Mendocino College

Fort Bragg Campus

Habit has written far more books

than talent. Philip Pullman
(He produces three pages
in longhand a day.)

Good Words 38 November 4, 2017



Philip Pullman, CBE, FRSL (born 19 October 1946)

is an English novelist. He is the author of several best-
selling books, most notably the fantasy trilogy His
Dark Materials. The first volume of his new trilogy,
The Book of Dust, was published on October 19, 2017.

Good
Words
38
 Good Words 38

Good Words is a collection of the best poems, fiction, and

non-fiction, written and performed by students attending
Creative Writing classes at Mendocino College, in Fort
Bragg, California.
This springs performance was held
November 4, 2017 at the College.
Good Words is edited by Instructor, Norma Watkins,
and Instructor, Kyle Kirkley.
Layout, graphic design, and printing made possible
through the generosity of Doug Fortier.

Published in 2017
Copyright 2017 by the individual authors

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used

or reproduced in any form or medium; written,
electronic, oral or other without permission of the
author and the publisher.
 Table of Contents

Alena Guest The Palm Reader

Diane Semans Parlez-vous Francais?
Viktoria Zaita The Meeting
Zach Zimmerman The Cat Burglar
Catherine Marshall Wedding Day 11-17-49
Orah Young Four Poems
Ron Morita The Writer
Allyson Margerison The Story Begins
Carroll Reffell Welcome Home, Brother!
Dale Perkins Two Poems
Mary Shepherd The Doggy in the Window
Frieda Feen Tiny Black Ants

Intermission

Priscilla Comen Grandma Celia

Patty Joslyn Missing Things
Steve Greenwood Totality
Sue Gibson All That Red Hair A Flyin
Alan Gering Three Poems
Roberta Belson Musings on the Divine
P.B. Townsend Akkas Story
Robyn Koski Composting
Tom Fantulin Row
Karin Uphoff Poems
Bill Baker Just one More Black Hole
Barry Bryan Less Than the Minimum
Patricia Peterson Dark and Stormy,
read by Molly Bee
Vicki Wellspring Bum Bar
Molly Bee Peace Corps, San Jose de Ocoa,
Dominican Republic,
27 September 2003
Alena Guest The Palm Reader 1

One lazy, dull evening a friend insisted we dine at 72 Market, the in

place to schmooze and be seen in LA. The matre-d said thered be a 90-
minute wait and a neon sign for the Palm Reader, across the street had
captured my attention. Though I didnt take the idea seriously, having my
fortune told seemed an amusing way to knock off the time.
It took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the mediums room shrouded
in vermilion silk. A sturdy woman sat at a round table, with an empty chair
opposite hers. She motioned for me to sit and promptly took my right hand
in hers. While she studied my palm, I noted her thick eyeliner and crimson
headscarf, but focused more on my ring finger that itched beneath its gold
band.
She said, My name is Vanga. Im the great-granddaughter of the
famous Hungarian prophetess, Baba Vanga. Have you had your palm read
before?
No.
Do you trust me to tell you about your future?
I started to object and say I was only killing time, but said, Sure.
I see you are on your own now. Though you wear a wedding ring,
youre not tied to that man.
I flashed on Richards words, It never ceases to amaze me what a
fucking idiot you are,which elicited my decision to no longer submit to
his browbeating and betrayalsI said, Were separatedgetting a
divorce,
I see youre a painter, but you havent been doing your art. LA is not
supporting you.
I wondered how she could possibly know Im an artist.
Soon you will journey to someplace different. I can tell you have
longed for such a place. You dont fit in here. I am reminded of whats her
name, the actressKim Novak, who left Hollywood to go to Big Sur.
Like her, in this new location you will live the life that fits who you are
but where youre going is farther north.
While she spoke, I felt a rush, like carbonation fizzing through me, but
then thought how could she know Im on the brink of leaving LA? Id
even been considering a place Id visited once, called Mendocino, 150
miles north of San Francisco.
Alena Guest The Palm Reader 2

To save our marriage, Richard and I had driven up the Pacific coastline,
in his Delorean, with no destination in mind. We stopped at a B&B. I
remembered the next morning having breakfast on the deck and the sun
bursting through the fog, producing a double rainbow. It lifted my spirits.
The whole time we spent on the Coast, Richard was cordial, even kind to
me When we got home my baby sister confessed, Richard seduced
me.
While I was packing my car to leave, Richard came up behind until he
loomed over me like Count Dracula. With a fiendish glare he said, Alena,
if you go now youll die and theyll never find the body.
Returning from that grim reverie I asked, Vanga, Whats in store for
me when I leave?
Youre about to enter the most meaningful phase of your life. Trust
me. It wont happen right away, but in time there will be a man wholl
catch you when you stumble. He will love you just as you are, especially
the parts you always keep hidden. And using the clear mirror of his eyes,
so will you.
Overjoyed, I removed the diamond and emerald wedding ring from my
finger and placed it in her palm. And with a Cheshire grin, I strode across
the street to join my friend for dinner.

Diane Semans Parlez-vous Francais?

Growing up, I had a reputation as a good girl who rarely if ever got in
trouble. I liked being favored by the nuns in Catholic school, but I really
wanted to get into mischief once in a while.
Ma Mere, an elderly nun, gave me the opportunity in French class one
day in 1949. She should have been retired to tend the lush gardens
surrounding the Country Day School of the Sacred Heart in Bethesda,
Maryland. Instead, she was our seventh grade French teacher. She was five
feet two inches in her black habit, matching hose and shoes. A stiff white
wimple surrounded her wizened face, and a black veil covered her sparse
grey hair. Wooden rosary beads hung loosly from her brown belt and
Diane Semans Parlez-vous Francais? 3

dangled from her ample waist. She was French and spoke in a high shrill
voice.
Bonjour mes enfants. Comment allez vous aujour dhui?
Bonjour, Ma Mere. Nous allons bien, merci.
Today we recite our numbers from one to ten, but first we pray. Au
nom du Pere et du Fils et du Saint Esprit. Ainsi-soit-il.
After the blessing, we say our numbers, Un, deux, trois, quatre, cinq,
six, sept, huit, neuf, dix.
Ma Mere writes on the black board and we take notes. We are bored.
We yawn. She conjugates the verb aimer. I get out the squirt gun I have
brought to class. When Ma Mere finishes one board, she moves on to
another one. I begin to erase her writing on the first board with my squirt
gun, which I fire from a distance of a few feet. The girls giggle as water
and chalk run down the blackboard.
Ma Mere turns her head to see what is so funny and discovers her verb
lesson vanishing in wet rivulets.
Mon Dieu! Quel est? Enfants, enfants, quavez-vous fait? What have
you done? I will go report this to Mother Tobin at once.
Ma Mere hurries down the hall, heading for the principals office.
Realizing the trouble I am in, and not wanting to get the whole class
involved, I chase after her. Ma Meres short, chubby legs slow her down
and I catch up quickly.
Oh Ma Mere, I am sorry that happened. Whoever erased your verbs
should be punished. Please dont get the whole class in trouble. I will find
out who did this and see that she gets an extra hour in study hall. Please
come back and finish the class.
Ma Mere looks at my innocent, pleading face, and pauses. She pats my
shoulder and says, For you Diane, I will come back. You should not have
to pay for what someone else did. You are class president. You are a good
girl.

Viktoria Zaita The Meeting

The heavy metal security door of the prisons medical building, inside the
double-wired electric fence, opened. The new pharmacist, fresh and blond,
entered her new work place for the first time. Her white lab coat was
unbuttoned, showing a tailored green dress under it, and she was still
wearing the big-rimmed straw hat, which protected her from the strong
Viktoria Zaita The Meeting 4

desert sun while walking through the prison yard. She was heading toward
the end of the corridor, to the prison pharmacy.
Along the corridor handcuffed men were lining up along one side of the
corridor, next to the wall. They wore orange overalls and heavy chains
around their ankles. All of them were looking down with some kind of
embarrassment; humiliation and hatred made all their faces look alike.
The armed guards in green overalls and the nurses in their colorful
scrubs were standing around the nursing station. They were chatting and
joking, while munching on donuts with a loud appetite. They seemed
totally unaffected by the hostile, depressed energy field of the prisoners
just a few feet away, as if they were virtual holograms. The inmates and
the employees were in the same space, but in two separate realities. They
were interacting, but they never met.
The pharmacist was new here and looked around with childlike interest
at this strange environment; it was like finding herself in a weird dream.
She was curious and caught the eyes of one of the inmates. He was young,
perhaps in his late twenties, with a well-shaped shaved head, and was of
African origin. She looked into his hostile face and dark dull eyes and
involuntarily gave him a big, warm, happy smile echoing the hot desert
sun outside. The light danced on her pink glossy lipstick, as her strong
cheekbones moved up and her eyes twinkled with a green spark.
Their eyes met. There was a pause. In that millisecond time froze
between them before she saw the metamorphosis of the man in front of
her eyes.
The dark veil of shamehardened like a heavy crust and held
transfixed for years by this institutionwas melted by the warmth of her
blond smile, and his dark past evaporated into the air.
He did not resist when this unexpected joy erupted in him and flooded
his bones, his organs, his blood vessels, his skin, and even the air around
him, and manifested in an overflowing, childlike grin showing off
exquisite pearl white teeth. Beams of light shone from his laughing eyes
straight into the green eyes of the young woman with that funny beach hat
that was so much out of place here.
In this moment, for both of them life was perfect.
Zach Zimmerman The Cat Burglar 5

They all sat playing poker, gambling and drinking in the high rollers room.
The buy-in was a few thousand dollars. There was catnip all over the table,
Mr. Whiskers liked to party. He was quite the fat-cat, owning multiple
monopolies in the cannery business. His red bow tie complemented his
fluffy grey fur.
So how has your business been treating you my friend He said
looking at Fido.
Pretty good, I just made a cool million on stocks. Fido said laughing.
He tilted his leather cowboy hat to Viceroy Snowball.
How has it been pal, you haven't made one of these games in a
while. Fido said.
The jobs been long, and very stressful. Snowball said. Trash Bandit
began telling a story about how he and his gang robbed someone for their
groceries but Tommy interjected, slamming his paw on the table.
I got a story for you all, about my last heist. I took the necklace
Cleopatra's cat once wore. It was beautiful and just sitting around...behind
glass and lasers, but still just sitting around; in a museum of course. He
leaned in closer to them.
It was a purr-fect job, in and out. That was what I thought. We began
by scaling the building and dropping in from the roof, the usual. I was
expecting lasers so I brought a spray can, but what came next was new.
He coughed on a hairball and spit it on the ground.
When I grabbed the collar the alarms went off, and that was when a
giant He stopped
A giant what!? Mr. Whiskers yelled.
In or out, Tommy said, gesturing toward the poker pot with paw.
Fold, now go on, I want to hear this. Mr. Whiskers said.
Ok, so it was a raptor with cybernetic augmentation.
Oh, I have a robotic shark, but same idea right? asked Viceroy
Snowball.
Exactly! The raptor was just going to get me when my partner pulled
me up, but we weren't safe for long. Tommy said, pointing at the chips
again.
Fold now. Come on dont stall! said Snowball.
So that was when the attack chopper came out we were running
dodging the tracer rounds, then I threw my smoke and we were gone and
Zach Zimmerman The Cat Burglar 6

outta the frying pan. What happened next I never could have guessed. In
or out. He looked at Fido.
Fold. Now finish. Yall got me on the edge of my seat. said Fido.
Tommy looked at Trash Bandit.
Fine, all fold, Trash Bandit said.
We were in the clear, so I thought. I heard a click and turned around
to see my partner Brutus holding a revolver in his paw. What a bad dog, I
trusted him. Honor among thieves. Am I right? But I knew something was
fishy; I could smell it. Thats why I gave him a blank. BANG! Nothing. In
the confusion I jumped of the roof and pulled my parachute. My first time
base diving but what can I say, a cat always lands on their feet. Tommy
laughed and pulled the chips in toward him, winning the game.

Catherine Marshall Wedding Day 11-17-49

The bride and groom pose by a late model Chevy. When the November
wind tangles her wedding veil, she gathers it with her free hand and tucks
it behind her car coat, buttoned like a cape around the bulky dress and
train. Pressed next to her, the groom gazes into her eyes and grins. Tall and
slim, his dark hair swept into a pompadour, he kisses her hard and long.
Breaking free and laughing, she glances at the friend with the home movie
camera. With her chubby cheeks and upturned nose, she looks younger
than her eighteen years.
A crowd of friends and relatives walks the couple to the front door of a
single story house. The groom makes sure the cameras watching, then
scoops the bride into his arms. Her mother holds the screen door and takes
her bouquet as his knees buckle at the threshold.
The bride and groom stand in front of the Chevy, flanked by both sets
of parents. He goes for another smooch and his father pulls him off. They
all laugh.
Catherine Marshall Wedding Day 11-17-49 7

Cigar in hand, the father of the bride strolls across the front lawn,
never losing eye contact with the camera.
Everyone gathers around another Chevy, an older model, the one the
newlyweds will drive to their honeymoon in Joplin, Missouri. The
grooms eleven-year old sister, still in her bridesmaids dress and bundled
in a winter coat, darts among their friends as they decorate the car. His
grandmother squeezes through the crowd. Shes a farmers wife wearing
her best, a thin print dress and white hat, better suited for Easter than a
winter wedding. The young people paint Just Hitched on the hood and
drape streamers from the antenna. A string of old shoes and cans is
attached to the bumper.
For a moment, the camera films my mother alone, waiting in the
passenger seat. Shes wearing a black hat with netting and a dark suit
decorated with a large corsage. She continues to smile, but then her eyes
become serious and the smile wavers. The wind blows the streamer across
the window and she looks around for her friends. Several young women
gather at the passenger side with their backs to the camera. Her mother
joins them and says something to the bride.
There are more scenes of car decorating and well-wishing. Then the
handsome groom, my father, drives them both away, old shoes and cans
kicking up dust on the dirt road of the first day of their life together.
Orah Young Four Poems 8

Ours

A tattered garment
Rent and torn
Frayed and gaunt
Now lost

Once beloved
Once cherished
How carelessly we wore it
Sometimes it looked good on us
More often not

When it strained at the seams

We slashed at it with knives
Drawing blood from the flesh beneath
Then we lovingly washed away the stains
Only to tear it again on briar or rusty nail
But we wore it

It was the only one we had

State of Widowhood
I am in an alien state
Where the natives are ghosts
Who speak in words of silence
And feed on memory

This is a country of rain and wind

And high-pitched keening
I enter with no passport, no identity, no name
I carry no umbrella

Like the others I am gray

And I wear weeds of black
Orah Young Four Poems 9

Pantry

Perched in my pantry
Redolent of sun summer days
Bright red, hot orange, dark purple
Fruit, collected barefooted
Bee buzzed, nectared, fuzzed
Over-ripe, weeping sugar

Jam, profoundly perfumed

Alongside piquant foreigners, Indian dhal
Greek olives, Spanish saffron
Portuguese anchovies

Stuff for mouths, intersection of many tongues

Lansing Street

Words in motion
Gray sky and sea
Tunes swing to ocean tides
Ravens plummet toward beach bound waves
Beaks down, wings pinned
Pause, tumble, turn
Flip, dance
Ebon against white spray

In all dimensions
Reach, roll, rise on smooth current - cavort
Up, arc and down--black rags
Flash away
Then towards me
A silent clarinet wails
Ron Morita The Writer 10

It came to him near midnight, while his roommates snores rose like the
growling of a beast. The wall above his desk shone in the harsh light of the
black lamp that reminded him of his fathers eyes, disdainful and
condescending. Al crumpled the English paper written to pander to the
hobbyhorse of a stiff-backed professor and threw it in the round file. After
glancing at the room students called a torpedo tubethat, when both beds
were lifted out for sleeping, barely allowed space for a man to squeeze
past to relieve himselfhe took a stack of blue-lined paper from his
drawer and began to write.
He wanted to show the world as it was: vain and fighting over trifles,
when all men should be brothers. While the Blind Ones partied and
screwed, so that on Saturday nights Al fled the noise to sit on the grass and
watch the stars, the poor suffered unspeakable horrors.
Impoverished, inarticulate and shunned by fellow students, the
hero
Outside, a car whispered past. Al remembered the numbing fear of his
first party in America and the woman in a shapeless brown dress standing
in the doorway. Short and fat, she had seemed on the verge of leaving
when he approached her.
His words had spilled out. Noisy in there.
Yeah.
Americans. Half of them will be deaf by the time theyre fifty.
She led the way outside. You sound like youre from Eastern
Europe.
Abu Dhabi. Every time I go back, I dont recognize the place.
Theyre making it the next New York City. My name is Al, which is short
for Ala. It means supremacy in Arabic.
Im Rachael, from an ethnic neighborhood on Chicagos North
Shore.
I cant relate to people here. Its like Im among green-skinned aliens,
all talking the same gibberish.
I read a lot, so I dont have time to master the things all girls should
know. My friends learned how to put on mascara, but I always make a
mess of it.
Ron Morita The Writer 11

Its music this and TV that. Everyone can tell me the names of the
local sports stars, but not one American I talked to knew about the Trail of
Tears.
Why dont you tell me so that one American will?
Al couldnt stop. The villagers in the Judean Hills were small farmers
who had scratched out a living on rocky soil for countless generations.
When the Israeli Army came in 1948, they rounded up the villagers, looted
their possessions, and expelled them at gunpoint. Sometimes they raped
the women or shot people to frighten them into not returning. This they
did hundreds of times in order to take possession of the land.
I thought the Palestinians left voluntarily.
Every man, woman and child in Abu Dhabi despises America because
it pays for Israeli oppression of the Palestinians. We speak of it in the
streets, in the schools, and in our prayers. Americans think the men who
blew up the World Trade Center were sent by the Devil. This may sound
extreme because Jesus, who is one of our prophets, taught us to turn the
other cheek, but to those of my countrymen who care about what goes on
outside their wealthy sanctuary they are heroes.
She stepped back. I better go.
Wait. Want to get a milkshake?
Its getting late.
His heart hammering, Al wrote until dawn shone on the stained white
curtain beside his desk. There was a thump behind him.
His roommates voice was slurred. Hey, man, did you get laid last
night?
Allyson Marerison The Story Begins 12

He never listened to me. If he only he'd listened, maybe things would be

different. Maybe I wouldn't be lying in bed, my face buried into a wet
pillow, my sheets tucked around me tightly in hopes I could numb
everything I was feeling. I keep going back over each day since I met him,
trying to decide if I would've just done something differently or said
something more meaningful, if I would've just been a better friend, would
he still be here?
I sit up and throw my head against my backboard as hard as possible,
but, no, I still can't shake it. A knock at the door stirs nothing inside of me.
The knock resounds again. I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. I
think the knock gets the idea. It finds its voice, "I made dinner, honey. If
you want some it'll be right outside your door." And then it walks away.
Thanks, Mom. But your dinner is not going to be eaten tonight.
I look outside my window and I can see the sun slowly sinking. It
takes with it the only light I was holding on to. I'm crying. Again. Is this
how it's going to be for the rest of my life? Erupting majestically like Old
Faithful? I don't think anyone is going to pay to watch me.
I look out my window again and it's dark. He was always called by
the night. Is that why he went to all of those parties, is that why he was out
that night? Was he just trying to fulfill is inner calling? I turn over and
scream into my pillow. He certainly didnt have to live that way. And I
realize I hate him for it, but you can't really hate someone who's dead.
I hear commotion downstairs, slipping its way through the air vents.
My mom and dad are fighting. About me. He thinks it's not healthy for me
to act this way. He thinks they should make me interact with the family,
my other friends. That it would help me recover. My mom thinks that they
should give me space. Let me work through it on my own, that I'll come to
them when I'm ready.
They're both wrong. But who's ever right?
It makes me mad. At this point, anger is all I have, so I'm not letting
go. I make it across the room and open the door. There's dinner. Right
outside where Mom had left it. I pick up the plate and step inside again.
My hand reaches for the door handle, but is stopped dead in its tracks
when mom screams out from somewhere down below, "Gryphon is her
best friend! You dont know how it feels to lose...." I dont catch the end of
Allyson Marerison The Story Begins 13

her sentence over the sound of my plate shattering on my floor. I shut the
door and lock it.
Gryphon was my best friend, Mom.
My gaze finds my phone lying on the end table, as I walk back to
my bed. I can still hear them fighting downstairs, and I make my decision.
One more time. One more time I will reject my surroundings and review
the life that started when I met him. I grab my phone and fumble with the
headphones until they are firmly situated in my ears. I pull up the playlist
that he made. His top favorites, and all of the ones he thought summed us
up. I fall back on my bed and I press play. My thoughts are racing, what
could I have done to prevented this? Where did I succeed, but most
importantly where did I fail? The song kicks in and I close my eyes. The
story begins. The story of our lives.

Carol Reffell Welcome Home, Brother

In line at the Safeway, two men, no longer young, wear their caps as
badges of honor. Their eyes meet, steely yet interested, as the cashier rings
up broccoli, milk, salt. They reach around me, clasp hands, and say in
unison, Welcome home brother.
The youngish cashier tries not to look.bagels, corn, tomatoes.but
what are these old men talking about? Where have they been? Could they
really be brothers?
Fifty years after Vietnam, they give each other the salutation they did
not get on their initial returnreceiving instead curses, spitting, and
epithets such as baby killer.
They exchange brief backgrounds, not names, but dates and places.
I arrived the night of the Tet Offensive in 1968. You?
1969.
Where?
Carol Reffell Welcome Home, Brother 14

Phan Rang, Phan Thiet, Dalat, Cam Ranh Bay.

The cashier finishes up. Paper or plastic?
People see the decals on the truck, or read his Vietnam Veteran cap,
and say routinely, Thank you for your service. He forgives, I do not.
Where were they when young men returned broken in spirit from the hell
that is war?
In the fall of 1967, I met an Englishman who got drafted into the
American Army. We wrote a few letters, and when he found out he was
posted to Vietnam, promised to write more. Surprisingly, we did. He was
funny, joyful, and often silly.
He came back moody, unflinchingly against the war and the army
brass. We knew he was lucky, none of what came to be known as PTSD,
but still. I woke one night to his screams of Incoming, incoming.
A city girl, unused to war, I looked at the door in a panic wondering
what was coming in.
We drove back from the beach on his birthday, the Fourth of July.
Lightning struck suddenly, he ducked, and we nearly crashed.
He didnt speak of the war and, because he was English, nobody
guessed hed been there. He was now reflective and often grim. We had
two children, but the war remained an unspoken ache between us.
At the Washington Cathedral in 1982, a memorial service was held for
those who had died in the conflict. We went. Our children gazed in
amazement at the almost two thousand people sitting, standing against a
wall, and lined up outside watching the spectacle on giant screens.
The reading of so many names from the pulpit took some fifty hours,
around the clock, night and day. Our seven-year-old son was solemn in his
navy blazer and a striped tie. Our three-year-old daughter looked around at
grownups by the scores, crying, including her mother, but not her father.
He sat rigidly in the pew, teeth clenched, hands shaking slightly.When our
daughter grew weary, even of the rose window, radiating colored light like
the petals of its namesake flower, we left.
Then came the building of the Wall. Black granite slabs, where the
names of the deceased reflected the faces of onlookers, joining the living
and the dead. For me it was a wailing wall; Ive never been able to visit
without tears.
Carol Reffell Welcome Home, Brother 15

The names were solemn, but the tributes left behind made the losses
personal: letters, old photographs, Teddy bears, and toy trucks. Someone,
never identified, left a Harley Davidson motorcycle with the license plate
that read, HERO.
It has been almost fifty years and still I cry as I write this.
Welcome home, my love, to you and to your brothers.

Dale Perkins Two Poems

Caught

In her heart charged

breath
the photographer caught
white on white
smooth skin to pull me in

I walk deep
I walk deep
and yet surrounded still
Trees of white
Surrounded by their breath
the pulling upwards
Not shamed by the gray skies
Not sorrowed in their cold feet

& me
The small tree growing
in their shadows
Stranger to life
Each step a striving
yet green with lifes
potential
Dale Perkins Two Poems 16

The Basket

It holds me
Earth toned surprise
& yet close look
Shine and touch
The phone wires appear
Connecting ancient ones
To our now

Pattern swirl
It pulls my heart
Spiral down
Within. Tight

Yet peek of gloss

The shine of immediacy
Would be that life
A pattern neat
Connections meshed
Take me to within
But opened,
Not closed
Not self contained, enough
A sigh
Mary Shepherd The Doggy In The Window 17

I always wanted my own dog. Wed had several dogs, but they were never
truly mine. Mickey, a nasty little mutt who bit people, disappeared one day
when I was five or six. There was Muggs whom my two older brothers
brought home from the strawberry fields of Fresno at the age of two
weeks. Mom had a fit, but ended up taking care of him. My sister Carolyn
brought home Sandy from Pets Unlimited three weeks after Muggs was hit
by the milk truck. Sandy was a tneurotic dog who trembled every time any
of us bent to pet him. He lasted a few weeks and was returned to Pets
Unlimited.
I was almost fifteen and pining for a dog. Walking along Ocean
Avenue, my best friend Elaine and I paused before a pet shop. In the
window was my dream puppy: a beautiful little Beagle. We asked the
clerk how much.
Five bucks.
I didnt have five dollars, but my birthday was that weekend. Maybe
Id get money. I began praying. Saturday arrived. Dad wished me a happy
birthday and drew five dollars from his wallet. I had my dog. I thanked
him profusely. He cautioned. Dont spend it all in one place.
I vaulted down the stairs, raced out the front door, yelling. Im
meeting Elaine.
We trotted to the pet shop hoping the puppy was still there. It was. We
walked in and discovered the Beagle was a female. In the 1950s, no one
wanted a female pettoo much trouble finding homes for the puppies. We
didnt use vets much.
We left. So close, but it was not to be. Elaine wasnt defeated. Lets
see if the pet shop in West Portal has male puppies for sale. We returned
to her house and called.
Yes, we have several males. Most of them cost seven dollars, but we
have one for five if you can get here before closing.
My spirits soared. Elaine and I ran to the streetcar stop and waited
impatiently for the K car. On West Portal, the pet shop was still open. The
clerk pulled out a scrawny black puppy with four white paws. Definitely a
male. I handed over my five dollars and we returned to Ocean Avenue.
Using the two dollars I received from my grandparents, I bought a
sack of kibble, a collar, and a leash for my new puppy, now named Boots.
Mary Shepherd The Doggy In The Window 18

Elaine left and I screwed up the courage to face my parents with my

treasure.
Mom was in the kitchen fixing dinner. Dad was in his usual chair
playing solitaire. I walked in the front door. Look what I have.
That was as far as I got before the world crashed down. Dad was
furious. Mom took one look and said, You are not bringing that dog into
my house, young lady. Whatever possessed you to do this without asking
us? Get him outnow.
I cant take him back. The pet shop says I cant return him.
The shouting and scolding went on. Finally, Mom said, Well, hell
have to sleep in the garage. You can use old towels for his bed.
I made a sleeping pad for him. I used the battered bowls left from
previous pets for water and food. I tied him to the workbench that first
night to keep him from wandering all over the garage.
My birthday dinner was miserable. The only conversation was over
how stupid Id been to waste money on a useless mutt. I hardly tasted my
cake and ice cream, but that was okay. Waiting in the garage was my very
own dog.

Frieda Feen Tiny Black Ants

The rains hadnt ended. He knows because of the multitude of tiny black
ants surrounding the infinitesimal flake dislodged from the sarcoma on his
face by the blade he used that morning. Before every winter storm the ants
are relentless, and their pervasive presence has continued into June. He is
angered and shamed by the vermins blatant disrespect for the skin off his
cheek. So much pain for an incidental wound.
A few short months ago, as they walked into this restaurant, she
blushed when heads turned; women and men, young and old, desiring her
beautiful son. Now, the waiter asks him if he and his wife would like to
see the wine list. Her heart breaks completely open. They are assumed to
be another old couple unfashionably late to the 4:30 two-for-the-price-of-
Frieda Feen Tiny Black Ants 19

one dinner special. No, thank you, her son answers. Tears well up
between them. His sky blue eyes go gray, his shiny black ringlets go dingy
and thin. He seldom shaves anymoreit hurts and he tires easilybut the
memory of the waiter . He thinks, maybe shaving the grizzled growth
will restore my fleeting youth.
He returned home to care for his aging mother. She ignores his closed-
door-TV-screenings of beautiful buffed men making love. She knows, but
refuses to admit, that he has come home to die. She is tender with him, her
little boy who stole her frilly pink velvet collar and wore it beneath his
stiff white shirt and navy bowtie, she wants him back. Shed like the
chance to protect him from her husbands belt.
His lover comes toward the end and they care for him together. Then,
her sons lover takes care of her. She dies four months later. They never
acknowledge who he was to her son, or who he is to her except in
every act of kindness.
When the rains are finally over, the ants disappear and are forgotten.

Priscilla Comen Grandma Celia

A black man runs down Main Street. Gun shots blast one after another. A
woman screams. Sixteen shots are fired. Sixteen. More screams. A red
flower blooms on the mans white shirt. Sirens break the darkness. The
President pardons a sheriff who encourages his deputies to stop drivers
who look suspicious: Latinos. My mother, Grandma Ruth, says No
when her grand-daughter asks to invite a black man to Sunday dinner.
Nanny, I met him at school in my college chemistry class. Hes nice.
Racism is defined in Websters Collegiate Dictionary as A theory that
race determines traits and capabilities.
My mothers mother, Celia, was born and grew up in Kiev, in what
was then Russia. She was eight when she felt the vibrations from the
hooves of horses as Cossacks trampled and burned her familys house,
Priscilla Comen Grandma Celia 20

barn, and fields. She heard the screams of her mother and sisters when
they were raped and killed. Celia hid in the hay loft and struggled not to
sneeze.
When I met Grandma Celia on one of her infrequent trips to California
from New York, she was a skinny woman, about four feet tall, eighty years
old, with stringy white hair pinned in a bun at the back of her neck, wire
eye glasses that slipped down her nose, and a sweet smile. She had
emigrated to the U.S. in the early 1900s, married Philip Michael (whom
Im named after), borne three daughters and two sons. Shed look at her
daughter Ruth who lived in California and say, My shena medilach
(pretty girl). But she loved her son-in-law, my father, Joe, even more
because he was a gonza mench. (whole person). Want I should cook
you a good borsht for dinner? shed ask. Then shed get out all the pots
and pans. She never mentioned the slaughter she had seen as a child in
Russia. It had persuaded her to come to America where there was no
racism.
When racism raised its ugly head in Charlottesville, the President, after
hesitating, and making vague comments, finally said, Racism is evil. He
said, Those who cause violence in its name are criminals and thugs and
include the KKK, neo-Nazis, white supremacists, and other hate groups.
They are repugnant to everything we hold dear as Americans.
The New York Times had an article about books that may help children
understand troubling news. Among the titles were The Youngest
Marcher, The Fight Against Anti-Semitism, Nazis in The Whispering
Town, and a picture book that is a graphic novel, We Will Not Be Silent.
Perhaps this is a way to prevent racism in the next generation.
Grandma Celia was angry to see racism in her beloved America. But
she was a quiet, little, gray haired woman, and didnt say a word, content
to be here with her family.
Patty Joslyn Missing Things 21

My mother is missing things. First it was simple; she burnt toast, forgot
times, lost the car keys. Then she lost her uterus. I remember visiting her
in the hospital. She was tangled in a bedsheet shouting, Sons of
bastards. Id never heard her swear other than one, Damn It! when she
machine-stitched through a fingernail while sewing my dance class
costume.
A few years later, her left breast went missing; shortly after it, the right
one. In the hospital the lone breast was marked with a fat black marker.
THIS ONE, it said. I thought they all were nuts. When she woke she
looked tinier than she already is (Neither I nor any of my sisters got her
height or girth; ours was passed on to us by others).
Regardless, along with the second breast, which we still called a boob,
they took the lymph glands from her armpit and said no more blood
pressure gauge for you, sweet darling (I hoped theyd said sweet
darling). When she woke, I was there. A very short, very loud nurse came
into the room and called her by our last name, which wasnt a grand
surprise as it occasionally still happens to me; but with the combination of
this wrong name and the seemingly burning desire she had to take my
mothers blood pressure on that newly raw right side, I had to say
something.
My mother grinned at me; she looked not only small but also quite
content (Its amazing the drugs they use). She told them shed always
loved Johnny Cash, and she now understood why we might have used the
dope, which both surprised and didnt surprise me, as I would have been
named June but was born too late, in July, and Id never heard her mention
any kind of dope.
Anyway, again ... after some of her things were no longer, she still had
other things: she had mahjong and knitting (until the *&^% Lupus took
her nerve endings). She had Murder, She Wrote and a pile of trashy novels
my father, who never gave a hoot about reading anything but the
phonebook and weather reports, took into the bedroom to read in his chair
(a recliner that still puts him lickety-split to sleep), the same recliner that
now helps him breathe (he too has lost things).
Now, they tell me its her liver and stomach (which makes me want
to puke), but she says to me, Dont worry, honey, theyll give me
something. I ask her big, serious questions and she says, Did I tell you
Im knitting again? Im making hats for the kids who dont have much.
So, now how do I meet you, or you, who also might be defined by a
Patty Joslyn Missing Things 22

similar long and sad story? Its old and boring but its my story, its my
mom (and dad) Im talking about, the very ones who love meno matter
what. Who loves you like this?

Steve Greenwood Totality

In late August of this year I put in three hard days of driving so my partner
Orah and I could watch an event that lasted a minute. It was worth it.
The event was a total eclipse of the sun, viewable across a swath of
North America stretching from the Carolinas to the Oregon coast. I was at
a site on National Forest land in East central Oregon, scouted a year before
by an astronomer friend of my sisters. Getting there from Ashland, where
we parked in my stepsisters driveway and saw Henry IV Parts One and
Two on successive nights, was the first days drive. Ashland was full of
smoke from local fires, so smoky that a performance on the outdoor stage
was cancelled. The locals told us not to go, that there were horrible traffic
jams and gas rationing. We almost took their advice, but decided this was
a once in a lifetime chance and went.
Happily, we encountered only moderate traffic and were able to fill up
without trouble. The viewing site was at over 4,000 feet of altitude and our
old camper flirted with boiling over on one long grade. The last part
crawled over more than ten miles of poorly-marked but thankfully paved
one-lane Forest Service roads. It was great to see my sisters pop-up trailer
and my brother-in-law busily setting up camera equipment.
The morning of the eclipse I was ready to make a big breakfast, but
there were no takers. Everyone fiddled with telescopes, binoculars,
cameras, and filters. In the end, we had coffee and cereal.
Id made a conscious decision not to bring a camera along. The last
thing I wanted was to be distracted by equipment. I came for the
experience. All we brought were cheap paper viewing glasses, vital for
looking directly at the sun during the partial phase of the eclipse.
Forty-five minutes before totality, my brother-in-law called out, First
nibble! Looking through our glasses, we were able to see a tiny crescent
shaped bite out of the sun. As it grew, my nephew said, It looks like the
Apple logo!
Steve Greenwood Totality 23

The moon slowly obscured more and more of the suns disk, and the
meadow around us changed. It got cooler and the light shifted to the warm
twilight colors of vacation brochures. Gradually, it got darker and darker.
Finally, at twenty past ten in the morning, the moment of totality came.
As it approached, we saw whats called the diamond ring. The diamond
ring occurs just before the moon completely covers the sun and the last
tiny bit of sun peeks out from one of the canyons of the mountains of the
moon, causing a triangular or diamond-shaped flare of light topping the
ring of the suns corona.
Then, totality. The sun is completely obscured. It gets dark as night
and the stars come out. Birds go silent. No glasses are needed nowyou
can look directly at the corona of the sun, long wispy trails of light
radiating out in all directions. It is awesome in the truest sense of the
word. I know we live in a time when the latest dish soap is awesome, but
this truly is awe- inspiring. No matter how modern you think you are, no
matter how well you understand the science of what you are seeing, in
some part of your brain you are as struck as the first humans were by the
sight.
Totality is what viewing an eclipse is all about, the reason to do the
travel and go to the trouble. An astronomer once said, Saying that youve
seen an eclipse when youve only seen a partial is like saying youve seen
an opera when youve listened to a performance from the parking lot.
We did hit the rumored traffic heading back to California. Through the
long drive, I still had a glow from the experience and didnt regret a
moment.
The next total eclipse to hit North America will occur on April Eighth,
2024. The path of totality first hits Mexico in Mazatln, followed by
Durango. In the Unites States, it crosses through Indianapolis, Indiana, and
ends in Caribou, Maine.
See you there. The weather is clear and warm in Durango at that time
of year.
Sue Gibson All That Red Hair A Flyin 24
In 1965, my first teaching job was right by Lemoore Naval Air Station,
south of Fresno in the middle of the dreary, dusty San Joaquin Valley. The
jet base was the largest west of the Mississippi. Suddenly, 10,000 pilots
and sailors, overloaded with testosterone, arrived in a town that had 2,300
residents, most of whom were farmers. It was a new base, christened by
The Blue Angels, who caused droves of women to come out of the
woodwork. The women disappeared when the Angels flew away.
There was absolutely nothing to relieve this abundance of lust, since
there were few single ladies for miles and miles. The Commander of the
Base frantically chartered bus loads of telephone operators from Fresno
and planned dances and dinners. Girls who had never had a date, became
extremely popular. Many of the sweet wallflowers were fought over and
married nice young sailors. It was a heady time for females. I was one of
two single school teachers in town and life was wonderful. It was not that
I was so cute; there just werent lots of eligible ladies floating around.
I celebrated my magnificent annual teachers salary of $3,700, and
bought a used MG. I failed to look under the hood, not that I would
have known what to look for, and had a terrible time keeping it going. I
only dated pilots who could work on my baby. I loved my little blue sports
car, especially when it was running.
I rented a tiny house that was perfect for me since I could walk to
school when my MG had intestinal problems. There were no unlisted
phone numbers and I had lots of heavy breathers calling in the middle of
the night. I took care of that by keeping a yard duty whistle by the phone
and blasting out their ear drums. I dont think anyone called a second time,
but the calls kept coming.
One night, when I was in the bathtub, there was a commotion at my
back door. Wrapped in a towel, I peeked out and saw a sailor trying to take
the door hinges off with crowbar. Clearly, I needed more than a yard duty
whistle. I called the police. By that time, the sailor had passed out in my
neighbors vegetable patch and was harmless.
One of the two policemen in Lemoore arrived and lectured me. Sue,
ya have to to expect such as this. A drivin around in that little blue
convertible with all that red hair a flyin. Youre askin for trouble with all
them Navy boys around. Yessir, youre askin for trouble. Them Navy
boys arent like our kind of folks, and you better be less showy.
Sue Gibson All That Red Hair A Flyin 25

This was in 1965, and if it had happened today, I would have had his
badge. I thought we had made progress in this area, until a man who
bragged about groping womens genitals got elected President.

Alan Gering Three Poems

Concern With Dreaming Too Well

Faerie Dust (whatever it is)

comes from someplace
perhaps giant toadstools are bartered for the stuff (someplace)
And it is merely the byproduct of
a gnomish enterprise
or the missing tartar off
of ordinary well brushed teeth

Right now
speaking of teeth
mine are like flannel
which might do me some good
if the after life is frigid

These are the sorts of things

to contemplate while sitting
and conversing
with someone
who asks
"Are the engine mounts done yet?
Do we have enough frosting for them?"

The pills alone are

not enough
to account for parallel parking
another Universe
Alan Gering Three Poems 26

Not something I could do

very well

In the meantime
there is some concern
With dreaming
perhaps too well

My Mother Used to Say

My Mother used to say

her words had gone out to play
but expected them home soon

She said they had made friends with someone she didn't know;
or with someone she knew from long ago but didn't talk with anymore

Some of the bad ones came home drunk

now they are all out sailing on the bay

and never coming home
Oh!

Oh
My sweetie
There
Is a distinctive angle
To one front tooth
As if to advertise
With a smile

There are other secrets too

Like the rugs from Byzantium
Once used to deliver lovers
with a lust a wanting
a flaw of the heart some say
In the heat of day
Or night
A flaw in the thighs some say
Alan Gering Three Poems 27

Which themselves have

A dropped stitch
A songbird flying in an opposite direction
A defect
To avoid confusing confusion
with the face of a vain
and jealous
and all knowing
creator
who mistakes perfection
for a mistake

Roberta Belson Musings on the Divine

As above, so below

The light of perfection, unity, and rightness streams down from the Divine
Beloved, through layers of unseen worlds. Its radiance and energy form
the world we know as the physical earth, where incarnated souls dwell in
human form. Our world is a mirror image of above. It is our mission to
remember this truth. Lets be the earthly transformers and conduits of the
Beloveds Perfection.

---------------------------
Hanging out with the Beloved

What a treat. Why should hanging out with the Beloved only be at certain
times or in special houses called churches, synagogues, mosques, or
temples? For me, its about remembering. When internally I say
remember, it feels as though flood gates open, bringing tingling
Roberta Belson Musings on the Divine 28

throughout my body. Letting go of thought, my entire being pulsates. The

top of my head is a flower opening to the suns brilliant heat, radiating up
and down my spine, through my organs, muscles, nerves and skin. I
expand until there is no skin, or body, only energy remains. I am that
energy, pure radiance, no pain, no sadness, grief, or angeronly bliss. The
place of remembering the truth, where we are made in the image of the
Divinepure energy.
I want to hang out with the Beloved at other times. In my body, in
every moment of every day, no matter what is happening around me. In
dark, as well as beautiful times.

Perfect intricate designs engraved on a wild flower; a majestic

redwood grove cathedral with its fairy circles; a tropical hand-painted fish
swimming in the vast ocean world. This is how I connect with Divine
perfection manifesting all around me.
I am hanging out with the Beloved when I remember, we are made in
the Beloveds image.

========================
Splendor

Dreamland couched in splendor, shining with spirits illumination

Sparkling iridescent forms dancing through the vastness of space
Hands held high flowing with vibrant energy
Shimmering Light so strong it cuts away the maze of false mind
We sweep away the debris of illusion and lies
To live in Divine Truth
==========
My love letter to the Beloved

I am so grateful for all that has been gifted me, especially honored to live
surrounded by natures verdant generosity. Redwoods standing tall and
straight, the Sentinels of my forest sanctuary. I feel protected and safe,
especially since we made a pact to take care of each other.
Roberta Belson Musings on the Divine 29

Beauty all around; most trees not losing leaves and color in winter. I
didnt realize how many shades of green exist, from the deepest to the
lightest shades.
I so appreciate Your amazing handiwork, and feel You surrounding me
with love when I close my eyes and sink deep within.
Gratitude for all I have and all Ive co-created with You, while
manifesting my innermost being, spirit, soul on the earthly plane. I thank
Thee with all I am for the many gifts You have bestowed on me. I feel
truly and deeply blessed.
I love Thee to the depths of my heart and soul.

P.B. Townsend Akkas Story

Exhausted, Akka returned to her empty home. The three rooms of plaster-
covered stone walls loomed in the twilight. She shuffled through the house
to Samas small room. Her mind wouldnt work. After staring into
blackness (how long?) she went to hers and Kikerus room. The dark
emptiness held her in the doorway. Light, she needed light. Finally with a
purpose, Akka picked up a lamp and knelt by the fireplace. Only think
about the immediate task. Blow life into the coals of the abandoned
morning fire. Light a straw. Light the lamp. Put straw and kindling on the
coals. Blow. Build the fire up.
She sat and held her arms out to the dancing flames. She shivered. Her
clothes still dripped of rain and sea foam. Akka filled the wash basin with
two buckets of rain water. First she rinsed the shawl. The sea salt
dissolved as she kneaded the cloth. After squeezing water out, she folded it
once, and again, then twisted and wrung more out. Finished, Akka stood
on a chair and stretched the shawl across the room, cutting off the darkest
corner. Next went the skirt, then her blouse. Rinsed and wrung, she draped
P.B. Townsend Akkas Story 30

them over a chair in front of the fire. Her soaked undershift went to
another chair.
Undressed, Akka turned in front of the flames trying to warm all sides
of her body. She used to spin naked for Kikeru. A draft raised goose
bumps and Akka shuddered. Without the lamp she moved through the dark
doorway and pulled the quilt from their bed. Her mother and grandmother
had made the quilt as a wedding present. Swaddled in the bedcover, she
sat on the floor between the two chairs and ate the dried end cut of a bread
loaf. Food and warmth restored her. Baby Sama used to curl up on the
floor as she and Kikeru sat and watched over him.
Akka prayed. She sent her plea to every god and goddess who might
help: Posedao, the Sea Lord; Potnia, the Lady; Britomartis, the huntress
who gave her nets to fishermen; and even to Rhea, the Mother, Goddess of
her youth, worshipped by the pottery-priestesses on Kastri Hill. She
prayed to the Moon Goddess, ruler of tides and friend to the fisherman at
night. But dont think Her name because She was also the Goddess of
Childbirth and knew the length of every mortals life. Akka had no words.
She only rocked back and forth. Please, please, please, Lord. Please,
please, Lady, please.
A deep nod jerked her awake. She rose struggling with stiff joints and
numb muscles. Faced with the dark bedroom doorways, Akka chose the
dining table. Heavy and sturdy, she had to lift one end at a time to walk it
closer to the fireplace. With the clothed chairs pulled apart to make room,
Akka crawled onto the table, rolled in the quilt and slept.

Robyn Koski Composting

It was fall, season of curled, dried leaves, and faded flowers. Dead bracts
shuddered against the wind, clattering a dry tuneone octave below the
chirping crickets and one above the stuttering ravens.
Robyn Koski Composting 31

The woman was intent on piling leaves, hay, sawdust, horse manure,
and rotting fruit in layers. The first rains would bring earthworms, who
would hungrily finish her task, turning their tasty home into humus. Her
shoulders and back felt the weight of each heft.
Inside her jeans, her knees were fragile knobs, riddled with arthritis;
bone on bone the doctor declared. They creaked their frail song to the vein
that festooned her left thigh, curled like a grey ribbon, varicose. When it
appeared last year, quiet and painless, assertive in its relentless presence,
the woman greeted her new flaw with a shrug, named it Wanda, then
washed, folded, and gave away her shorts.
The sun was hot. Trickles of sweat ran down her spine, soaking the
waistband of her jeans. Weak waves of wind came in low swells, minutes
apart. When they broke across her body she tingled with life. Ravens
cackled above, hovering and playing with the current, glittering blue-black
in the fall light. She felt pinned to earth between the worms and ravens.
Every few minutes, she set down her shovel and strode to a rustic chair
where a spiral bound notebook and pen waited. She sat and gazed at the
ravens with unfocused eyes, fixated on what emerged from another realm,
a thing to be funneled through her hand and pen, and spilled onto the
paper.
Her mind burrowed deeper than the shoveling. Layers built: setting,
arc, action, conflict, and emotion. Characters piled upon one another,
seething with desires, their voices distinct, inhabiting a world deep and
rich as the humus. Back and forth from the compost pile to the chair she
paced, from the mindless task to the mindful one, crackling with sporadic
gusts of insight.
The woman looked up at the ravens, waving her pen and yelled. The
wind of conception! I am your goddess. Bow to me. I created a whole
world today where none existed this morning. Then she stalked over,
picked up her shovel, and raised it to the sky. Two worlds if you care to
ask the worms.
Tom Fantulin Row 32

In competitive rowing, a team can move the hull through the water up to
14 mph. They havent broken the four-minute mile yet. Their
performance, however, depends upon the boats design, the crews
combined weight, their collective strength, endurance and optimum
efficiency. The act rowing, simple yet complex, produces momentum, but
the crews recoil, if too aggressive, diminishes the accomplishment. If this
occurs, a boat pulsates dramatically. When the crew reaches its ideal
strokes per minute, the hull barely changes speed. Scullers often complain
about feeling helpless, but they know their tremendous effort, though it
barely adds to the boats momentum, is the only way to maintain a
winning speed. Science quantifies every aspect of this sport, but the
activity is hypnotic: oars arching through the air, their spoons rotating
horizontally as they sweep back, then turning vertical just before
disappearing into the water for another pull, the rowers bodies coiling and
extending in powerful precision. One can only imagine the extent of the
crews determination and how a bunch of individuals can discard their
identities and taper their focus into a team goal, its an act of humility
despite mental anguish and physical pain.
Precision and trust are the primary factors. By emulating the stroke,
the most competitive rower (who relays the coxswain commands by
example) multiplies his example into the crews potential. Mistakes are
ignored because everyone relies on the culprit to resume expected
behavior. In the 2016 Cambridge Classic, one of the scullers broke an oar.
Instead of sitting out the rest of the race, he acted as if the blade was still
attached. By going through the motions, he illustrated the tempo of the
stroke to the members behind him. Though they didnt win, they placed,
thus qualifying for another race.
Rowing utilizes every muscle in the body. During sprints, the demand
for oxygen exceeds the bodys capacity to assimilate. Lactic acid builds up
causing muscle burn. Since the scullers face backwards, they never know
the location of the start or finish line. A gun tells them to begin and
coxswain tells them when to stop. A crew has no idea how long theyll be
working at maximum capacity. They must trust the sagacity of the
coxswain. During a 2000-meter sprint, a sculler consumes as much oxygen
as it takes a professional basketball player to play two games back to back.
This sport has been called beautiful and brutal, both apply.
Karin Uphoff Poems 33

Goddess of Orange
She infuses atomsphere
in a heady-scented crepe dress.
Her bosom an expanse of cream-white tender
blossoms spilling onto damp clay earth
petals too delicate to sink,
stay on the hard surface of things
perfuming the homes of ants,
the breath of gophers.

Birds twirl in and out of her singing mouth,

bees light her nectar-rich candles.
Once our yard, now, a temple
vibrates with the sacred dance of spring.
Bowing through a door of green leaves,
I wriggle close to the altar,
push my face into enormous flowering cleavage
inhale the wild knowing beauty.

Sesshin
We weave through woods,
as rose-bright morning light
plays hide and seek among shadows
cast in this shrine of trees.
Our human mala, Earths vestment
each bead a separate shade
pastels or earthen tones.

Heads gently bob

in rhythm with breezing branches,
one foot, then the other, press
into a padded carpet that took
centuries to lay.
Each step an invitation
to add our silent reverence,
each breath beckons
the shimmering to move through.
Bill Baker Just One More Black Hole 34

The blue light above Ray-Rays ICU room was blinking. I had to step back
as two nurses plus an EMT shoved past. One nurse I knew from high
school: Debbie Denver, RN. She pulled the privacy curtain closed. You
can wait here, or in the Chapel.
Whatever they did was quick. You can go in now, Willy, Debbie
said. Ray-Ray had a slip and fall, nothing serious. Hes been asking for
you.
Hey Willy, que pasa? Borracho? Ray-Ray liked to talk as if we were
still sitting in a Thai beach bar, pounding down Mai-tais and Margaritas.
Muy bien, Ray-Ray, I said. Not drunk yet, but soon. I have a
bottle. He smiled, but all was not well with him. He looked like he fell
from a chopper, after a year in the tiger cages. Half his face was a bright
red bruise, so full of blood, it was ready to pop. A dozen stitches held his
eyebrow in place.
You feeling better today? You look OK.
Ha and ha, you gringo liar. Most of his hair was gone from radiation
and chemo. What was left was wispy as spider silk. But when he spoke,
his voice was strong, voice of my blood brother in arms: tight for life.
Good enough, man. Its all good this side of the grass, yes? His eyelids
drooped. How could he see the light? Sit your ass, he said. I cut the
morphine drip so we can talk without me nodding out. Pay attention for
once.
You got it, Ray-Ray. He winced when I squeezed his hand. Pain?
Off the charts, he said. ARVN Interrogation should take notes. But
all I do is let these little nighty-night drops, not as many as I want, put me
to sleep. Problem is, when I wake up, theres nothing to remember. No
dream. Just a big black hole.
Sounds like the prune-o hangovers we had back in the Nam.
Close. What I got now is more like the interrogations--a burning ring
of fire, then straight into that black hole. He twisted his head. Dont be
giving me that stink-eye, Willy. I need a little help, not sympathy.
Whatever. Just ask.
I got a special mission for you. Go to my house, to the nightstand in
my bedroom. Bring me the leather shaving kit in the second drawer.
No problem. But what is so special about this shaving kit?
Bill Baker Just One More Black Hole 35

Whats special is that its invisible. You never saw it, never touched
it. I must have brought it with me when I checked in. You know nothing
about it.
I knew everything about it then. The bag was where he said it would
be: inside, a snub-nose .38 under a washcloth. I could slip the gun in my
pocket, but why? Instead, I parked the bag in Ray-Rays bedpan where he
could reach it when he woke up. Then I went to Chapel.
I tried to pray, but it was no good. All I could think of was the black
hole waiting for all of us. I fell asleep, into my own little black hole.
Nurse Debbie woke me up. Its over, she said.
What? What is over?
Ray-Ray passed twenty minutes ago. He stopped breathing and we
were not able to bring him back. Im sorry.
Dont be. Ray-Ray is where he had to be. His body was already
gone from his room, and two orderlies were stripping the bed linen. One
more black hole, I said. Maybe thats where he will find some peace.
One more, with nothing inside, and nothing outside. Just one more black
hole.

Barry Bryan Less Than the Minimum

We have ten jurors picked. The prosecutor will withdraw the plea offer
for capital life when we get number eleven. You have to decide now if you
are going to take the deal or go to trial and risk the death penalty. If we go
to trial it wont get better, but it can sure get worse. The defense attorney
waited for his clients answer.
I wanna talk to the DA before I decide.
I dont think thats a good idea. Why do you want to do that? His
exasperation was evident.
Its my life they wanna take. I wanna talk to him face to face. Can
you make it happen?
Barry Bryan Less Than the Minimum 36

Ill see. The attorney got up and left the room. An armed bailiff
waited outside the door of the conference room. Minutes later, the DAs
cowboy boots clomped and shuffled, with his particular gait, into the
conference room. The defense lawyer grumpily followed him and closed
the door.
Mr. Dunham, your lawyer said you want to talk. Weve got thirty
minutes before court starts. Whats on your mind?
I wanna know if I plead, would you let me have a life sentence?
Weve already talked about this The defense attorney stopped
speaking as the DA raised his palm in a halt command.
The DA gazed at the client. No sir, I wont do that. Im not going to
talk to that boys parents about it. Ill keep my offer for capital life open
until we have juror number eleven. After that, no deals. Well let the jury
decide on the death penalty. Itll be in their hands.
Dunhams head sank to his chest. Thank you for talking to me Mr.
Hendricks, but I guess we gotta keep going.
The defense attorney groaned and paced.
The DA knew him well enough to see an eruption of temper was close.
He turned to the lawyer. Mike, would you go to my office and ask
Charlie to bring me the case file, please.
The attorney agreed by walking out the door. The DA crossed his arms
and leaned back in his chair. He compressed the dip inside his front lip
with his tongue. Before I leave and we get past the point of no return, can
you explain why youre going to risk execution over ten years of prison
time?
I dont know what you mean? Dunhams features compressed in
confusion.
A life sentence means you do thirty years before youre eligible for
parole. Capital life means you do forty years before parole. Youre rolling
the dice on the death penalty over a ten-year difference. Im curious what
youre thinking.
Nobody explained it that way. I thought Capital life meant the needle.
I was asking you to let me stay alive. Dunhams hands twisted together
under the table.
Mike didnt explain it? The DAs jaw clenched.
Barry Bryan Less Than the Minimum 37

When I ask him stuff, he gets mad and says hes explained all that.
Says hes court appointed and not getting paid enough to waste time.
Will you take the plea deal with a forty year minimum? If you do, we
need to do it this morning, no screwing around
Yes, sir. Thank you Mr. Hendricks. Dunham reached, his wrists
shackled, and shook the DAs hand.
Mike walked back into the room. Your office couldnt find Charlie.
They wouldnt let me bring the file.
Oh yeah, hes out of the office. Mr. Dunham is going to take the deal
for a flat forty on capital life. Well get the paper work started.
The DA stepped to the door and motioned the bailiff into the room,
while Mike grilled his client about wasting everybody's time.
David, would you take Mr. Dunham to the courtroom? Any questions
before I go?
Dunham stood as David the bailiff took him by the elbow.
Could I call my mama before we do the deal?
Oh for Gods sake his attorney said.
David, let him call his mother. Use the phone in the courtroom. Mr.
Dunham youll only have a couple of minutes. He flashed five fingers to
the bailiff.
Dunham shuffled away in leg irons.
Im losing my ass on this one, Mike said. You heard what the Judge
is paying me. I wont even make minimum wage.
The DA stared at him, wondering if he could hit him between the eyes
with the spit from his dip. He turned toward the door instead. Sounds
about right to me.
Patricia Peterson Dark and Stormy 38

It was a night for dark Bermuda rum with an old friend, a wild Pacific
storm bellowing and tearing at the eaves, throwing fistfuls of rain at the
second story windows. Daring one to come out and dance.
We were feeling warm and mellow inside, my buddies two cats
stretched out purring in front of the electric heater. Too tipsy for Scrabble,
we played cards with a worn casino deck, passing time telling tall tales
and laughing at bad jokes. It got late and I was thinking it was time to
gather my old bones and head off home when the house shuddered, shook,
and went ebony black. Power outage.
Bics aloft, we located and lit apple-scented tea lights, sharing a parting
glass in the flickering glow.
Well fortified, I pulled on my duck boots and ventured out to confront
the tempestuous sky singing in the wires, November rain blowing
sideways up the street, and the neighbors large bass chimes booming eerie
Gregorian chants in the background. The dead streetlights blank and
staring.
Gripping my crutch, because of my wooden legI mean my steel hip
had been giving me trouble, I found crossing the open side streets quite
a challenge. Gale force winds escaping the confining row of downtown
buildings and pushing hard. When I crossed Redwood Avenue, a powerful
gust tried its best to sweep me off my feet, but I leaned into it, braced
myself and stood fast, determined not to go down, skidding on my arse
into oblivion.
The storm caught her breath for a second, and I lunged for the curb,
managing to throw my free arm around the "No Skateboarding on
Downtown Sidewalks" sign, and hung on for dear life. I had often
expressed my desire to be the windblown weather woman in a crazy
typhoon, and I had an epiphany. There I was, my wish come true, arms
wrapped around a quivering street sign while the world blew by. In a flash
I was in the spotlight, caught in the beams of halogen headlights as a lone
car rounded the corner. I imagined the conversation as they passed.
"Did you see that?"
"Maybe. What did you see?"
"It looked like an old lady with a crutch clinging to a pole on the
corner."
"Yeah, yeah, that's what I saw, too. We should have thrown her a line."
He guffawed as they drove down the rain swept street to see if the
Welcome Inn was serving.
Vicki Wellsprint Bum Bar 39

My dad took me out once, and drove me downtown, and brought me to

where his mistress was perched, in some kinda control tower at
McCormick Place, in her uniform with her hat on and everything, and her
little gold plated nametag, Eagen, with her feet up on the desk and her
blonde hair tucked up in the hat, looking glamorous with her gun in the
holster. My dad left me sitting there with her to go take a piss.
She asked about school, smiling. She asked if I wanted to go to a Sox
game, which was weird.
Like, together?
Yeah, sometime when your dad is working.
I dont know. I gotta ask my mom. I have school. But yeah, sure.
What shows do you like watching?
Friends.
Me too. I love Friends and Mad about You.
Me too.
My dad came back and we left. My dad had to get a drink on the way
home. We were down under the city, on Lower Wacker maybe, somewhere
the train was elevated. This was back when Chicago still looked like
comic strip criminals could be hanging on any corner. The streetlight
silhouetted everybody, and then the train cut through it as it clacked by
and it looked like violence, coat collars popping and shadows flashing.
Unmarked doors and barred windows, everything is made of crumbling
brick in Chicago. A dingy pink light flickered, Stop and Drink. We
pushed on in. A man with the face of a dirty rag nodded behind the bar. A
couple barrels of misery sitting in heaps shifted. The whole place was lit
up by one neon Old Style sign. My dad had done a lot of crazy stuff but
he hadnt taken me into a bar before. I got excited to see a prostitute, a real
streetwalker, but there wasnt even a ladys bathroom let alone a woman in
there.
Nobody was interesting.
Everybody was sad.
I kept slipping off my perch on the barstool from lack of experience.
Somebody shoved a small saucer of industrial olives across the bar at me.
My dad left me sitting there to go take a piss.
A twelve-year-old girl at the counter of a bum bar, thinking, my life is
really taking off now. This is getting good.

Molly Bee Peace Corps, San Jose de Ocoa, Dominican

Republic, 27 September 2003 40

Daves house is at the edge of town, a concrete block construction four

steps up from the sidewalk. His floors are real tile, and he has a separate
area for a kitchen with a sink, a bathroom with an indoor flush toilet and
shower, and a main room big enough for two double beds. Its pretty
palatial, even has frilly curtains over the barred windows, a table and
chairs, and a multi-coloured rug Dave crocheted out of clothing scraps.
The walls are painted blue and cream, and its so comfortable and
cheerful, it makes me homesick, recalling luxuries Id taken for granted
most of my life. I miss fresh green salads and drinking water out of the tap
without fear of bacterial illness. I miss the curious feel of carpet under my
bare feet and supple machine-dried towels around my shoulders after a
warm bath. I miss my friends, cool Colorado mountain air, intelligent
conversations about game theory shit, I was back to missing Fritz.
No, thats not how it would be. I would banish that tormentor from the
darkest depths of my brain coils. I would vanquish the dragon of
despairing dreams and return to this moment, to be here now.
Dave, always the gentleman, gives up his bed to me and Angel, readies
his guest bed for Mary and Katie, and in the four feet of aisle space
between the beds, sets up his camping pad on the tile floor. I hand down
Daves pillow, and Angel and I snuggle in close to share a headrest on my
clean change of clothes for tomorrow. The electric lights are clicked off at
the switch, though neighboring lights still wink in through the windows.
Bachata keeps up the beat and theres a constant trilling from the crickets
in the warm night.
Goodnight Dave! says Mary, when were all settled into bed.
Goodnight Mary, Dave returns. Goodnight Katie.
Night Molly and Angel, says Mary.
Goodnight Mary, I say.
Goodnight Dave, Katie says.
Night Katie, I say.
Goodnight Molly, goodnight Angel, Dave says.
Night-night, Dave, I say.
Goodnight Mary, Katie says, bursting into giggles.
Goodnight Katie, Mary says.
Night John-Boy! says Dave in a country accent.
Molly Bee Peace Corps, San Jose de Ocoa, Dominican
Republic, 27 September 2003 41

Goodnight Jim-Bob! I call in my best drawl.

Night Mary Ellen! Dave calls in a high-pitched falsetto.
Night Lizbeth Jane, I say in a dramatic baritone.
Goodnight Billy-Joe-Bob-Lou, twangs Mary.
Katie cracks up with laughter into her pillow.
Angel wiggles a hand at me, palm-up, silently asking for an
explanation.
Aw, nothing, just the Waltons, I say, knowing hell have no idea
what I mean.
He wrinkles his brow and I kiss his forehead. Then I kiss him
goodnight properly, and turn my back to him so he can curl tightly around
me and nest his knees in the crooks of mine. I love being held tenderly, by
someone who loves me, who is present in my life and wants to share
sweetness with me. That would obviate Fritz, now wouldnt it? So why
should I allow Fritzs imaginary imprint to lie lurking like a dust-bunny in
the fringes of my dream-mind tapestry? I sigh and press closer to Angels
warmth.
Goodnight Moon, I say softly to the light catching on the undulating
curtains.
I listen as the people around me slow and deepen their breathing. The
sweet boy behind me relaxes his grip, and slips into sleep. All is still apart
from two or three people next to me who have taken up delicate snoring
rhythms, the faint bachata filtering in through the window, the constant
crickets, the occasional motorcycle roaring by, people jabbering, bottles
clanking, bus brakes screeching, faraway raucous laughter, hooting,
hollering, arguing with angry profanities, reggaeton music pumping up,
people driving by with their stereo speakers maxed out, and maybe a night
bird calling.
The dull clamour lulls me towards sleep, and as I drift off, I pray it
will be dreamless.
 ALENA GUEST
DIANE SEMANS
VIKTORIA ZAITA
ZACH ZIMMERMAN
CATHERINE MARSHALL
ORAH YOUNG
RON MORITA
ALLYSON MARGERISON
CARROLL REFFELL
DALE PERKINS
MARY SHEPHERD
FRIEDA FEEN
PRISCILLA COMEN
PATTY JOSLYN
STEVE GREENWOOD
SUE GIBSON
ALAN GERING
ROBERTA BELSON
P.B. TOWNSEND
ROBYN KOSKI
TOM FANTULIN
KARIN UPHOFF
BILL BAKER
BARRY BRYAN
PATRICIA PETERSON
VICKI WELLSPRING
MOLLY BEE