June 2009

 

Poetry

Grace – by Clayton Bye

Happenstance is but a way of words,
The stumbling path of fools;
Yet a trail met in the wooded night
Cares not for weathered rules.
Deaf and dumb goes the traveller
Toward the outward shape;
Glancing not beneath the rock and leaf,
A sketch of the human ape.
But in vapid searching one still learns
To scratch the inner vein.
Eyes roll and bangles burn in that light—
The answers seem insane…
For piercing the learning dark we see
New visions clear and clean,
Struggling with our ever-cluttered minds
To grasp what they might mean:
A white-winged horse and a graceful moon
Seek form in mountain fire,
While I, the fool, not too simple yet
Of ornaments do tire.

Copyright © Clayton Bye, 2008

Headpins – by Clayton Bye

Headpins
at contiguous depths
send blue lightning
across clouded voids
and are caught
by red-laced fingers
to recreate
the perfect sound
of a drop of water
splashing on skin.

Copyright © 2008 Clayton Bye

 
Clayton Bye, under the imprint Chase Enterprises, has been writing and publishing since 1994. The author of several books as well as internet short stories, poems, articles and reviews, he’s also known as an accomplished speaker, trainer and small business consultant who has delivered countless keynote addresses, seminars and workshops on a wide variety of topics.

Mr. Bye’s current projects include increasing his internet presence and writing a sequel to his novel, The Sorcerer’s Key.

A member of the Manitoba Writers’ Guild (MWG), the Manitoba Editors’ Association (MEA), the Writers of the Woods(WoW), the Lake of the Woods Art Collective (LOWAC) and the Independent Authors Guild (IAG), he lives in the City of Kenora.

 

 Short Story

THE LADY INCA TUPAC YUPANQUI – by Mark Irwin

Bobby staggered to the dinghy. The journey forward had been a continuing struggle, the weather deteriorating with his every step. He struggled to collect what little survival gear there was, happy to have the dinghy. It was small, four-by-eight, a minute buffer. People had survived with less, he told himself, not believing it. It was always possible — stay with the positive.

He thought about dragging it astern and tying it off back there. The stern sat closer to the waterline when, or if they abandoned ship. Too late. He’d never make it back. Besides, the engine room was too unstable, could blow her ass right out of the water. He decided to leave it forward. He knew he couldn’t make the trip now, anyway.

He did what he could, wondering how to get back and fetch Gomez. He was cursing himself for not dragging the amigo forward with him. It was then the Mexican showed up behind him, shouting unheard through the howling wind. He gave it up and smacked Bobby hard across the back with his good arm.

“The Lady have flame now, Bubby!” The wind made communication impossible without their shouting nose to nose. “She burn real fire.” Bobby heard his words, his mind still working to accept Gomez’s survival of the trip forward. Another wave thundered over the storm railings, drenching them. He knew it wouldn’t be long before the hold decks were awash. They were covered for the most part but not lashed or proofed. He knew a good breaking wave could easily bare them. If that happened she would fill fast. It would put out the fire and drown them both in the process. Feast or famine, Bobby thought as he spit salt water.

Only the breaking waves and the occasional freak managed to breach her, pounding down on her decks. It was the freaks that worried him. When the storm turned from adolescent to adult, so would the freaks. A real freak could bury a ship.

Movement around the deck was slow and artificial. Visibility was nil in the intense dark. Only the long, jagged bends of lightning permitted temporary vision a few feet in front of them.
They decided to make their stand below the forecastle, running life lines back and forth across the deck. The Lady’s violent and unpredictable tossing made it difficult to stay upright, let alone work.

Once rigged, Bobby hooked the two of them to both sets of lines. He crawled, dragging himself and Gomez up under the edge of the forecastle overhang. He figured the winds were well over forty knots now, wave height at least twenty to thirty feet, freaks peaking out at fifty, maybe more. On a healthy ship a gale still permitted on-board control. But once you were past a gale, you moved in survival mode. By then the wind and sea became the master of the vessel — no matter who she was.

They waited now. Talk was impossible, and, for the most part, irrelevant. Hours passed. Both men were paralysed. Nothing existed a foot in front of them. Lightning broke constantly, the ship’s rigging distorting into ghoulish, phantom-like apparitions.

An enormous jolt found the mainmast, ran down it, and sparkled with rage through the superstructure. The Fourth of July. Images you found only in animation — the Headless Horseman running amok in Fantasia. The thoughts merged as the charge ran its course, spending itself a hundred feet from the forecastle.

Gomez was huddled onto his side now, hands clutching the lines across his chest. Bobby heard him moan above the storm, call to his wife, his children, his God. Cursing his own casual meandering, Bobby longed for someone to call to, to save him. For him there was only the ship. He checked his watch as if he might be late for work. It was just after ten.

Through the cacophony he heard The Lady struggle. Her plates ground in defiance. He drifted away from it, drawn into the other sounds around him. He heard the screams from her stern as she fought fire and ocean, possessed devils in conflict for her soul. He wanted her to stop it, to speak to him, to calm his fear, and withdraw the terrible vision from his eyes. He desired her to save him once more, find strength for the impossible.

The Lady heard his plea and pulled him closer to her bosom, holding him as she’d held so many others in their fear. He weaved in and out of her company, riding with her now across seas serene and savage. He ate in her galley, laughed with her crew and stood with each man at his watch. He talked amongst them, knowing them by name. He was one with all of them. He’d heard it happened to sailors before they died.

He returned as she screamed to him. A wave crashed across her beam, broaching her, throwing her to her side. Gomez and Bobby hung vertical with the deck, safety lines alone standing between them and the end. Thrashing like epileptic puppets while the top twenty feet of the freak collapsed tons of water over them, the two twirled in tangled line and black water, lost.

It was anything but peaceful, not the way Bobby’d imagined it many times when he’d thought about drowning. Time slowed while they hovered in a pressurized vacuum. Gomez’s face passed close in front of Bobby, all mixed in with foam and debris. Bobby beheld his mate’s pain — the sheer terror and impotence. His mouth moved as if he was in distorted conversation, chewing air from water.

Bobby’d been a diver for a long time, kept his mouth closed from habit, staying calm. He’d been underwater before with no air. He knew the tricks — everything in slow motion. Make it a movie, a dream. Make it anything but reality. Reality means panic. Play the game, hold your breath until you wake up. There will be air again. He’d done it before, and lived.

He wanted to tell Gomez but couldn’t find him.

And the end did come, as the peak of the wave withdrew, disappearing into the ocean bed as quickly as it had arrived. The sentence was suspended, for a moment, perhaps. Still, Bobby took the offer. His lungs sucked air as he fought the draining of the deck. He struggled through it to Gomez, strangled in his safety line, full of water, and drowning. Bobby heard himself shrieking to God. He pounded Gomez’s chest while a slashing rain squall pummeled him from nowhere. Gomez gagged, puked watered vomit, and contorted back into life.

The sea screamed for them. Bobby knew without looking the holds had ripped open. The Lady would have cargo at last — too much, to be sure. He sought her out again, entreating her to endure, to keep them with her.

The squall slackened and the waves came on again, growing. Sheering white foam tore in under the brow of the forecastle, his safety line cutting into him hard as the seas tried to tear him from her. Through it he stayed close to her, heard her saying she was tiring. She could deliver no more, could give him only the moment, no more. Wait for the moment, she murmured.

Bobby heard the seven short and one long blast of the general emergency signal. He drifted in and out with it, not wanting to go. He prayed. She blew the signal again, seven short and one long, no mistaking it. Abandon ship.

Bobby moved between realities. The lightning skies talked to him, the wind climbed. Another freak and The Lady would roll right over. There was no doubt.

Again, seven long and one short. Again.

He crawled to Gomez, and shouted into his face, telling him The Lady was dying, they must leave. It was only a question now of how much time, ten minutes or ten seconds. Squatting there under the forecastle it didn’t matter anymore, he didn’t notice. He listened only for her now, for her voice. Again.

And again, she spoke within him, confirming the cataclysm, her Armageddon. Bobby affirmed her voice. He accepted it completely now, as his reality. Leave he would, on command, in her moment. It was what he believed.

He pulled close to Gomez, pressing his face against the Mexican. He shouted at him and hit him, looking far into his eyes, for he was far away. They staggered together to their feet. Floundering, they united in the conflict, cursing and screaming into the rage, the language garbled and universal, spitting bile and anger.

They made the raft. Bobby cut the lines and tied them to it. He was clinging with Gomez to the raft and the rail, the two of them joined, screaming allegiance, screaming it to no one. Clinging to her against all of it, the unceasing pound disappeared inside her voice.

Water was everywhere upon her. Still he waited on her word. Nothing could take them but her command. Lightning broke and showed the sea standing mountains on all sides, breaking the length of their slopes as they avalanched down. His lungs sucked for air through it.

In that avalanche, Bobby died, hallucinating drowning. And in that moment she spoke to him, his eyes opened from death, untroubled, trusting. It was then that the wind stilled, the squall ceased, the waves quelled themselves. A clear full moon sat mute in the sky above him. Everything slowed to a stop. Now, she whispered softly, you are in the eye.

Obedient, he dragged them atop the rail. He turned back to her for a moment and went over, obedient. He watched himself topple, attached and fantasy-like, into the water, under it. It was warm and quiet, all around him soft. Womblike, he transferred into the dream state, knew he must hold his breath a long time.

It was okay, he thought. He had practice. He used to be a diver.

 
After graduating university Mark travelled, lived and worked in many parts of the world. The son of a career naval officer he had the opportunity to live amongst those who loved the sea and the ships on which they sailed. When not travelling he taught at various colleges throughout Canada. His first novel, ‘Last Of The Good Guys’ was published in December/08. He presently lives with his wife and two children in a small town in Ontario where he is working simultaneously on a second (‘Eat The Dead’) and third (‘Guilt And Innocence’) novel.

http://www.markirwinonline.com/

Impresspress@bell.net

Mark Irwin on Twitter

 

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 MAY 2009

 

Poetry

CHALKBOARDS – by Shannon Yarbrough 

Why are some chalkboards green and some black?

Once, were more than the students segregated?

Separate water fountains, separate wash rooms,

Separate waiting rooms for blacks, for whites

Lines drawn with colored chalk…

I will not give up.

I will not give up.

I will not give up. 

Why did their churches blaze and crosses burn?

Did wives get mad when men used the white bed sheets?

Back of the line, back of the bus,

Backs whipped and their blood too ran red

Lines drawn with white chalk…

I will not give up.

I will not give up.

I will not give up.

Chalkboards and blackboards

So many names mean the same thing

Whites and blacks

We write our white words on the same hard surface

Chalk lines are easily erased…

I will not give up.

I will not give

I will not
 
 

 A MONKEY-SONNET

OR

AN ODE TO DIANE FOSSIE - by Shannon Yarbrough 

swinging vine and Congo tree

chattering in  zoo for nuts, popcorn

cage and syringe in laboratory

blamed for a disease, the way I was born

teach me to sign with my chimp hands

beating drums, scalped heads, expensive pelts,

wicked witch sends us flying over Dorothy land

I shine to what King Kong felt

for man’s descent, an easy reminder

riding a bike in a circus side show

pennies in a cup for the organ grinder

a human on my back that will not let go

three wishes and a monkey’s paw

ask Diane, she saw it all. 
 

Shannon Yarbrough is the author of two self-published books, The Other Side of What published with Xlibris in 2003, and Stealing Wishes published with Lulu in 2008. He is also the creator and lead reviewer of The Lulu Book Review.

~~~~~ 

Short Story

Addictions – by R.J. Keller

Steven comes into the store every evening at five-thirty–every evening–for his cigarettes. He’s tried to quit before, more times than I can remember, but he can’t do it. Sometimes I wonder what it is that makes it so difficult for him to give them up for good, what it is about those stinky sticks that’s so appealing? Or is it the being without them that’s so hard to take? The need, the longing, the–

Excuse me, ma’am? Oh, yes. Lotto tickets. How many? That’ll be six dollars.

–emptiness from lacking a Something that should be there, but isn’t? I can see him in my mind, clutching the pack with his strong, thick fingers, tap-tap-tapping it against his rough, calloused palm, pulling open the flip-top box, then finally extracting a single cylinder, almost with a sigh, just like it was–

Sorry sir? Milk? Yes, sir, it’s on sale this week. Three-thirty-five a gallon.

–a lifeline. Just like it was the only good thing he had in his life, a Something he looked forward to every day. Every day at five-thirty. Then he puts it to his full, beautiful lips, slightly parted, just lets it rest there. Because he can’t light it in the store. He takes his lighter out anyway, twirls it in his fingers as he walks out the door with a Goodbye and a See You Tomorrow and–sometimes–he even says my name…

The time, ma’am? Oh, the time is…it’s five-thirty-seven.

Five-thirty-seven?

He’s seven minutes late. Seven minutes late for the Something that makes his life bearable, that helps him cope with his mundane routine, with the ordinary-ness of his existence, through the endless–

Yes, yes, yes! You do have to show me your coupon before I ring up your order!

–crowd of brainless, boring, idiots he has to deal with, day in and day out. With lotto tickets and milk prices and goddamn coupons and–

Twenty-three cents short? No I can’t help you out with that. What do you think this is, a conveninece store or a bank???

–stupid, stupid, fucking STUPID people and I wonder if he’s okay? If he’s he shaking right now, wishing he had the Something with him? Barely able to endure the need, the longing, the emptiness, the…

Ding!

“Oh…hey there Steven. What? You’re late? I hadn’t even noticed.”

R. J. Keller: R.J. Keller is a writer from Central Maine, where she lives happily with her husband, two kids, and the family cat. She is the author of the independently published novel, Waiting for Spring. She pays her bills by working nights at a local rural convenience store and chronicles those frequently humorous exploits on her blog, Ingenious Title To Appear Here Later.

~~~~~

 
 Non-Fiction Essay

          
        Religious Training for the Uninitiated – by Robin Altman

                     from the upcoming Shrink Rap 2

     For the record, I am not a self-hating Jew.  I am a completely apathetic, bored, uninterested Jew.  On the incredibly rare times when I go to temple, I find myself thinking about what I’m going to wear to work the next day, do I have time to hit the supermarket Thursday, or why the heck would Angelina and Brad consider having another baby.  In case you haven’t noticed, these are not spiritual revelations.

     When I was younger, I thought the fact that Jewish services are in Hebrew, a language I don’t understand, might have been the problem.  Now that I’m an adult I realize that the language thing was just incidental.  I’m the real problem.  I just don’t get religion.  The last time I went to temple I sat next to Adam, and read through the English translation of the torah reading for the night.  It was all about how to deal with lepers.  “If the affected person hath more than one boil, and the lesions are weeping, have them sitteth alone in a darkish room, and giveth them some broth.  Not too hot.  Maketh the broth approximately room temperature.”  (OK.  Perhaps this is a slight exaggeration, but only slight.)

     “Why are we here?”  I whispered to Adam.

     “Shut up and pray,” he replied.

     The boys were with us, and they were going to Hebrew School and Sunday School to prepare for their bar mitzvahs, so I tried really hard to be good.  I kept reading.  “If the lesions smelleth like barfeth, take the afflicted person to a cave in the hills with a couple of sandwiches.  No ham – only smoked turkey or chicken.  Then slather the lesions in olive oil.”

     I showed Adam the translated paragraphs.  “I’m never coming to temple again,” I whispered to him.

     “Promise?”  he asked hopefully.

     “Are these things all metaphors?” I asked.  “I hope so.  Otherwise it’s very possible that God is a dermatologist.”

     Mrs. Goldstein, in the row in front of us wearing a snazzy black felt hat, turned her head and hissed, “Ssshhh!” at me.

     “See?” I whispered to Adam.  “Jews hate me.”

     “Everyone hates you,” Adam assured me.  “Not just Jews.”

     Before we married, Adam and I met with my family’s rabbi for pre-marriage counseling.  He was a great guy, and didn’t ask anything about my religious leanings or intentions.  He seemed to find Adam and me amusing, and used information he gleaned during those sessions to say really nice things about us at the marriage ceremony.  I don’t remember if he asked whether Adam and I intended to raise our children in the Jewish religion.  He probably figured – two Jews, what the hell else would they raise their kids?  Hindus?

     The funny thing is, despite my own lack of religious interest, I never considered not giving my kids a Jewish education.  I assumed we’d send them to Sunday School, and that they’d be bar mitzvahed one day.  I anointed Adam “he who is in charge of all religious training”.  He accepted the responsibility, knowing that there was no viable alternative. 

      When I was young, my mother worked at Brandeis University, and my brother and I went to Brandeis’ student run Sunday School.  I learned almost nothing about my religion, but we put on a rollicking version of Joseph and the Technicolored Dreamcoat.  Although I spent most of my time flirting with Ben Cohen in the back row of the classroom, I somehow managed to learn to read Hebrew.  As soon as I was Bat Mitzvahed, my brain promptly ejected that information.  Nowadays, when I look at a prayer book I can vaguely remember bits and pieces of past learning such as, “Doesn’t that little ‘t’ thing on top of a letter mean you add a vowel sound or something?”

      Although I’ll never be a Hebrew Scholar, and I’m really annoying to sit near in Temple, I still value the limited function that Judaism plays in my life.  I like being invited places for the Jewish holidays, and I like watching my sons learn stuff in Sunday school.  When I hear them practicing their Torah readings and prayers in their crackling adolescent voices, I get all choked up, and I can’t think of even one sarcastic thing to say.  Well, maybe one, but I definitely hold it in.  That’s how choked up I get.

     In my mind, it’s not the specific religion that makes a difference in the lives of children, but the structure of religion, and the feeling of belonging with which it comes.  No one but a Jew could possibly eat gefilte fish, a jelly-like concoction of smooshed up whitefish served as a quivering lump covered with a couple of cold carrot chunks.  When I see Kevin spread bright purple horseradish on a slab of gefilte fish, chow it down, and ask for more, I feel really proud.  It makes zero sense, but I think to myself, “Attaboy!  What a guy!”  I will probably not feel the same way when he goes to college and eats live goldfish with his fraternity brothers.

     Many of my patients go to Sunday School, CCD, or some other religious training.  They complain, whine, and torture their parents to no avail.  Their parents demand that they go, and it’s just tough luck.  I’m cool with that.  It’s the structure, and feeling of belonging thing.  As children struggle to develop a sense of self throughout childhood, it helps to have a sense of belonging to something bigger than oneself – a community, a religion, a family.  It gives a cushion of security so that they can feel good and strong about themselves.

     I’ve been to services at many different Christian denominations for friends’ weddings, confirmations, etc.  When I was younger, I used to go to CCD with my friends after softball practice so their parents would give me a ride home afterward.  The positive messages of religions seem pretty similar to me – be nice to others, don’t hurt people, don’t be judgmental, be generous, etc.  I’m delighted to have my patients soak up these lessons, if that can occur in Church, Temple, or Mosque.  Just because I sat around thinking about kissing Ben Cohen, doesn’t mean every kid is morally bankrupt.

     The times when I’ve seen religion go wrong is when it leads to excessive harshness towards my patients.  This frustrates me to no end.  Not to mention that I find it fantastically hypocritical.  Somewhere I remember beautiful biblical teachings such as, “Judge not lest ye be judged,” or “Let he who is without sin cast the first stone”.  Are these words to live by, or words to hear and ignore when something doesn’t go one’s way?

     I evaluated an adorable little girl, from a very religious family, who happened to hate all things feminine – clothes, games, and even shoes (gasp!).  Her parents were worried that she might be a budding homosexual.  I asked them what it would mean to them if their daughter turned out to be gay.  Her father replied, “I’d tell her and her partner that the bus to hell is pulling up, and they might as well hop right on.”  He then smiled and assured me that he would still love his daughter despite hell bound status.

     I felt like saying, “Yes.  That ‘bus to hell’ image is quite welcoming.  I bet your daughter will be very excited to visit you on all the major holidays.”

     At least the father was verbal.  The mother burst into tears at the thought of her daughter being gay, shook her head, and murmured something that sounded like, “I couldn’t take that.”  I had the urge to go over and comfort her with a big sloppy open mouthed kiss.

     But in all fairness, what if my kids did something that I was convinced was so awfully wrong that I could absolutely not bear to be kind and accepting towards them?  What if Alex murdered someone?  Someone other than Paris Hilton, I mean. A real person.  It would make holiday dinners really awkward.  “How’s Levenworth, son?  Could you pass the kugel?”

     I ended up telling the parents of my patient that I had no idea what her sexual orientation would be in the future, but that children thrived in an atmosphere of acceptance, and perhaps they would benefit from their own therapy to work out why the possibility of their daughter being homosexual was so heartbreaking.  I urged them not to ruin the present with fears of the future.  I recommended not harping on the issue, because they ran the risk of the child doing the exact opposite of their urgings as a form of rebellion.

     The child’s parents listened very respectfully, and did not mention the hell bus that was surely pulling into my driveway at any time.  Interestingly, this particular child was very religious herself, and wanted to become a nun or missionary.  If she does end up being gay, it’s going to be a real quandary, placing her in the appropriate after life.  Gay.  Yet a nun.  Hmmmm….

      The mother of a gay patient of mine crashed his high school’s gay and lesbian club meeting and yelled at the kids about fire and brimstone, and how they were soon going to be surrounded by it.  My patient suffers from an anxiety disorder.  Go figure. You can imagine how relaxing it is to be a gay high school kid whose parents are convinced he is bound to become Satan’s polo partner.  The only thing more wonderful would be the whole friggin’ school knowing your parents thought that.

     I’m not sure why homosexuality brings out the religious rigidity in parents, as opposed to other supposedly immoral acts.  I’ve never heard a parent admonish her kid in my office, as my patient threw blocks at his baby sister’s head, “Now, stop that, Josh.  God doesn’t approve of children who kill their sisters.”  However, take that same kid and have him act effeminate, and he’ll never have to toast another marshmallow for all eternity.

     I’ve seen families where their religion has bolstered them through difficult times.  I’ve seen churches that are so loving and generous towards my patients that it makes me want to convert.  I see three girls raised by their lovely but too lenient grandmother, who are out of control.  They are nice kids when they’re in the community, but at home they do everything to that grandmother but tie her up and set her on fire.  I asked one of them when she proposed to do that, and she pondered the question a while, but could give me no specific time frame.

     This family belongs to the Mennonite Church, and apparently some church members were concerned about the situation, because they developed a home therapy service made up of certain church members, who regularly travel to the house, support grandmother, hang out with the girls, and just do a whole lot of good.  It makes me feel all warm and fuzzy.  Instead of outright converting, I thought I’d merge a couple of religions and become a “Jennonite”.  Unfortunately, I tried spreading chow-chow on a bagel, and it was revolting.

     This year Kevin and Alex will both be Bar Mitzvahed.  It should be a good party.  If the boys choose to be active members of our Temple, cool.  If they don’t, cool.  I just want them to become good people.  If they don’t, they’re in big fat trouble.

Robin Altman: Robin Altman is a child psychiatrist, and author of “Shrink Rap – An Irreverent Take on Child Psychiatry”. She lives in PA with her 3 children, Kevin age 16, Alex age 14, and Adam age 49. She’s an indie author and proud of it! Robin dreams of Shrink Rap books 2-20 coming out one day, and potentially taking over the world. She’s also a stand up comedian, but don’t tell her she’s not funny, because she’ll cry.