Author: Editor

Teaching Poetry In Prison

By Susan Kelly-DeWitt

 

I think of him
as a victim
(a veteran)

of war—
every day was
the enemy

in a house-
hold that thought

children should
be punished
with barbed wire,

belts, burns, punches,
pinches, slaps, kicks,

starvation. Where meth
was the vitamin,
sex was the money,

where poverty was
the neighborhood,

poverty was
the country

and nobody ever
called him honey

until high school
freed him to be

part of something
larger than himself,

a gang. They robbed
a convenience
store, someone got

shot, killed—he did not
pull the trigger yet

here he is twenty
years later, life

without parole—
shaking my hand,
smiling at me,

thanking me
for helping him learn

one new word.

 

Susan Kelly-DeWitt is a former Wallace Stegner Fellow and the author of Gravitational Tug (forthcoming 2020), Spider Season (Cold River Press, 2016), The Fortunate Islands (Marick Press, 2008) and nine previous small press collections and online chapbooks. Her work has appeared in many anthologies, and in print and online journals at home and abroad. She is a member of the National Book Critics Circle and the Northern California Book Reviewers Association. For more information, please visit her website at www.susankelly-dewitt.com.

Photo by Aswin Deth on Unsplash.

I See You

By Laura Martinez

 

First you are “pollo”
chicken.
Then you are “illegal”
just so much contraband
or “alien”
strange creature from another place
to be feared.
Less than human.

I walk with you
through the streets of Nogales,
sit with you as you prepare
for your journey,
as you pray the rosary.

I see you in the desert
exhausted and thirsty,
and I see your haunted eyes
as you are detained, chained and
branded a “criminal.”
The smell of broken dreams
permeates the air.

You are a human being,
someone’s husband, mother,
daughter, son,
who lives, loves,
suffers, endures,
never deterred from the promise
of a better, safer life.

 

I am a retired social worker and volunteer with a local humanitarian aid group that supplies water to migrants in the desert. I also am with a local group that coordinates nationally to end the criminalization of migration. My poems have been published locally in the Tucson Weekly and Arizona Daily Star. I am a regular contributor to an online magazine, Downtown LA Life.

Photo credit: Jasper Nance via a Creative Commons license.

Please, Be Safe

By Tyhi Conley

 

Before they arrived, we were laughing, telling stories outside of the convenience store. Over the years, the store’s owner got to know us. He’d sold to us since we were kids buying dollar Arizona’s and 50 cent honey buns every summer day on our way to the pools, courts, or houses of friends whose parents let us in.

The people knew us. They’d stop and talk as they came and went. The older women wondered what we’d do with our lives, and called us handsome. The older men asked us which sport we played, and if we were being recruited. All of them warned us, almost begging that we “stay safe.” At the time, we didn’t understand why our elders used the phrase to say goodbye, or even how they all knew to say it. In hindsight, I’ve concluded it’s something our elders expected we’d need to hear.

See, our elders predicted that they would come, and that when they arrived they wouldn’t see laughing teenagers enjoying their day. They aren’t proud like the older men and women of our community. They’re scared. They hold a false sense of duty. They mischaracterize.

“Look at where they live,” they say while driving by. “What do they have to laugh about?”

“Why are they together?” they question. “Too many of them in one spot is bound to cause a problem.”

As they pull in, our smiles vanish quickly, like a small flame in the wind. We contemplate running, but reconsider, as we haven’t committed any crimes.

“What are your names? Where do you live?” The interrogation begins.

“Here,” we answer. “We live here.”

“Where were you guys last night?” they continue.

Last night, we were doing what regular teenagers do. No, we weren’t selling drugs or breaking into houses. We were with our girlfriends, or playing video games, or working to buy sneakers.

Despite our declaration of innocence, the backup appears. One at a time, until the parking lot becomes crowded and lit with flashing blue lights. Curious about the cause of the cop cars, the drivers passing by slow down, snarling traffic. The people around the store, instead of coming and going, stop and stare and pull out their phones. Our predicament becomes clear.

We understand that we are staring into the face of death; that witnesses don’t matter, and neither do cameras. The crowd is helpless, like an audience watching a horror movie: No matter how much they wish a character hasn’t gone in that room, the best they can do is scream once the violence occurs. At worst, if they decide to act on their fear, our deaths will result in a couple months of paid leave.

We finally discover what it meant when our elders begged us to “stay safe.” The farewell was a reminder to move in a way that would ensure our survival.

“Bookbags?” they say. “It’s summer time; there is no school. You guys mind if we check those?” They frame their commandment as a question.

Knowing things will escalate if we deny the request, we open the bags. In them, are towels or cleats or video game controllers. Not weed, guns or stolen objects. After a few more questions, they grow weary of the harassment and let us go.

Although we’re free, the summer day is ruined. No more swimming, playing basketball, or hanging out, telling jokes in front of the convenience store. We’d rather go home and celebrate the teachings of our parents, along with the blessings that boredom can bring.

We grow, forever moving differently with a newly acquired perspective. Years tread by and we start our own families. Now, it’s our duty to give our children the speech. Now, we’re the elders coming and going from the convenience store, proud to have seen our community grow. Now, when we see the teenagers laughing out front, we feel obligated to tell them, “Please, be safe,” because we know they’re coming, and we know they need to hear it.

 

Tyhi Conley obtained a B.A. in journalism from Kennesaw State University and is working in Atlanta as a personal assistant. 

Photo credit: Steve Pisano via a Creative Commons license.

Poem Where I Mix-Up Fairy Tales

By Courtney LeBlanc

 

Sometimes the wolf shows up in a suit,
hair neat and tie perfect, teeth tucked
into his mouth to mimic a sly smile.
Sometimes he’s a friend, sometimes
a stranger, sometimes a lover.
Sometimes I crave the beast’s
hands on my skin, sometimes I want
his bite, sometimes I don’t want
to be rescued. I wish this sleep could
last forever, my still body tended
by the forest and the animals, hidden
from the prince’s kiss — why wake
up in a world that constantly kicks
and takes away my rights. I’ll take
the beast to get his library, I’ll take
the spindle to finally catch up
on my sleep, I’ll take the wolf
to avoid future errands. And
that house of sugar? I’ll lick
every windowpane and wait
for the witch. She won’t push me
into the fire, instead we’ll sit
around it, spiked drinks in hand,
munching on cookies, toasting
our luck at finding one another.

 

Courtney LeBlanc is the author of Beautiful & Full of Monsters (forthcoming from Vegetarian Alcoholic Press), and chapbooks All in the Family (Bottlecap Press) and The Violence Within (Flutter Press). She is a Pushcart Prize nominee and has her MBA from University of Baltimore and her MFA from Queens University of Charlotte. She loves nail polish, wine, and tattoos. Read her publications on her blog: www.wordperv.com. Follow her on Twitter, @wordperv, and Instagram, @wordperv79.

To the Racist in Line for Chinese Food at Safeway

By Ty.Brack

 

Yes, you are racist.
I know this because of the way you reduced
Estefania and America to colored women.
I know this because Estefania was helping me
and America was helping you.
You and I ordered the Express Special at the same time.
Estefania returned with my container
before America returned with yours,
and Estefania asked, Rice or chow—
You cut her off with a grumble, Chow mein,
like you were so sure this was America
and she belonged to you.
When Estefania looked at you with confusion,
you looked at Estefania like she was your America,
and you grumbled again, this time with seething chauvinism,
Chow. Mein.
Estefania’s confusion changed to composure
as she said in her smoothest customer service voice,
Sir, I was actually helping the other gentlemen;
America will be right with you.
I watched the creases in your forehead
flatten into lines of seasoned microaggressions,
revealing your familiar fragile rage
over the blanks between the lines.
So I filled in the blanks for you,
Dude, you’re racist.
But I don’t think I offended you enough.
So now you’re in a poem.

 

Ty.Brack is a poet and teacher from Portland, Oregon, who believes each word should aid in the dismantling of the white heterosexual, cisgender, male supremacy. He performs his work through Portland Poetry Slam, Slamlandia, and Wordlights, and he doubles as a hip hop recording artist, with several singles available on major digital streaming platforms. Follow him on Instagram: @ty.brack.poetry.

Photo credit: DijutalTim via a Creative Commons license.

Clutching at the Last Straw

By Dini Armstrong

 

After consulting with the elders, they chose to buy Oideacha, approaching life on this tiny Scottish island with all the naivety and determination of youth. Quaker values still rang true to them when they signed on the dotted line: peace, simplicity, integrity, stewardship of the earth. Hamish had years of experience volunteering on building projects in Malawi, so he took on the lion’s share of any construction work—using reclaimed materials whenever possible. Maria covered the roof with grass and sowed wildflower seeds. The inside of their little hobbit house was deceptively spacious, with water and heating provided by an air source heat pump. They used fleece insulation, 95 percent of which consisted of recycled plastic bottles. Triple-glazing and the use of A-rated kitchen appliances further lowered their carbon footprint. Maria procured a boat that was made from recycled plastic litter. Their secret shame was a four-stroke outboard motor, but the mainland was too far to row the distance.

The young couple soon found their rhythm. Each day began by feeding three sheep, a goat and five chickens. Next on the schedule were gardening, cleaning and renovating. They were hoping to grow organic vegetables within a year. After dinner, they went for a stroll along the beach. It took roughly two and a half hours to circle the island, especially as they brought empty burlap bags to collect plastic litter, washed in by the tide. They found soda bottles, torn shopping bags, drinking straws, food cartons, a surprising amount of tampon applicators, even a plastic leg.
On Sundays, they travelled to the mainland, attended Meeting and did some shopping. Hamish, with the strength of an ox and a fiery red beard, might as well have come over on a longboat. Maria, not petite, felt dainty next to him. Although she fiercely loved their little paradise, her Maltese skin was riddled with midge bites and she ached for sunshine.

Weeks into their stay, on discovering an article in The Guardian, she let out a high-pitched yelp.

Scientists accidentally create mutant enzyme that eats plastic bottles
The breakthrough, spurred by the discovery of plastic-eating bugs at a Japanese dump, could help solve the global plastic pollution crisis.

Six months later, like children waiting for Santa, too excited to sit down, they hovered in front of their laptop, balanced precariously on the edge of the kitchen counter, where WiFi reception was most reliable, awaiting a special broadcast by King Charles.

“God, he looks old,” Hamish blurted out when the first picture appeared.

“Ssshhhh!” Maria hissed, her eyes fixed on the screen.

“Twenty-twenty has been a sad year for us all,” the monarch began, his voice heavy with solemnity, “The United Kingdom was cruelly robbed of her beloved Queen, my mother.” He wiped an invisible tear from the corner of his eye, took a sip of water and continued.

“But it has also been a year of beginnings and a year of discovery. Scientists all over the world have worked tirelessly to bio-engineer bacteria—as well as fungi—capable of producing an enzyme that can break down even the most resistant plastics into their base components. One might say it was their PET-project.” He paused and allowed for any laughs. “For this thrilling breakthrough, we owe our deepest gratitude.”

He drifted off into an expansive, upper-crust version of “I told you so,” in which he recounted all the decades of his own personal crusade against plastic litter – among other environmental pollutants. At this point, Hamish began to embrace Maria from behind, gently kissing her neck. She could feel her body relax against his, when King Charles declared:

“We have all seen them over the years—videos of whale carcasses being cut open, releasing tons of plastics that the poor gentle giants ingested, photos of seagulls, dying with their wings twisted in plastic netting, turtles, trapped in ghost nets. All this will be a thing of the past, like the monstrous torture instruments in the Tower museum. Which is why we feel we are ready to release these clever little bacteria into the oceans—and to set free these glorious spores into the atmosphere. May they help mankind atone for their sins against nature!”

Roaring applause could be heard, although, considering he was still in a studio, it was unclear where this originated.

Hamish turned Maria around and kissed her, gently at first, hovering a few millimetres away as if seeking permission before touching the softness of her lips, and she responded with increasing enthusiasm. When he lifted her up onto the kitchen counter and slowly pulled down her knickers, neither bothered bringing up the issue of a condom. With Hamish’s tongue expertly teasing her sweet spot, Maria whispered, “Maybe.”

Within eight weeks, they found less and less litter during their circadian walks around the island. Joyous disbelief was gradually replaced by a solemn gratitude for witnessing history in the making, an evolution in reverse, until, finally, they found their last straw. Just when Hamish felt sure he had reached a pinnacle of happiness, Maria broke the news of her pregnancy. He lifted her up high, twirled her around and kissed her over and over.

“I have to show you something,” he declared, and she noticed he was blushing with pride. He took her hand and practically dragged her back home and into the garden shed. In the corner stood a cradle, made from driftwood. Pieces of sea glass, suspended as a mobile, gyrated and refracted the sunlight into tiny rainbows.

Rendered speechless, Maria caressed every intricate detail, every curve—when she found herself on the ground, her face pressed beneath Hamish’s chest. All hell broke loose around them. Tools fell from their hooks. Outside, something hit the ground with a heavy thud, then a violent shattering, again and again —more than something, many things, in almost perfect synchronicity. When the noise began to die down, she tried to wriggle.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

“I will be when you get off, you big oaf.”

Hamish let out a sigh and reluctantly obeyed. He squinted and blinked.. Tears streamed down his cheeks; his eyelids were red and swollen. “I think my contacts shifted, I can’t see a thing,” he muttered. His hair and back were covered in fine powder. She drew a deep breath and began to cough. It smelled of mushrooms. Not unpleasant like mold in a cellar, but more akin to the perfume of a freshly cut chanterelle from the forest.

“What in the …” She pointed through the open door of the shed. “The windows!”

Maria ran towards the house. Hamish tried to stumble after her, but soon capitulated and remained in one spot, rubbing his eyes. The triple-glazed panels lay in shards on the ground. Glass only, no frames. Following a hunch, Maria stretched up to a windowsill and sniffed. Ice-cold sweat trickled down the back of her neck.

“It’s mushro—” The words stuck in her throat when she turned and saw Hamish. From the corner of his eyes, two vertical red lines marked his face like war paint.

“Come on, let’s get you inside and cleaned up, you mucky pup,” she said. She was unsure why she did not mention his eyes. He nodded, and, fighting through a treacle pit of dread, they made their way inside, arm-in-arm.

The sofa had collapsed into an empty shell—draped with blankets. Water was gushing from the cupboard under the kitchen sink. The scent of chanterelle was competing with the fetid stench of sewage, wafting up through cracks in the floorboards. Hamish’s shirt started to disintegrate and fell off his torso in patches. Maria’s vegan shoes dissolved, leaving only shoelaces, draped over her socks like a bizarre pair of earthworms, still in the crisscross patterns they were threaded into, a bow at the top.

“The light switch is gone,” she mumbled weakly. Even if WiFi and electricity had survived, their laptop no longer had keys. With a faint flicker of hope, she moved towards the telephone, but, like an intricate little sand sculpture, it disintegrated on first touch.

They stood in silence. The chanterelle air was thick with dust and fear.

“Check the boat, I’ll find something to rinse my eyes,” Hamish stated as if suggesting a shopping trip.

She left him standing. Away from the house, the garden looked almost normal, and she could pretend to herself that all was well. The greenhouse finished, they had planned to buy seeds on their next trip. Walking towards the pier, she savoured every step as a prisoner might, on the way to execution. All that was left of the boat was a hemp dock line, still secured to the piling with a cleat knot.

Back at the house, Hamish was crouching on the floor, an empty glass bottle in his hand. The war paint was gone, but his eyes were shut. He did not ask her about the boat.

“How about the pantry,” he enquired, his composure betrayed by a tremble in his voice. They had only ever planned a week in advance.

Thankfully, all food cans seemed intact, as did six jars of homemade preserves Hamish’s mum had forced on them last autumn. Juice and long-life milk, kept in tetrapacks, had leaked onto the shelves below, spoiling both flour and sugar packs. All fridge and freezer items lay on the glass shelves, contaminated by the remains of their plastic containers.

“There’s loads,” she shouted, “We’re fine!”

It was weeks before the first signs of malnutrition sneaked up on them in the disguise of fatigue, depression and poor concentration. Lack of fresh vegetables caused constipation; they were chilled to the bone. Hamish remained blind, and puss was oozing out from under his eyelids. Both had been vegetarians since childhood, leaving them without the faintest notion of the intricacies of fishing. There was no nylon to use as a line. They had heard of some cultures using animal gut, but both agreed they would never steep as low as to harm their livestock. Maria tried to use a makeshift spear, but in her condition, did not want to risk wading in too deeply. Rather than produce the fast results they had seen in castaway movies, her attempts consumed the last of her energy.

Three months in, Maria felt the baby stir inside her, a faint bubble at first, then more decisive kicks. She did not tell Hamish. Lately, his large frame, once so attractive, had become a source of concern to both of them. He tried to pretend he could last on the same portions as she, but both knew better. His ginger mane fell out in clumps. In a trance, she used a kitchen knife to slit her goat’s throat, but without the protective plastic handle, it slipped, cutting her hand. The wound was not healing.

•

Shielding her eyes from the evening sun, she raises her hand, wrapped in dirty strips of cloth. She cannot remember who suggested the trip to the mainland first. All she knows is Hamish is out there, floating towards a shore he will never reach. She takes one last look at the crystal-clear ocean—then turns back to home.

 

Dini Armstrong, now Scottish, has worked in journalism and psychology. She is currently completing an MA in Creative Writing and has published short stories and flash fiction. Her pithy style got her into trouble from age six, when, after writing a particularly seditious piece about a vengeful cat with explosives, she promised never to write again. She lied.

Visit Dini’s website at DiniArmstrong.com, and follower her on Facebook, @GermanScotsAuthor, and Twitter, @ArmstrongDini.

Photo by Ishan @seefromthesky on Unsplash.

Indian Doll for Sale at the Thrift Store

By Heather Johnson

 

A middle-aged woman, orange hair tightly
permed, bones jostling within a threadbare

corset, manhandles the wide-eyed Native
doll—hands pet imitation-buckskin fringe

dress, sewn with plastic beads. A smile parts
lips like the sheer cut of a razor

as she rubs her thumbs over the doll’s sprayed-on
brown skin—as his fingers explored

and claimed the landscape of my body—Your skin looks
great against mine: brown on white. But the doll’s

skin is flawless, no evidence of cutting
scars at the wrists, thighs, shoulder, or at the hollow

between the breasts—he mapped the shimmery
ridges of those scars, too. The doll’s hand-painted

eyes are brown with black flecks, glaze
and shade like mine. The woman clutches

the doll against slack chest, hand cupping
the back of her head—synthetic

black hair parted down the middle, tied
in pigtails, with a headband snug

over her brow, restraining memory. He wrapped
my hair around his fist, pulled until my back

bowed, until he came hard—Can you grow it longer?
I amputated my hair, dyed it punk-red, and the color

bled out slowly in the shower.

 

Heather Johnson is an androgynous Diné writer from the Navajo Nation, currently residing in Albuquerque, New Mexico. She is at work on a novel, a memoir, and poetry. Her work has appeared, or is forthcoming in, Prairie Schooner, the Sigma Tau Delta’s The Triangle, Anti-Heroin Chic, and HeArt (Human Equity Through Art). Her poetry will be anthologized in the Dine Reader: A Guide to Navajo Poetics. Previously, she was a blog contributor to Blue Mesa Review. Her subjects are surviving personal and historical traumas, the experiences of marginalized identities, the complexities of mental health and well-being, and the landscape as sacred. She is also a founding member of the Trigger Warning Writers Group.

Two poems by Cheryl Dumesnil

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Bible Study

Truly I tell you,

The life expectancy

whatever you do

for transgender women of color

for these sisters of mine,

living in the United States

that you do unto me.

is thirty-one years old.

Matthew 25:40

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What You Must Believe

As a mound of dust and a mouthful of spit
is to a brick,

as that one spit-and-dust brick
is to a wall

is to a shelter for a family
fed by one pot

hung over a fire tended all day
and all night, too—

my love, this
is how you will survive—

as a spoon scraping concrete
is to escape—

no matter what they do
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Cheryl Dumesnil is the author of two books of poetry, Showtime at the Ministry of Lost Causes and In Praise of Falling (University of Pittsburgh Press), and a memoir, Love Song for Baby X (Ig Publishing). A freelance writer and writing coach, she lives in the San Francisco Bay Area with her wife and two kids. Read more about Cheryl here.

Photo credit: Francisco Gonzalez via a Creative Commons license.

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First Day of College Classes, 2036

By John Sheirer

 

“Good morning, everyone,” the professor said looking out at the enthusiastic room full of vibrant young people. She pulled up a class roster on her palm-sized tablet. “When I call your first name, please raise your hand. Okay? First up is Ashley.”

“Here,” a woman in the back row called out.

“Donald?”

“I go by Danald,” a male student said quietly.

“Understandable,” the professor replied. “Pence?”

A woman in the front row raised her hand. “I just had it legally changed to ‘Hillary.’”

“Hillary?” the professor asked.

Five young women scattered around the classroom raised their hands and simultaneously said, “Here!”

“Oh, my!” The professor laughed. “We’ll have to sort that one out later, maybe assign nicknames.”

The whole class chuckled.

“Donalda?”

“Just “D,” please,” another woman said sharply, eyes fixed on the sunshine outside the window.

“Flynn?”

“I prefer to be called ‘Duckworth,’ ma’am,” said an ROTC student in fatigues.

“Eric?”

A burly, white football player from Alabama said with a southern drawl, “I go by ‘Barack.’”

The professor squinted and stuttered the next name: “Ja … Jar … Jarvanka?” There were audible gasps from around the room.

“Call me Michelle, please,” said a student with a strong, clear voice. “Yes, I hate my parents.” The gasps turned to chuckles.

“I think we’re all with you on that one,” the professor said.

Then she paused for a brief but noticeable instant before calling the next name. “Wall?”

“Yeah, I prefer ‘Wally,’” a soft-voiced man said from the back corner.

“Wally it is,” the professor repeated. “Good work making lemons into lemonade.”

The professor hesitated again, brought the tablet closer to her face, shrugged. “Is this a misprint? Maga? M-A-G-A?”

“I’m transitioning to ‘Maggie,’” said a tall, attractive woman.

“Congratulations!” the professor beamed. “Tweet?”

“Please call me ‘Instagram,’” a stylishly dressed man replied, tapping his oversized smartwatch.

“Budi … Budda … Buja …”

“Buttigieg,” called out a bright, optimistic student who looked too young to be in college.

“Sashamalia?”

“Here!” came the energetic reply.

“All right, thanks everyone. I’m glad we have that out of the way,” the professor said, tapping a set of controls on the instructor’s console. “Let’s begin the course. My name is Professor Reagan Bush-George, but please call me by my initials: RBG. Welcome to Political Science 200: Chaos to Enlightenment, 2016-2020.”

The lights dimmed slightly, and a hologram appeared at the front of the classroom, slowly rotating for a 360-view. It depicted a life-sized man slouching in a shabby black suit and oversized red tie. His ruddy face was caught in deep grimace beneath a ridiculous flop of unnatural hair. The students recoiled an almost imperceptive degree as if they subconsciously sensed toxic radiation.

Hovering near the holograph were internet headlines reading, “Improbable Electoral College Victory,” “Record Low Approvals,” “Foreign Collusion,” “Impeachment Debate,” “Ousted in Historic Landslide,” “Multiple Counts of Obstruction of Justice,” and “First President Jailed After Leaving Office.”

When the hologram pivoted to reveal the man’s back, the students saw that his wrists were restrained by handcuffs. Their hackles relaxed as they nodded in satisfaction.

The students powered up their touch-screen desks, synced them with their handheld devices, and focused their attention on Professor RBG’s words. After class, they’d do what college students have done since college began: meet up with friends, discover the best places to hang out, blow off energy, have conversations that would pivot from deep to shallow in an instant, possibly drink too much, perhaps even begin a fun but meaningless relationship. But for this moment, they were all determined to learn everything they could to avoid the mistakes of the past and help create a better world in the future—especially the Hillarys.

 

John Sheirer (pronounced “shy-er”) lives in Northampton, Massachusetts, with his wonderful wife Betsy and happy dog Libby. He has taught writing and communications for 26 years at Asnuntuck Community College in Enfield, Connecticut, where he also serves as editor and faculty advisor for Freshwater Literary Journal (submissions welcome). He writes a monthly column on current events for his hometown newspaper, the Daily Hampshire Gazette, and his books include memoir, fiction, poetry, essays, political satire, and photography. Learn more about John at JohnSheirer.com.

Photo from the U.S. Library of Congress.

Subliminal and Unanimous Dreams of the Future

By Kimberly Kaufman

 

In the shadowy, damp cities of our eon
no Martian parent will guilt their children
into eating their slimy green protein crumbles
with stories of the starving Children of Earth

As the dust storms rage above no Martian
child will flick internal game consoles, the
giant screens their only chance to marvel at
the blue, cool expanse of the Pacific ocean

No Martian will stagger through the thick,
viscous gravity, envying Earth refugees
who had a chance to spin and fall in warm air
without seventy pounds of protective plastic shell

As Martian children grow to moody, tense teens
they will never dream of an ozone layer keeping
them safe from this hostile universe that waits for
the first opportunity to twist their skulls inside out

We will not look out the window
to a night filled with two shrunken,
misshapen moons,
whispering,
the Earth
she was irreplaceable,
but we lost her

 

I have previously published speculative fiction in various literary magazines, including Metaphorosis, The Future Fire, and Jersey Devil Press. A brief list of things I’ve been, am, or will be: a student of Spanish literature, a lawyer, a punk bass guitarist, a traveler, a quiet child, and a mountain climber.

Photo credit: Mars dust storm, NASA.

It Looks Like Dancing

By Otis Fuqua

 

The moon is not out. Deborah is not in bed. A stranger’s silhouette is not rolling toward her like a panther.

“Mish Deborah?” a child’s voice asks—Ricardo, at the front of the classroom. The esses catch on his braces.

There is no face like a saber-tooth tiger. An eely stripe of stubble does not pass through a moonbeam that does not bisect the bedroom Deborah is not in.

Deborah wobbles, steadies herself against Jeffrey’s flip-top desk.

“Ish everything okay?” Ricardo asks.

Deborah is not pinned to a mattress. No bedsprings squeak in protest. The moon is not out.

“Yes, Ricardo. Thank you for asking.” Deborah sounds upbeat and relaxed, as she wants the ten-year-olds to hear her. “I think I’m just dehydrated.” She goes to the teaching station in the corner, toasts the class with her water bottle. “Those of you with hydration units, a moment for hydration!”

Deborah drains the bottle in three staccato swigs. Some of her students sip with her, but most slip off into side conversations and distractions. Aly and Grace, the horse girls, are neighing at each other. Morgan and Savoy are clunking their feet together in a competitive game of footsie. Shana is smiling at her crotch. This means she’s taking pictures of herself. Elijah’s arm is buried in his pants up to his elbow.

Outside, a cloud moves in front of the sun. The classroom dims to a pale blue. The students’ faces look shadowy and old.

There is no chemical spreading through the air, thick and soporific. There is no hand like a manhole cover over her nose and mouth.

Deborah’s neck prickles.

“Bill Nye—” The words come out of Deborah’s mouth stronger than intended. Thirty childish faces turn toward her at the same time. She feels like she’s dumped a spoonful of sugar on top of an anthill.

No cloth scrapes against her tongue.

“—is in your future. We will watch Bill Nye, if you pull yourselves together for fifteen minutes.”

Madison scribbles something to Chris. Jeffrey farts—a soprano boink that rocks the class with laughter.

The moon is not out.

As the class laughs, Deborah removes a marble from a jar at the front of the room. A second. A third. A wave of shushing circulates through the room until all eyes are on Deborah, and there is silence.

“I don’t like asking twice, squirrels. Pull yourselves together for fifteen minutes. You’re the oldest in the school. I expect you to act like it. I’ll put these back in the pizza party jar if you can get through this activity, but please, pull yourselves together.”

The class transforms into a sea of tiny executives. Spines straighten, hands clasp, love-notes and sketchbooks and phones disappear.

“Thank you, squirrels.” Deborah slips the marbles into her pocket. They rattle. “The fifth grade community service project: Raise your hand if you’ve seen fifth-graders working around the school in years past.”

No one raises their hand.

The moon is not out. No bed. No sting.

“Well. Some of you have. Those who haven’t, every year, the fifth grade class takes on a project to improve the school or surrounding neighborhood. The gardens by the primary playground, the kindergarten mosaic, and the picnic tables out front were all fifth-grade community service projects.”

Eulalia raises her hand. “Is the new fence on the highway a community service project?”

Deborah crosses her arms. “Yes. It is. That’s a specific kind of community service though, different from ours. Those men committed a crime and are doing community service as a punishment.”

Elijah doesn’t wait to be called upon. “Did they kill somebody?”

There is no stubbled, saber-tooth tiger face. No one’s thighs are squeezing Deborah’s ribcage. No one’s breathing sour air into her nostrils. The moon is not out.

“Elijah. One strike. Don’t test me.”

Elijah slouches and looks at his toes.

Deborah pulls her lips into a smile. “Our community service project is a reward, not a punishment.”

Opposite Elijah, Mariah raises her hand. “Isn’t a reward where you get something, not give something away?”

Deborah uncaps a dry-erase marker and points it at her. “Good question.” On the board behind her, Deborah draws a table with two columns:

ME                                                      MY COMMUNITY

The marker squeaks as she writes.

There is no mattress. There are no bedsprings. The moon is not out.

“Can anyone name an effect of community service?”

The usual hands are up before Deborah has finished the question.

“The preservation of nature,” Mariah says. Deborah writes this under my community.

“Friendship!” Eulalia says. This goes under me.

“It improvesh our infrashtrucshure,” Ricardo says. This makes it under both headings.

The table fills with ideas. They come in bursts. Grace’s “stables” and Jeffrey’s “basketball court” do not make the list. Madison’s “dirt management” confuses the entire class. In general, the discussion is off topic and below grade-level. Unsatisfactory.

Fifteen minutes are up. Elijah’s pointing at the clock.

Deborah’s chest tightens. “Almost there. You’re missing one. On the me side. This is a big one. What do you get from community service?”

“Exhaustion!” Elijah cries.

Everyone, even Eulalia, giggles at this.

A voice like a broken bottle isn’t growling into Deborah’s ear. She doesn’t hear the words. Chapped lips don’t scratch her cheek. No tastes of copper and sugar burn her tongue. The moon is not out.

“Every weekend I read to the seniors at Dignity Village. I don’t build anything. It’s not super fun. I don’t have any friends there. The place looks the same when I leave as when I came. But it has this one specific effect on me. Can any of you tell me what that effect is? It goes on the me side.”

Most of the class is staring out the windows. The first flurries of a new storm are falling.

A blurry ring forms around Deborah’s vision.

A man’s silhouette doesn’t grow until all she sees is darkness. The moon is not out.

“Thursdays and Fridays I volunteer at the American Legion. I cook dinner for the veterans and do the dishes. Do you think I do those dishes for the exercise? Do you think I’m friends with those dishes?”

Eulalia laughs nervously. On opposite ends of the room, Elijah and Brandon begin to chant at a whisper, “Bill. Bill. Bill.”

A rivulet of sweat runs down Deborah’s spine.

No sour air, no soporific chemical, no body odor pounds her nostrils. The moon is not out.

“No. I’m not. This should be easy. You’re smarter than this. For a marble in the pizza party jar, why do I do those dishes?”

Mariah raises her hand. “Because no one else will?”

Deborah jabs her fingers into the nerves at the tops of her hips. “Mondays and Fridays I visit an old woman.”

The chant snakes from pod to pod. “Bill. Bill. Bill.”

The moon is not out and no one is in it.

“This old woman has no friends or family, and is very sad and angry. She says some really hurtful and sometimes even painful things.”

The flurries outside turn to dense sheets of snow. Shana’s voice joins the chant. “Bill. Bill. Bill.”

Deborah is not trapped beneath someone gigantic. Her voice is not stifled by something wet and scratchy.

“I don’t like this woman, but I bring her fresh groceries, I change her oxygen tanks, I clean her house, I drive her around town. I even give her a shower. Twice a week I do all of this. I do all this and when I leave I feel good. I feel good. Now class, why do you think I feel good? For a marble in the pizza party jar, why do I feel good?”

Jeffrey farts, and the chanting swells to a wailing. “Bill! Bill! Bill!”

Nothing compresses Deborah’s chest until she fears it will collapse. Nothing forces her eyelids closed, the air from her lungs, the world to disappear. The moon is not out.

“Quiet!” It is an unfamiliar voice that comes from Deborah. A squeal. A death metal scream.

The chanting stops.

“You don’t deserve to watch Bill Nye! No! We will not be watching Bill Nye! No Bill Nye!” Deborah rests her forehead against the white board. “I’m fine, Ricardo. Thank you. Everyone just put your heads down. Someone turn off the lights.”

The students fold onto their desks without a sound. An icy wind whines through a crack beneath the door.

Beneath the me heading, Deborah writes self-worth in messy letters. She drops her arm from the h. Its tail runs off the board.

Deborah lets them watch Bill Nye for the last half hour of school. As they bundle up and leave, she catches snippets of plans for snowball fights and play-dates. It’s unpleasantly silent when they’re gone. Deborah returns the marbles to the pizza party jar, with three hollow clicks.

On the drive home, Deborah doesn’t blink once. The town melts into a blur of color behind her. The Christmas lights on her building look like a city veiled in fog.

Inside, she slumps in her chair with a bottle of wine. A thumping house beat registers behind her head, and she realizes she’s left the radio on.

“How long were you on?” Deborah asks the radio. She reaches around and turns it off, then back on, louder, until each beat sends a prick of pain through her ears. With her mouth full of wine, Deborah pushes herself to a stand. She shuffles her feet to the clank of the drums, wiggles her elbows to the thrum of the strings. It is work, keeping the moon from rising, but to the woman Deborah sees reflected in the TV, it looks like dancing.

 

Otis Fuqua is a Colorado native with his head out of the clouds. Fresh from school, he’s taking some time at home before diving into the whole writer-in-New-York thing. When he’s not hunched over a story trying to get the words right, he’s hiking, writing sappy songs on guitar, and doodling. Past works have been published in Laurel Moon and can be expected in the forthcoming issue of Horror Sleaze Trash.

Photo by aj_aaaab on Unsplash.

Wealth of Nations

By Gemma Cooper-Novack

 

Jeff Bezos wrote a
capitalist haiku and
we all live in it

 

Gemma Cooper-Novack’s debut poetry collection We Might As Well Be Underwater, a finalist for the Central New York Book Award, was published by Unsolicited Press in 2017. Her poetry and fiction have appeared in more than twenty journals, including Glass, Midway Journal, and Lambda’s Poetry Spotlight, and have been nominated for multiple Pushcart Prizes and Best of the Net Awards. Her plays have been produced in Chicago, Boston, and New York. Gemma was a runner-up for the 2016 James Jones First Novel Fellowship, and she has been awarded artist residencies from Catalonia to Virginia and a grant from the Barbara Deming Fund. She is a doctoral candidate in Literacy Education at Syracuse University.

Photo by Rick Tap on Unsplash.

what’s happening with the boys

By Lou Ella Hickman

 

what’s happening with the boys

our prayers & thoughts

bullied?

bang, bang you’re dead

a moment of silence

easy access?

what’s happening with the boys

new laws won’t help

video games?

bang, bang you’re dead

our prayers & thoughts

absent fathers?

what’s happening with the boys

a moment of silence

movies, tv?

bang, bang you’re dead

new laws won’t help

copy cat?

what’s happening with the boys

our thoughts and prayers

a. none of the above
b. all of the above
c. some of the above

flood gates break open voices into the streets

we’ve had enough    we’ve had enough

listen    please listen     how can we get you to listen

to what’s happening with the boys

 

Sister Lou Ella has a master’s in theology from St. Mary’s University in San Antonio and is a former teacher and librarian. She is a certified spiritual director, poet, and writer. Her poems have appeared in numerous magazines, including, America, First Things, Emmanuel, Third Wednesday, and new verse news as well as in four anthologies: The Night’s Magician: Poems about the Moon, edited by Philip Kolin and Sue Brannan Walker, Down to the Dark River edited by Philip Kolin, Secrets, edited by Sue Brannan Walker, and After Shocks: The Poetry of Recovery for Life-Shattering Events, edited by Tom Lombardo.  She was nominated for the Pushcart Prize in 2017. Her first book of poetry, entitled she: robed and wordless, was published in 2015 (Press 53).

Photo by Clem Onojeghuo on Unsplash.

On Sending Her Back

By Abby E. Murray

for Ilhan Omar

 

The man with no back
to return to—
which is to say there is
no path to safety
from the cliff where he clings,
no escape to remind him
the way back is his—
has wished to banish,
send back, cast out
a woman whose back is
all of us, whose back is
her body, a root, a beam
that bears the weight
of home and all its backache,
walls built up and smashed
around the same tree
that makes its rings
into shelters for shelter
and the origin of leaves
that backflip in the sun,
their dance of gratitude—
which is to say
this woman’s back is a gift,
given to her once
by her mother, a stack
of crowns stuffed
with the nerve to rise
and remain and never
turn back toward a time
when she was not,
when her steps
couldn’t be traced
back to the place where
she is, here, with us,
an orchard of spines
that grow deeper
each time a woman
is told to go back.

 

Abby E. Murray is the editor of Collateral, a literary journal publishing work concerned with the impact of violent conflict and military service beyond the combat zone. She is the poet laureate for the city of Tacoma, Washington, where she teaches community workshops for veterans, civilians, military families, and undocumented youth. Her first book, Hail and Farewell, won the Perugia Press Poetry Prize and will be released in September 2019.

Photo credit: Chris Devers via a Creative Commons license.

The Rainbow Sign

By Sara Marchant

 

We went, my mother and I, to get haircuts. The previous appointment was still there, standing in front of the mirror, talking. This woman’s hair made her look like a pretty Afghan dog; her large green eyes did little to compensate for wearing clothes too dowdy for a woman in her forties. The stylist fluttered around nervously, her curly black hair disheveled, her small dog, barking with anxiety, twining around everyone’s feet. Later, the stylist would tell us that the green-eyed woman had been talking for two hours.

Mom sat in the chair, received the apron, and we all listened to the previous appointment, a white evangelical woman, talk about Jesus saving her from a rattlesnake the week before. She stepped out her kitchen door, right on its middle, and it wrapped around her ankle, striking. She said, “I don’t want to alarm you ladies,” but she was the one she was reassuring.

James Baldwin said, “White is a metaphor for power.” White evangelicals seem to take this as encouragement lately. That is, they would if they knew who James Baldwin was or what he wrote or what his work signified with its mere existence.

I know nothing of my hairstylist’s belief system. I know about her children, her grandchildren, her boyfriends, the kind of clothing she shops for and that she likes those excursions where people drink wine and paint. She knows that I am an atheist Mexican-Jew who teaches critical thinking and hasn’t much patience. And she knows my mom will talk to anyone about anything and comes from the generation that will never tell strangers that her family is Jewish. My mom finds it convenient (and by that she means safer) to be Catholic outside the home because of things like World Wars I and II and the Shoah.

The white evangelical woman was sure that it was Jesus who saved her from the rattlesnake, but it sounded like Jesus was her name for her Adidas and thick denim jeans.

She really didn’t appreciate me pointing that out. Standing, one hand on the doorknob, she talked and talked and talked the entire duration of my mother’s haircut.

Then it was my turn. The hairstylist and I helped my mother from the chair and walked her across the room. The white evangelical woman didn’t break verbal stride, but her talk abruptly devolved from her personal relationship with Jesus into an indictment of Catholicism. The stylist paused, her hands shaking, a probable sign that her belief system includes Catholic teachings or did at one time. The hairstylist studied my mom intently, worried for her I believe. She underestimated my mother’s intense distrust of institutionalized power and her particular dislike of priests. (Ask my mom how many times priests sexually harassed or assaulted her in her youth. Or better yet—don’t.) Mom knew how to deal with the white evangelical woman’s bigotry. She placated her, she played along.

My haircut commenced.

While the hairstylist and I discussed the fact that my hair was growing according to our plans– Meryl Streep’s hair from The Devil Wears Prada— I could hear the White Evangelical woman getting bolder. Her statements (because her entire belief system, to her, are absolute statements) oozed closer to objectionable. My mother stopped placating her; her responses now tended toward, “Well, dear, if that brings you comfort …”

“She’s handling her so well,” the hairstylist whispered as she tried to clip up one side of my hair in order to cut the back. “I’m so relieved.”

Just then the rhetoric got louder, more paranoid. The liberal elites were coming for this woman’s religion, they were coming for her faith; they were the reason this country was in such a mess, such a lack of values; the liberal atheists were the ones letting riff-raff into the country, dangerous foreign elements.

My body turned to solidified rage. My blood was lava oozing through fury.

The hairstylist gave up with the hair clips when the third one flew from her shaking hand. She grabbed both my hands and guided them to the weight of my hair.

“Hold this up, okay?” She grabbed her clippers. “I can’t—”

She was applying the clippers to my neck when White Evangelical woman said, “And of course, you can’t trust the world to be safe for honest Christians anymore. Anywhere you go, anywhere, could be filled with atheist liberals who want to take down my cross. They could be anywhere.”

“That’s right,” I said, pulling the hair straight up from my head with both hands. “We are everywhere.”

“Oops.” The hairstylist had run the clippers up the complete length of the back of my head.

“She’s joking, right?” the woman asked my mom.

“Oh no, dear,” Mom said. “She’s not joking at all.”

“We are everywhere. We are sitting in this very chair, in this very room, listening to your nonsense.” It felt like the stylist might have taken my hair down to regimental length. “And thus far, I’ve listened to your nonsense very politely. But no more.”

My mother giggled nervously in the corner; the small dog ran out of the room.

“I didn’t mean to offend your daughter,” the woman said. She let go of the doorknob to wring her hands.

“Well, you did,” I said as the rest of the back of my head was shaved.

“She’s joking, right?” The woman just couldn’t get it that we weren’t like her. “She’s just joking.”

“No, no,” Mom said. “No, dear. She’s dead serious.”

“Well, I’m sure she’s not one of the atheist liberals who are taking down my cross.”

“You’re wrong,” I said. Still holding my hair, yanking it really. “Every day, I wake up and I say to myself, ‘What cross can I destroy today? What cross is just asking for it?’”

“Now she is joking,” my mom said. “That’s called sarcasm. She’s got much better things to do. She’s a very busy woman”

“I didn’t mean to offend anyone.” The woman’s voice was thickening with tears.

“You didn’t, dear,” my mother said. “Don’t cry, you have such pretty green eyes.”

“I am offended,” I said. “You offend me.”

The hairstylist removed my hands from my hair, tried to comb it down over the shaved parts. “Don’t worry,” she whispered. “It looks great. I can fix it.”

“I am offended that you would assume that everyone shares your stunted beliefs. I am offended by everything you said. I am.” I turned to the hairstylist. “Did you just shave the back of my head?”

“It looks great!” She patted me on the shoulder.

The White Evangelical woman was trying to stifle tears, still insisting she’d meant no offense, that she didn’t understand what had just happened. Why was I being so mean to her?

That week, in my critical thinking class, we’d gone over DARVO. Deny, attack, and reverse victim and offender. I promised myself, this would make for a great object lesson for my students. Eventually, I could explain it calmly and rationally. Right then, though, I wished for a nearby cross to destroy. I was capable of ripping it apart with my bare hands. I wanted to pick my teeth with its splinters after biting this woman’s head off.

My mother was helping the White Evangelical woman to the door, still telling her not to cry. Mom opened the door, gently pushed the woman through it and shut it in her face. The little dog ran back into the room.

“I thought I’d better show her out,” my mother said, “before you started quoting Tom Waits.”

“‘Come down off your cross, we could use the wood.’” I said. “Why didn’t I think of that?”

The hairstylist scooped up her dog and dropped into the shampooing chair, cuddling him on her lap. We all three sat and looked at each other for a while. I couldn’t stop touching the back of my shaved head. It felt naked, exposed. It should have made me nervous; it should have made me empathetic to those who feel they require some sort of magical protection from the dangers of our world. It didn’t. It made me feel belligerent, powerful, capable of pulling crosses from the raped earth and chopping them to firewood with my anger. Maybe I should have thanked that sad, bigoted woman. She knew not what she’d done.

Another work of James Baldwin’s contains an epigraph having to do with the biblical story of Noah and his ark, God’s promise that the water would recede. I’ve no pity for that woman’s tears. What weight do her tears have compared with the tears of the “foreign element” she described? The tears of the children in cages, the tears of the mother’s writing their names and birthdates in Sharpie ink on the flesh of their babies in hopes of having a chance at reunification when the children are wrenched from their arms, the tears of the sick ones dying in the hielera? I save my sympathy for the more deserving, but I do wish I could go back and confront that woman again, using language that maybe she’d understand.

God gave Noah the rainbow sign: No more water, the fire next time.

Then again, maybe she wouldn’t.

 

Sara Marchant, a prose editor at Writers Resist, received her MFA in Creative Writing and Writing for the Performing Arts from the University of California, Riverside/Palm Desert. Her work has been published by The Manifest Station, Every Writer’s Resource, Full Grown People, Brilliant Flash Fiction, The Coachella Review, East Jasmine Review, ROAR, and Desert Magazine. Her work has been anthologized in  All the Women in My Family Sing, and by Running Wild Press. Her novella, The Driveway Has Two Sides, was published by Fairlight Books. Her memoir, Proof of Loss, was published by Otis Books.

Photo credit: Forsaken Fotos via a Creative Commons license.

Longing to Belong

By Elizabeth Weaver

 

girl with eyes too large and
milky teeth fairies must wait
years for in country that ripped
her from Mama locked her in
metal cage no laughter crosses
her howl swells into lost
others’ sounds for families
babies resounds past soiled
dreams strips belonging as
those ripping teach children
how arms are weapons

 

Elizabeth Weaver, M.A., is a Squaw Valley Community Writer whose work appears in dirtcakes, RATTLE, 5AM, and other publications. Visit her website at ElizabethOakleyWeaver.com.

Photo credit: United Nations.

We Are Not America

By Diane Elayne Dees

 

America is Mexico, Columbia, Brazil,
Argentina, Canada. It is Paraguay,
El Salvador, Guatemala, Uruguay, Venezuela,
and Chile. America is Ecuador, Nicaragua,
Bolivia, and Honduras. It requires a lot of nerve
to take the name of two huge continents
and make it your own. We are the man
who stands against the bar, sprawling
his arms and legs so wide that no one can sit.
We are the woman who takes up three seats
with her body, her purse, her computer,
and her yoga mat. We are the truck
that occupies two parking spaces,
the teenager who sits in the middle of the floor
and makes everyone step around him.
We are a lot of things, both good and bad.
But we are not America.

 

Diane Elayne Dees’ poetry has been published in many journals and anthologies. Diane, who lives in Covington, Louisiana, also publishes Women Who Serve, a blog that delivers news and commentary on women’s professional tennis throughout the world. Her chapbook, I Can’t Recall Exactly When I Died, is forthcoming form Clare Songbirds Publishing House. Also forthcoming, from Kelsay Books, is Diane’s chapbook, Coronary Truth. Her author blog is Diane Elayne Dees.

North Pole Bombshell: Elves to Be Shelved! by Marcy Dilworth

MEMORANDUM

TO:                 The Elf Consortium

FROM:           Kris Kringle, aka Santa Claus

RE:                 Downsizing1

DATE:            November 24, 2019

******************************************************************************

After extensive thought and countless sleepless nights, it is with great sadness and disappointment that I announce the downsizing of our North Pole headquarters. Physical, marketplace, and socio-political changes factored into our decision, as outlined below.

Physical

Our physical headquarters sits on a mass of ice. No one can deny that both the thickness and the breadth of our ice-home have shrunk over the last couple of decades, more rapidly over the last several years. Our prayers and support remain with the families of the elves lost when the Mr. Potato Head facility submerged through unprecedentedly-thin ice that fateful August night.

Efforts to lobby “the most powerful country on earth” to lead the world on a better path appear to have backfired; all evidence points to them worsening the warming. We will continue to commit resources to the solution of this global problem, but with their current leadership, we remain pessimistic. In fact, the U.S. administration suggested that we relocate our operation to Florida, purchasing our land through them. Their “science” resources don’t acknowledge that melting ice turns into more water in the ocean—and that water will continue to encroach on and flood Florida’s coastline.

Marketplace

You know it, I know it: Amazon. We deliver countless gifts, on-time, every-time, one night a year. They offer one-day service (same-day service for select items, for heaven’s sake) every %$+*@& day. Instant gratification is no longer the exception—it’s a way of life. For those with plenty, there’s not much left for their Santa wish list.

Socio-political

The well-being of our business and the Santa Claus brand is fueled by customers’ belief—the sleigh runs on it! Unfortunately, the erosion of faith in long-trusted institutions has bled over into even our loving, giving organization. And then last week’s fake news happened.

Grinch News aired this ridiculous announcement: “U.S. President is Santa Claus! All good2 boys and girls to receive double the gifts this year.” To our astonishment, more than 40% of the country believed it, and re-routed their gift demands from The North Pole to the White House. On Christmas morning, when these promises go unmet, we’re confident the White House will announce that the blame lies in a conspiracy cooked up by the Democrats, Stephen Colbert, and me. Instead of believing in Santa, after a lifelong and joyful association, the 40% will believe that.

Recommendations for your next challenge

The skills you elves have honed over centuries will serve you well in the modern world. Here are a few suggested bullet points to add to your resumes/job applications:

  • Career-long history of on-time delivery.
  • Logistics expertise.
  • Adept at discerning and fulfilling customers’ desires.
  • Deep product knowledge in toys, consumer electronics, and jewelry.
  • Capable of working long hours.
  • Great teammate—cheerful, gregarious, hardworking.

I’d be delighted to serve as a reference for any of you.

A specific recommendation: Take a look at Target. They value customer service and warehouse-related skills such as package organizing, handling and distribution. Plus, they require that their employees wear red attire throughout the year. Who’s got more red coats, sweaters, polo shirts, and pants than Santa and the Elf Consortium? Nobody!

Additionally, for any of you who may have been bitten by the acting bug: Given the wealth of movies and TV shows featuring folks of your description, demand for your services has never been higher. Break a leg!

Looking to the future

As long as we can safely do so, we will conduct operations out of our North Pole location. Large manufacturing will be outsourced and/or moved to places that have declared themselves not for sale to the U.S. president (Greenland being one such example). We will focus less on toys and, within our limited budget, more on providing the basics to those who have the most need.

As devastated as we feel today, let us keep our hope alive. I believe we can effect positive change regardless of our place of work. I pray we will prevail soon. I have faith in the many truly good people in the world. Let’s make it better together, and take care of each other during the holidays and all the rest of the year.

A subdued but heartfelt “Ho Ho Ho” to each and every one of you,

Santa

1 “Downsizing” is not a height-ist term; it is widely accepted as the appropriate word for what ensues when circumstances force an organization to reduce workforce, capacity, etc.

2 “Good” definition applies to those children with parents who have: standing monetary commitments to the president, at least gold-level Frequent Guest cards for the president’s properties, and incomes greater than $250,000. Santa’s Note: Only a tiny percentage of the folks directing their Christmas letters to the White House will meet these criteria; the rest will not benefit.

 

Marcy Dilworth writes short fiction and non-fiction. Her stories have recently been published in Blink-Ink’s 10th Anniversary edition and Literary Mama. She earned her English degree at the University of Virginia, and her sense of humor at the hands of four older siblings. She lives in her recently emptied nest with her husband and their precocious rescue pup, Kirby. Marcy can be found on Twitter @MCDHoo41.

Daughteret is not a made-up word

By H. E. Casson

        for Tarana Burke

 

Your whisper met with stone and echoed back
“A cave is not a prison,” ricocheted
Ancestors live in each abraded crack
A line from renegade to renegade

I see your eyes are tired, heart is sore
Body bearing scar and gash and grit
In counting these eleven years and more
For all the voices to escape the pit

But thunder brings deluge to drown them out
And scavengers come picking at their bones
The repercussion grows into a shout
A hundred thousand you-are-not-alones

And even as my echoes hit the wall
I’m thankful that you chose to speak at all

 

H. E. Casson lives in a very small house in Toronto with one human, no pets and 28 plants. They are a library technician and writer whose work has been published in Room, Cricket, Jones Av., (EX)Cite, Smart Moves, and Today’s Parent Toronto, among others.

Poet’s note: When I chose to use the classic form of the sonnet, I realized that, even though sonnet means little song, it sounds male. I imagined the line of daughters going back generations, much the way we have linked histories father to son. As a bit of an aside to myself, I started calling my poem a daughteret instead of a sonnet. This made me think about how quickly women and genderqueer people are mocked for creating words that include us or scratch at the surface of the status quo. I see criticisms that our words are “made up” as though the existing words sprung from nature or were handed down by god. Daughteret is an organic expression of an idea I had when writing about a woman who takes care of so many daughters. When I realized the poem needed a name, I could think of nothing better than to share a word that grew out of my admiration for her.

Photo credit: Lynn Friedman via a Creative Commons license.