March 2002 | back-issues, poetry
[b]RUNNING RED[/b]
Blood doesn’t drip,
It runs
Like a river of fugitives.
A blanket is music notes,
Warmed and feathered
Until an eight-year old cheek
Can sing its softness
My cheek
As my mother’s lips poured a story
The story of my great-grandmother
In the Cultural Revolution
The officials had raided the house
But it wasn’t enough
So they took needles of sleek bamboo
And pricked her fingers
One by one
It was a common use of torture in those days
Effective
They found the secret stash of opium and jewels
My mother’s lips had become soundless
But I could see the words roll on the blanket
I squeezed my eyes closed
Lashes embedded in skin
And tried to imagine what it
Would feel like, having my fingers pricked
One by one
All I can see are the splinters on the needles
Then flesh sagging under grief
A fear that crawls and scratches
From the heart
Peeking through the ribs
It spreads like a virus
Higher, colder
I want to swallow it before it shows its face
Skin rips.
Blood doesn’t drip
It runs
Like a river of fugitives
In a slow trickle down my arms
It makes roads, streets, and avenues
Each running to a different place
The patterns look so bright
Red lantern of marriage
Binding of a book
Wide mouth of a clown
They all laugh at me
Sleek bamboo eyes
Laugh at me
Laugh at my red fingers
Laugh at my soundless lips
Laugh at the people who will never
Touch my hands again
Except, maybe
My great-granddaughter
[b]THE PLAYGROUND AFTER RAIN[/b]
Slash across the skin. Black.
As an accidental murder of ink;
Dropped pen stabbing into sand
The playground after rain,
Where the only thing that could move
Stiff, wet air is the sound of a swing,
Its chains dipped in rust
Screams drip down and through metallic prison circles
Screams of Peace being raped
Slash, slash, slash the skin.
I swing higher to dizziness,
past rushing pictures of spray-painted green
Because I do not want to see.
This moment.
A room filled with the thick breathing of anger I can
Feel crawling up my leg 5000 miles away
I smell the impatient smoke
Circling above these men’s heads
The oil they sweat, the blood they use for sautéed fish in
Holiness
“Terrorist bombing at the World Trade Center and the Pentagon today.”
I lose my glasses into the gray mass above
Because I do not want to see.
This second.
Small brown eyes so easily punctured with a knife
Cotton-candy flesh so perfectly carved into pieces
To drench a navy-and-white uniform
Waterfall, black pigtails devoured by the thick
Eyebrows of a brain swimming in storms.
“In Japan, eight elementary students slain by mentally unbalanced man.”
I hang my head back to let my hair suffocate in the sand
Because I do not want to see.
This breath.
Last of many last ones shakes, singing in front of a fan
A paper cut infected into scabs of hate sawed at songs of
Mother and son, father and son, sister and brother?
Mouths gaped open spit, glaze the streets of disbelief,
Paint fists with red frustration, protest the death of gods.
“Nepal’s royal family was massacred by Crown Prince Dipendra, who then
committed suicide.”
I watch tears blur inky words down the newspaper.
Frozen faces turned gray at the point
where two walls and a ceiling meet.
Because I do not want to see.
Tears washed over the punctured corpse of Peace.
It lies in the corner.
Insect remains on windowsills.
Hemorrhage. Truth. Beauty. Love. Freedom. Bleed.
Human eyes see, human throats swallow silence by the spoonful.
Swinging, I swallow wind and try to think in the middle of spray-painted
Death.
Green.
[b]TO SOMEONE SITTING ON THE BLUE-GLASS ROOF[/b]
Your fingers plucked hairy screams out of the window
Running along the wooden frame of a picture
Where sun melted skin with a smile
Black was air and air was black.
Glass dripping, crying to the places that blood could not reach
Every particle of contradiction, strength,
Courage under your hair follicles are
Pillars that hold the roof up over
My well-waxed baldness.
You jumped over lines of black
Barely touching the ink with your toes
Hurdled across the pages until
A fiber snapped and ripped.
Melted dreams that made a puddle at my feet were
Gathered into a bowl and painted on the roof
The blue of a sky that birds would give their wings for
The glass of a million ethereal words
Waiting
Like the final notes of Moonlight Sonata…
[b]MOTION BY THE CLOCK[/b]
Time is planted in
Centuries of dreamy storm
Arrested by deadly wisdom
Traversing among God’s birches
Delicious.
by Yun Wei (c) 2002
([email]blueprimrose [at] hotmail [dot] com[/email])
[b]Author’s Notes:[/b] Yun Wei is currently a high school senior in Illinois. Having lived in China and Canada, she is fluent in both Chinese and French. Her love for languages has also led her to pursue Spanish in school. Writing has been her passion since words were known to her. Yun is an editor on the school newspaper as well as a member of the Speech Team, experiences that have helped her greatly in the art of writing. Her awards include the 1999 Ray Bradbury Short Story Contest and the Harper College Poetry Contest. She has also won two local Poetry Slams.
March 2002 | back-issues, fiction
a fiction short by Claire Dandridge Selleck
[email]claires [at] burningword [dot] com[/email]
There was nothing extraordinary about the way the day began. The alarm clock rang at the usual hour and, however reluctantly, I rolled at once from my bed vaguely aware that a dream had been interrupted. Scraping the hair back from my forehead, I stumbled to the kitchen and eyed the sink full of dishes still submerged in soapy water from last night’s false start. As I paused to watch the mist rising from the river that flowed some one hundred feet from my kitchen window, I was reminded why waking to dirty dishes no longer bothered me. At night I had only the four window panes to reflect on as I washed up; unless the moon is full, the darkness here is impenetrable. In the morning I had this dancing river to entertain me, the swirls of steam flowing upward like a lavishly choreographed ballet. I could linger as long as I pleased, the dishes a guilt-effacing alibi.
This morning, even the river could not pull me from the dream that tugged at my consciousness. It consisted mostly of faces and I recalled them one by one. I had names for them all, those ghosts from my past that I had loved and left behind. Simmy the Sweet, the most successfully helpless woman I knew. Simmy achieved her lifelong dream simply by being kind and loving and completely dependent on her circle of friends and family. As much as I enjoyed Simmy’s company, it was just too draining and the friendship faded as slowly and sweetly as it had begun.
Paul the Mauler was Simmy’s accomplishment. She had not only managed to reel him in from a freewheeling bachelorhood that had earned him his dubious moniker, but they had actually been happy all these twenty-odd years. Their kids, the first being the bait, had grown into pleasant, competent adults. There was nothing not to like about the family and I felt a brief sadness that I had not stayed around to be a part of their lives.
And then there was Linda. Lucky Linda, who fell into success effortlessly. I felt uncharacteristic jealousy despite my genuine affection for her. It took me a few years to realize that there is no such thing as luck. By the time I had learned to give Linda credit where credit was due, our friendship had been reduced to hugs and promises at chance encounters in Walmart.
Linda was Paul’s sister. She dated my brother Mikey for awhile, but it was no great love affair. Linda’s eventual marriage was one of the first indications that I had certain…well…powers is what most people call them, but they leave me feeling more helpless than powerful, no matter how innocuous the revelation.
I remembered standing in my hallway on a clear Spring day. I was late for an appointment and looking for my keys when the sudden thought of Linda was pleasant, but mildly annoying. I remembered exactly what I thought, too. Word for word. ‘Gosh, it’s been ages since I’ve heard from Linda. I won’t be a bit surprised to hear she’s found herself a man and is planning to marry.’ I remembered dragging my thoughts back to my keys and the attorney I had to see. I eyed the stack of mail on the hall table. As I lifted the letters from atop my missing keys, a card fell from the center of the stack. It was a wedding invitation from Linda. I tried to tell myself it was a coincidence, but it wasn’t the first time something like that had happened. And it wouldn’t be the last. Sometimes it would be a fleeting thought of an old friend who would call within hours. Once I agonized over forgetting to tell my daughter not to speed through Georgia, later to realize it was the precise time a State Trooper was writing her ticket. Cool, but spooky.
Jeff was Paul’s best friend. Jeffy-cakes. Such an unlikely nickname for me to conceive, let alone speak aloud. Our romance had lasted a year, but the friendship remained intact as various events pulled us back together. The death of Linda’s mother. The christening of each of Simmy and Paul’s children. My own brother’s wedding. Jeff and Mikey remained golfing buddies, much to my second husband’s chagrin.
Jeff was the bright spot in the center of some miserable years
and I used to wonder if I had made a mistake in letting him slip
away. He was wildly adventurous in bed and equally comfortable
in the kitchen. But, I think my intensity frightened him and we
never spoke of love. The memory made me shiver.
He eventually married a sullen and neurotic woman whose chronic illness was enough to make him stay. He?s a nice guy, my
Jeffy-cakes. What else would a nice guy do?
So, that was the circle of friends who crept into my dream. Friends well loved, but recalled fleetingly, casually, individually. Now here they all were, together again, their faces hanging in my head like contrived B-movie apparitions.
I wiped my hands on the towel, barely aware that I had finished the dishes during my reverie. I wondered why a dream where nothing bad had happened would bother me so much; why it would cause this dull ache to rise in my chest and urge me to take action of some kind. It was only another moment before I knew what was missing. Jeff was not among the faces in my dream. The chill moved slowly from my shoulders downward.
I dialed Mikey’s number and felt a surge of love when my brother’s warm southern drawl filled the earpiece.
“Mikey, it’s Fran. I need you to do something for me.” The words tumbled out and I didn’t wait for his reply. “I had a dream and I need you to check on Jeff for me.”
“I was just about to call you.” Mikey’s voice cracked slightly, his emotions only barely in check. “Jeffy’s dead, hon. I’m sorry.”
The receiver clattered to the floor as I stared out at the ceaseless river, its dance now mocking and unkind.
“I knew that.” I said, as if my brother could still hear me. “I knew.”
March 2002 | back-issues, poetry
[b]Collision of Madness and Sin[/b]
stealth mode activated
shiny, jagged memories escape; soar
scorched blasts of my reused, mental sponge
feast upon an uneven, blood red core
which seeps with mutilated slivers
of misplaced truths, wretched acts
Sh! I dare not speak, nor even think
decomposed dreams of wailing; torment
haunt my midnight spirit; twist into a merciless rage
hindsight bites with icy fangs that slowly drip
with no one to accuse, except my unspoken name
scent of an aged soul smoldering cries out
weeps of regret forge from within
my victims now will sense my collapse
a soldier no more; not even a man
alas, I’m exiled to radically rule
dominion in my death land
[b]Blinded Twilight[/b]
Red hot, smashed phrases, spread
to burn her pale, scarred wishes
of soft, blue, cotton candy yesterdays.
Twirls of slush ridden, rotten promises
now engulf her exhausted spirit; attack her need
to feed and breathe of earthbound magic.
She craves to toss his maddening,
anger kissed words aside; drink
in soothing relief; full tide of calm slumber.
Nightscape whispers quietly laugh,
tell her to dance, join the living;
escape his soured, dark vision,
that bruises everything, anything.
Bolt of sharpened, jagged reality jolts
her to cough up some nerve and stand.
Future twilights shall not blink quickly
to be blinded from her sorrow;
she knows one life, one soul
are trapped only in this mystical flash.
Without hesitation she packs,
leaving wasted words, mind blowing fits,
and lies to slowly drown in her aftermath.
[b]Agitated Angst[/b]
Cooled, brittle magma
angrily tastes defeat; cracks.
Full moon stains
of red wine relaxed; spilt.
I peer through blackened holes,
perpetual pits
that singe my sub-zero,
yellowed bones with contempt.
Yet, you live to breathe
of glorious human tales
and lick of their mortal,
delicious, fearful wails.
I aged, rotted
in your midnight hurricanes,
no sleep; hunger buried, saturated
by your seamless terror.
I shall not weep,
nor attain you for your sins.
Feel my bottomless rage; gasp
as it begins to frantically boil,
escape, then seep
into your poisonous brew
of unjust eternal afterglow.
by Christina Croft (c)2002
([email]normal [at] bellatlantic [dot] net[/email])
[b]Author’s note:[/b]
Christina Croft was born and raised in the quiet town of Wheeling, West Virginia, in 1962. Life has been a whirlwind, as Christina married, became a teacher, freelance artist, and mother of six children. After moving all around WV, she finally settled in Canonsburg, PA.
Christina has pubished both short stories and poetry. Her writing can be found in [i]The Murder Hole, Shadowkeep Zine, Dark Moon Rising,[/i] and [i]Insolent Rudder[/i]. She will have another story in an upcoming issue of [i]Steelcaves[/i]. Christina is currently working on more poetry and the completion of two novels.
March 2002 | back-issues, Bill Wunder, poetry
My neighbor’s television mumbles
all night through yellowed wallpaper.
Beer commercials, game shows,
Star Trek theme at 3 a.m.,
I play puppet to ventriloquist,
lip-sync every sales pitch;
sing their vacuous anthems.
There is safety in this stale room.
Sleep will not come.
My mind sprints,
I am a step behind.
Traffic snarls,
rises from the streets.
Sirens sing to me,
divas fill the night
until morning’s air spills
through my window,
sun warms the floor.
Outside, lions pace
among crowds of strangers
in their stone Serengeti;
they wait for me.
Lions first appeared in [i]Literary Potpourri[/i].
February 2002 | back-issues, fiction, Michael W. Giberson
To skim across
the aortic arch
on surface tension,
no more than vibration,
a referred tremor,
a memory of a dream
glimmering across the milieu,
a half-sensed insect on a wheat corn,
Its sway
Brimming the unconscious.
To crawl across
rusted rivet handholds on
the exterior of skyscrapers,
to take a breather on
the back of the left thumb
of the Statue of Liberty,
inverted, a tree
toad licking his eyes
for a half-hour, then
departing, flicking,
imbuing a metal tang in
the back of the throat,
a repudiate bouquet.
The quantum refraction of
A thousand year-old
Ripple across
The back of the eyes,
residue of the indelicate
Hand tremor of creation,
Is not a distraction
But is nevertheless present.
To rest at the precise center
of the universe, to insert
a single, infinitely slender
periscope into the stream
of existence to view
non-existence,
conveying a confluent
X
At the point of insertion, one
V
Trailing into the infinite past,
The other racing toward
the inestimable future.
February 2002 | back-issues, fiction
a flash fiction piece by Zinta Aistars
[email]zaistars [at] kzoo [dot] edu[/email]
“Don’t shut me out,” she whispers to the back of his head. “Would die a thousand deaths for you, know I would, know I would, you know it,” she whispers with her lips right up against the rough short growth of his hair. Her hands reach around to touch his face, turned away from her, his body turned away from her, his eyes turned away from her. Light fuzz, bit of rough, cool cheeks, she smoothes her palms over his face and contours her fingers to the shape she has created. From one micro-magical cell deep in her body, eighteen years ago, she created this face.
She is perched like Mama Bird on the high back of the couch and her legs are up against either side of his shoulders. He didn’t move when she perched behind him. She could talk and talk, her knees pressed into his shoulders, and he would not even flinch. Only the occasional tilt of his head would hint at some listening, random catching of a word.
Her fingers spread through his cropped hair. She loves this rough stuff, this short scrub, on no one else but him. This isn’t just for him, this touching. It’s her food, too. Her spirit leans into the touch, drinks of it, breaks its bread, and inhales. Heel of her palm stroking the length of his skull, fingertips down to the base of his neck, tracing the cords, tensing and releasing of his muscles. He wants to resist, she senses that he does, but her warm hands turn him inside out. His head drops back lightly into the cup of her hands.
“Miss me when I’m gone,” she croons, singing her heartache for him to hear, “but erase me when I’m here, what the hell is that?”
His head tips, then rests, tips, neck tensing, rests again.
“Think I don’t know, think I don’t understand, but oh baby,” she hums, “oh baby. Oh…”
She scrapes nail tips across his skull, his hair snapping to attention. Presses her thumb pads into the valley at the base of his neck until she feels the knot give. Circles at his temples, ever so, ever so soft. His shoulders droop.
“You give me hell,” she hisses, “and I’ll catch it. Kick, scream, tear, doesn’t matter, I’m not letting you go into your own hell without me.” She lays her cheek against his warm skull. The scent of his skin, of his hair, makes her weep. Just like the first time. Eighteen years, eighteen minutes, no difference. She’d rock this baby until he was seventy three. Then she’d be gone. But her wings would whisper soft as her voice now in his dreams. Never let go.
Now her fingers trace the curl of his ears, cool to the touch, like intricate shells. If only she could make him hear. Patter of the rain on the roof, splash of a foaming wave, chatter of a pesky squirrel, sigh of a lullaby. If only she could make him hear.
She lets the silence sit a moment longer, then hums, then sings, ever so, ever so softly a lullaby from those long ago years… of little bears, and dancing sheep, and sleep, sweet child’s sleep, and the promise of so many bright blue mornings to come…
There is a tremor in his shoulders. She stops. Instead, presses her lips to the curve of his skull. Closing her eyes, prays to all good and protecting spirits: spread your wings across my child, spread them wide and hold him close.
“Don’t shut me out,” she says once more, so he won’t forget, but it does not matter. She will stay by the closed door. She will wait.
He gets up slowly, letting her hands drop between her knees, stands for a moment, still, then leaves.
