pulls on boots, and walks a steady pace, unhindered by frequent pee stops. She beelines to the bridge before sunrise, the bridge that Keiko always trotted over ahead of her steps, the bridge where his paws often made the first imprints after an evening snow, the bridge where she now stands with a familiar hip and thigh pain pointing her camera toward the tangerine glow in the eastern sky. There are at least two more snow events that year despite the fact that Punxsutawney Phil failed to see his shadow on the legendary day that year in Gobbler’s Knob, PA, but soon enough the warmer days return. The horseshoe crabs reappear to mate, and so beach rescues move back in the flow of her early morning walks. She looks up mid-rescue one time and, glancing the area of the near-by moorings, and with the heaven-like rays of the sun shooting from behind a passing cloud, she smiles to envision his black and white coat, floppy ear tips, brown and blue eyes, and proud stance, patiently waiting for her. “Good boy, Keiko,” she whispers, tears brimming. She takes notice of a foggy smear in the camera lens and thinks about how she has been ignoring it for a while because it never seemed to materialize in the photos. But at work as she glances from one computer screen to another, she realizes that the impediment is not likely in the camera lens after all, that it is actually in her left eye. She notices a blur that clouds her vision and moves as her eyes moves, so she cleanses her eye with drops and continues on with her tasks. Over the next year, she develops an obvious limp. The scales and bumps of her left arm spread to her shoulder and begin creeping up her neck, and at the same time, creep down her arm, across the back of her hand, and lodge in the spaces between her fingers. The blur in her eye develops into a milky cataract, yet her right eye remains clear. She finds herself slowing in motion and catches herself panting as she returns to her front porch from her morning walks. She uses the door frame for leverage to breathe in, hoping to attain the 13 pints a minute that regulate the human body. Breathe in for two seconds, out for three, but she is tired. Weary. Her muscles even ache all over. One autumn morning after a full Beaver Moon, high tide waves still lapping at the cool sands, she stands in the doorway upon the return from her walk at the beach. She eyes the couch on the porch with longing. Just a few moments, she thinks. She lies down in the horizontal golden rays reaching through the front window, rests her head on the pillow, and feels a momentary soothing breeze seeping under the storm door. She rolls on her side, pulling the sheet over her shoulders and looks at the spot on the floor where her buddy used to rest. She lets out an exhausted breath, but the corners of her mouth curl up, ever so slightly, as she closes her eyes. “Keiko! Keiko, baby!” her voice echoes as her boy runs across the sand toward her. She kneels with ease, no pain in her hip, and meets him with a hug and a ruffling of his gruff. His lips pull back and bare a canine smile as he whimpers a sound of recognition. His tail wags furiously, and he almost knocks her off balance. “I missed you, baby, so, so much! Come on!” She gets to her feet and begins a light jog down the beach toward the water treatment plan. He prances along beside her, occasionally stopping to sniff some driftwood, and then runs to catch back up. She looks at the eastern sky filled with hues of pinks and oranges growing in their glow as the sunrise nears. It is like an announcement, like the opening curtains in a play, like the first notes of a favorite song. She never makes it to work that day. Her coworkers think it a little odd that she doesn’t contact anyone, but nevertheless give her the benefit of the doubt. A little later that afternoon, they send a text and receive no response by 5 o’clock office closing. I hope she’s all right, they mutter, and go home to their families. Three days later she is found. She died of natural causes, it was decided, as there was no trauma to her body. The medical examiner didn’t even mention the nasty scaly and crusty skin running up and down her left arm. Perhaps it wasn’t there. It certainly didn’t show as she lay in repose at the funeral home, hands woven in prayer with a rosary between her fingers and a photo of her and Keiko atop the casket. And there was no mention of cataracts, either, but what exactly does happen to eyes after death? There was a mistake on the report, an anomaly really, a discrepancy compared with the information she held for years on her license, compared with what others knew or remembered of her and her deep emerald green eyes. The official coroner’s report stated: right eye brown, left eye blue. Nancy currently works in a basement waterproofing sales department, daydreaming about retirement. Some of Nancy’s poems have been published in print or on-line journals such as Bacopa, Califragile, Sunflower Collective, and Scarlet Leaf Review. What Nancy doesn’t capture in words will often be photographed, sketched, or painted. Recently, she has participated in the August Postcard Poetry Fest (2019), creating 30+ watercolor postcards and poems to send to the participants in her group. 12/22/2019 0 Comments The Photograph by Jason PowellThe Photograph Not all pictures are worth a thousand words. In retrospect we should’ve known the young lady in the photo wasn’t his child or grandchild. Jencks was in his eighties and though she looked like she was in her late teens or early twenties in the photo, the photograph itself looked to be as old as Jencks was. And anyway that was the case with all of the residents there. All of them were in their eighties or at some late age where their families wanted them to be cared for but didn’t want to do it themselves. And nearly all of their rooms had a bedside table with an old framed picture of their wedding day or a time in their marriage when anniversaries were looked forward to and less of an accomplishment. I think our interest in the photo was caused by the fact that Jencks himself was absent from the photo. Also because although it was always in his hands, he never spoke about it. Many of the residents would lie in bed with a letter or a post card from their grandchildren and tell stories of first days of school or first times in the snow or performances in school plays; things like that. Jencks too would lay with his photo and smile at us when we came in as if the photo was a sleeping newborn. But he never offered a story. I don’t know why we never asked. It was an unwritten requisite of this job to be able to engage the residents in conversation. Help them cling to the now, usually by reliving the past. But we all kinda found the mystery more exciting unsolved. We all created our own version of the untold story behind the photo. Georgios claimed it was Sanders' daughter from a marriage that ended before the baby was born and so all he had were photos and letters as a relationship with the child. Kelly figured it was a grandchild whose life was too far away for him to be a part of and that before Jencks’ time with us was done that grandchild would show up in reception with a couple of balloons and two baby great-grandkids attached. Silly things like that. Possible but with no real evidence to support them. He didn’t think to tell us so we didn’t think to ask. Then Joe, whom for some reason everyone called “Joe Dirt,” came to work with us for the spring. Dirt was one of the interns from Polinaire community College. One day when making the rounds, Kelly told him about Jencks and his mysterious photo. Dirt was young and had no sense of romance for unsolved mysteries. He walked into Jencks room and smiled back when Jencks looked up. Joe asked if he could see the photo and Jencks held the photo by the top, pinched between the first three worn and wrinkled fingers on his left hand. The fourth finger had two plain round bands of gold on it. When Dirt said she was beautiful Jencks smiled and brought the photo back to face him. All five fingers held it. Dirt looked at the hand holding the photo and the smile on Jencks’ face and the mystery was solved. Jason Powell is a New York City Firefighter in the FDNY and an avid people watcher. He spends all of his free time and (some of his work time) writing and reading and eating chocolate covered pretzels. 12/22/2019 0 Comments Shasta sunshine by Robert LibbeyShasta sunshine My VA ID’s still good but my knee got a world better once I got off the processed food in the hospital, got my leave, and began collecting the cans: I dropped thirty pounds or so in the first year alone, but had to get used to the kids’ catcalls “Hey, can man!” and guys all torqued up in pick-ups trying to run me off the road into the brush; that was not cool. It wasn’t for lack of trying: the gig at the machine shop ended up short-lived, once they brought in that 3-D printer. But with the military separation money in combo with the VA disability + the walking cash I got from the cans, I was fairly ironed out, though the only digs I could score was a basement room with little light, no view at all, so to be honest I started getting antsy. Dr. Kahn was a life-saver, then: I skulked back to the hospital once a week to see her. I think she was Jewish, but I wasn’t anything, so I confessed my anxieties to her: how unlovable I felt, how no woman would ever, and how did I ever end up in this godforsaken place and whatnot, and she was placid as a lake reflecting back nothing but positivity. I’m sure I was half in love with her; probably all in. She turned me on to reading: gave me my first book out of school, an easy reader, Jonathan Livingston Seagull. I was hooked. Reading opened up my horizons; Dr. Kahn helped me envision possibilities. At our last session she said “I shouldn’t” but gave me a hug, took my palm and placed an opal—transparent, flecked with green striations—in its rough. “From Mt. Shasta.” * Up Cosmic Wall I lead guided climbs in Castle Crags; easy ascents up Bolam Glacier on the north flank: the views, so clear. Spectacular. Sure, some folks call it hokey; the crystal shops; the tourist traps. But out here I swear I can feel the lava tubes hum at the heart of Shasta; swear I can see my house: a tiny fleck nestled in the stand of pines—early morning my wife still sleeping, the baby too, in her basinet. And I know, there’s a path, not random—in the least—that by the hand, with love and kindness, led. Led me. Here. To my mountain. Robert Libbey lives in East Northport, NY. He has writing in or soon at: Cabinet of Heed, Ligeia, Spelk, Drunk Monkeys, Flash: The International Short-Short Story Magazine and other places. He is a reader with Literary Orphans. 12/22/2019 0 Comments Blown Up Funny Car by Mike NeisBlown Up Funny Car Some of us could do some stupid things back then—like Johnny Borshock when TJ Billing’s funny car blew up. It was a surprise that I was at the races at all that day. My father, after cursing at big block engines, doofing up opportunities at the starting tree, and blowing his ears out with unmuffled engines, did well in drag racing, surviving five single elimination rounds at Fontana. He was paired off with old Dennis Benjamin that morning. I already had long memories of racing venues at Sonoma, Phoenix, Las Vegas, and Tucson. My dad would set up the camper with the awning, barbecue, and the cooler with sodas and beer. We spent days and nights in the vast culture of pale gray pavement, hard music, sun, cigarettes, racing fuel fumes, and loud engines—so loud you didn’t need ears to hear them. Even after going to the races for years, I could still jump from the shockwave blast of a rev. I knew the other kids, of course. Some were mean and dumb, but most were okay. We would go off on our own. The grownups would look up and wave from their card tables, bottles of beer and portable fire pits. That afternoon we were far off in the stands, scouring tossed-out cigarette packs for coupons. We heard a jolting bang on the track. Our necks jerked around, and we saw TJ’s car slowing down, the front in flames, the right side missing. We got jolted again with a crash in the stands about 20 yards from where we were. No one was there, which was a good thing because a shard of metal about the size of my forearm was bouncing across the bleachers, the crunching clack of heavy iron against aluminum. Johnny jumped up like a rabbit and went after it even before it came to rest. We all yelled at him “don’t!—don’t touch it!” But Johnny had to be a showoff. He grabbed that metal hunk, and hoisted it like a top fuel trophy. Then dropped it as his face contorted into a wilting grimace. He started screaming and holding up his hand, fingers marked with angry pink splotches. The guys laughed, and then ran off to get a closer look at TJ’s car. I approached Johnny, crumpled on a bleacher, cradling his damaged hand. “I bet you think that I’m an idiot and a pussy, don’t you?” His voice stammered out in uncontrolled spasms. I thought of saying “Yeah,” and then laughing. I thought about saying that I did not care what the other guys thought and that I was not going to ditch him. I thought about telling him he should have listened to us. Instead I said, “Come on Johnny, let’s go find your parents.” Mike Neis lives in Orange County with his family, and works as a technical writer for a commercial laboratory. His fiction has appeared in Stonecrop Review. Besides writing, his outside activities include church music, walking for health, and teaching English as a second language. My Cancer Journey (for Leah, my wife and teacher) I I moved back to Washington in 2012 after a six year nose-to-the-grindstone interlude in Chicago. It was a heady time to return to the state of my birth. The voters had just legalized cannabis. There had been dispensaries in Washington for several years prior to legalization. I began to feel bad about three years later. I experienced many of the symptoms of colon cancer, including weight loss. My wife Leah convinced me to go to the one of the local ERs. The staff checked me out – including a CAT scan. They found nothing except hypertension. The symptoms mysteriously vanished, and I regained all the weight I had lost. I dutifully took the HCTZ blood pressure medication that was prescribed for me at the free clinic. I sailed on my reprieve from illness for about two years – though I never really felt 100% well. Who wants to believe they have cancer anyway? I told myself I had irritable bowel syndrome. I figured I needed to eat better. Besides, my health insurance had a $10,000 deductible. I was in total avoidance mode. By January of 2019, the pain was becoming more than I could ignore. I came home one evening and complained to my wife, Leah, that I felt like shit. “Let me just lie here for a few minutes and maybe we can go for a walk or something.” I lay down on the bed and Leah snuggled beside me. “No, we need to go to the emergency room now,” she insisted. I hemmed and hawed for some time, but finally agreed to go. We arrived at the ER. I explained to the intake nurse that I’d been constipated, and had blood in my stools. Pain emanated from my anus and radiated outward toward the rest of my body. In addition, I felt extremely fatigued throughout the day. Simple tasks exhausted me. “We want to rule out cancer, so we will need a CAT scan.” She drew my blood, took my blood pressure, and measured my weight. Looking skeptical, she tilted her head and stared at me. “So you really want a CAT scan?” “Yes, this is the only way we are going to be able to rule out cancer and give me peace of mind.” A technician took me to the Imaging Department and gave me an IV drip with infused contrast dye. After the exam, the technician wheeled me back to the ER waiting room. A jittery half hour later, a nurse arrived and ushered us into a small examination room. She had a suffocating perkiness that seemed alien. “Your blood work is wonderful, but they found a mass in your rectum, and there are several lesions on your liver. I am not a doctor, so I cannot call it anything but a mass or a tumor. We are making arrangements now to talk to the surgeon about getting you an emergency colonoscopy.” “So it is cancer, then?” All she could do was nod. I glanced towards Leah. She burst into tears and covered her face with her hands. It didn’t take long to grasp the full meaning of the nurse’s report. I had stage 4 cancer that had spread to my liver. I embraced Leah and smiled as I tried to stand on legs that felt like spaghetti. My head swam with an array of emotions, but all I could think was that I never wanted to leave Leah. II Everyone has a back story, a theme in their life. My biggest challenge has always been work. Though finding employment is a cinch, I’ve had a hard time holding jobs for long. I fell into computers after I failed to secure entry into a Ph.D. program at the University of Washington History Department. I had a Masters Degree in history, but lacked the language requirements. I was unemployable. My elder sister Wendy worked at the Redmond Microsoft Campus as an administrative assistant. “Come out here and apply for anything. They’ll hire you.” “Anything” was a stretch. I hated computers, so I applied for the Facilities Technician position. After a short interview, I was hired on the spot. I worked at Microsoft Facilities for three years and learned how to use Excel on Windows 3.0. Later, I learned PC operation and advanced software usage. Microsoft’s human resource personnel thought I was just a facilities tech destined to move furniture, erect white boards, and unclog toilets. Still, I wanted more. I could solve problems on the computer and wished to be a technical support engineer. Microsoft didn’t let me transfer to the Support department, so I left my job. Fortuitously, they hired me as a contract tech support worker just four months later. I supported Windows 3.1 and Windows for Work-groups. After three months Microsoft readjusted their requirements and laid me off. They dismissed me one afternoon and escorted me unceremoniously to my vehicle with no explanation. This was an outrage! I excelled at my tasks and got my work done on time. I realized there had been some awkwardness between my manager and me, but I didn’t understand how this translated to termination. I felt stung and humiliated because I hadn’t received the same prized contracts as my friends. My misanthropy began to sprout. After concerted searching, I found my first testing and support position at a company named Express Systems. I worked there as long as I could before I felt I was no longer valued. Afterwards, I found a string of computer testing and support positions, but never stayed at any one job for long. I tried to time my exit before the ax fell. Still, it fell at Spry, it fell at Wall Data, it fell at Panagon, and it fell at Click2Learn.com. Most of these were unfriendly layoffs. At least Click2Learn.com gave me a generous severance package. Not all of my jobs were short lived. My last job endured for seven years. Seven hellish years. Leah and I had just moved back to Washington and resided on Vashon Island. We didn’t have a car, so I took the bus to the ferry. I went to the interview and was amused by the graceless yet plucky characters who would soon become my colleagues Unfortunately, my manager turned out to be a malignant narcissist. He trained me well, but left me swinging and twisting from inexplicable put downs. He mocked my occasional stutter and assigned tasks with no explanation of how to complete them. If I asked about a fine point, he mocked my inexperience. I put up with his shit for seven years and grew tumors while taking three buses to get to my job. All these layoffs and firings increased my cynicism and mistrust of authority – and my fellow humans who blindly follow leaders. The combination of growing older, not getting paid better even though I was highly skilled, and feeling increasingly isolated turned me into a misanthrope. The general state of malaise, constant barrage of bad news, and homeless tents everywhere in Seattle along I-5 wore me down. III My cancer diagnosis was like the moment when Dorothy opens her door and everything goes from black and white to color. Shock and terror. Leah and I stayed up late, smoked some cannabis, laughed and cried. We began to devise the barest inklings of plans, but had no idea what we were going to do. Leah researched and connected the feeble dots in our healthcare system to make sure we would be able to receive financial assistance from the MultiCare hospital system. During the next several days, the doctors strategized a plan for chemotherapy. After a liver biopsy, chemotherapy began in earnest. Meanwhile, Leah organized a fundraiser. We didn’t expect much, so we felt flabbergasted by our friends’ generous donations. One friend donated his deceased father’s CD containing several thousand dollars. Another friend gave $1000 and several more gave $500. There were also material gifts: a man sent prayer beads he acquired in Nepal; a female artist gave two hand painted cards. Others mailed gifts of coffee, an amethyst thunder-egg and a crystal heart. Such offerings warmed my heart. I’ve been overwhelmed by the generosity of friends and family, as well as the kindness of the hospital staff at MultiCare hospital system. I hadn’t really thought much about nurses prior to my illness. I believed they were martinets whose orders were to be followed without question. I saw instead genuine, warm people who offered blankets, asked whether I was feeling pain, and did everything in their power to increase my comfort level, safety, and well being. I noticed how strongly the staff cares about cleanliness when I observed technicians in clean-suit attire testing the microbe level on the hospital hallway railings. I realized these people work in healthcare because of a deep concern for humanity. They want to serve people because they feel it is right to alleviate suffering. On several occasions I saw nursing staff snap to action over several emergencies that arose for other patients. When the nurse prepares to hook me up to a new chemo infusion, another nurse inspects the medicine to ensure it is correct. Simple but important things like this give me confidence that the staff has everything under control. My heart has been broken by cancer. I now know how I will die. I do not know how much time I have left. Perhaps two years. I hear a lot of cheering from my friends and family. This is essential for my survival. Nonetheless, my survival is not assured. Each day arrives with new small insults: sores in my mouth, aches in my sides (liver pain), and the ever present risk of nausea, as well as neuropathy of my hands and feet. Still, my heartbreak has been my salvation. I have found deep wells of compassion, and I now entertain an inkling of hope. I know people love and support me. My job is to survive and fulfill my promises to Leah. Russ Van Rooy is a guitarist/songwriter, software tester, armchair philosopher, and cosmologist who likes to write poetry. When not contemplating what conditions were like during the first five hundred million years, Russ can be found making pancakes or playing music. Russ's work has been published by Creative Colloquy, Oddball Magazine, and Anti-heroin Chic. |
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