“YOU SHOULDN’T EAT CHILDREN, DOLLY”

Photographer - Tobi Brun

FROM FOXFIRE,
VOLUME MCMXXXLIII:
CHAPTER—
“YOU SHOULDN’T EAT CHILDREN, DOLLY”

You shouldn’t eat children
— Not unless you’ve murdered them—
FIRST— !
That’s just civilized.
Enny-
Body
With a woodland cottage
Made o prefab gingerbread
Knows that-there’un...
W’en they see h’it— !
says Dolly Parton’s distant
evil twin cousin— Drag Dolly—
who only hit # 20
on the “Cunt-Tree” charts— once’st—
but runs a “right nice” pie
n bakery outfit
“nowl”
at the foot of the dark of the moon.

AND THIS TOO
IS MOONDAY...

Once upon a time when the Headlights were young
and still at school attending automotive mechanics class,
they dreamed of being the eyes of an old timey horsey
and of going out riding with bank robbers.
But, now, now
it’s many years later, many, many years
and they’re parked outside a lonely coin operated laundry-mat
at Fort Worth in Texas—
it’s dusk, and they’re just
barely hanging on in the grill of a rusted out elderly Chevy Nova
staring through the big windows at the change machines
as the moon quickens
and moods darken
as they try to work up the nerve
to finally jump the curb
and stage a robbery.

KENTUCKY MAN # 1

Covington manufacturers
appear at sentencing.
Lawyers “concerned”
for dying horses
working illegal shifts at McDonald’s.
Meanwhile,
in Today’s Picks:
a northern Ky. council-person
(possibly a petty, pretty stupid, geeky, greedy A.I. of some sort...
a knock off Kentucky man-woo-woman, of course, but pretty close... )
is indicted for drug trafficking
as area stores
and high-priced loft conversions
Invite you to an orgy of consumerism—
this Sunday @
OMG!-I-Didn’t-Know-I-Could-Fall-For-That-A-Rama!---
on the K.-Y. side of the riverfront—
BYO lube:
“SOMEBODY’S going to get screwed!---
... butt good... “

SOUND IT OUT

I really enjoyed
Ben Johnson
in The Last Picture Show
and in The Getaway
opposite Ali McGraw & Steve McQueen
playing the villain
and in all those
John Ford films, too,
and I really like that play he wrote—
Volpone,
or The Fox—
but I hadn’t really figured
that his cousin Sam
had been the one who writ the dictionary
n had a fella name of Boswell
that followed him all ‘round
n took down what all he said,
& I didn’t even know
Ben Johnson was English—
or, that you could spell him “Jonson”---
which just makes his accent
that much more impressive
& goes to show
the more n further you travel from home
the more you’re likely to pick things up
and lose others
until, then, pretty soon,
you sound just like you’re a local
if you put in the work,
blood, sweat, tears,
heroism n crimes—
and you pay the tolls that come
with one life after another life after another
of just putting foot-one in front of # two
n, mostly,
being terribly confused
and, sometimes,
life in the balance, desperate—
sounding it out in a whisper, like a prayer
or a promise to do better
to be better, to do
Some-
thing... right, whatever it is,
finally, that you can leave behind that’s you.

David Earl Williams was born deep down near the bottom of the Ethnocentric Gorge and grew up on the banks of the great Ethnocentric River just like everybody else who was ever temporarily alive. Google: david earl williams poetry for more bios, links, and poetry. EVERYBODY LIVES HERE ONE NIGHT AT A TIME, Hillbilly DaDa Poetry ( for sure as hell follin' in the aisles, barkin' at the moon DaDa-Dogmatic times... ) is available for purchase from https://wetcementpress.com ( Berkeley )

‘Dippin’ Dots at Hershey Park’

Photographer - Tobi Brun

Dippin’ Dots at Hershey Park

Yesterday I promised my great-niece,
old enough to remember promises,
Dippin’ Dots, which she claims
she loves more than anything.
I have never known anyone
Who loves Dippin’ Dots, so
I promised her
I would buy her some tomorrow.
Now it is tomorrow, in that relentless way
things happen, and we find the stand
among sycamore trees
somehow surviving under the roller coaster.
I think of Amos,
dresser of sycamore trees, reluctant prophet,
knowing the prophet’s fate,
wanting an out.
“It’s OK,” I whisper back along the centuries.
“No one listens.”
I sing, softly, amid the theme part crowds,
I ain’t no prophet
No prophet’s child
But I have seen the future
And it’s mean and wild.
I think of Dippin’ Dots,
the astronauts who
supposedly ate them out in space,
when future meant
bright promise.
We break our promises
so easily, especially to children.
They won’t remember, we say,
so we use the plastic bags,
buy the gas,
keep the status quo.
It’s just hard enough
getting through a day.
We’ll do it tomorrow, we say.
They’ll forget, we say.
Someday, someday, someday.
Beads dropping off a string.
It’s so easy
to break promises,
especially to children.
They won’t remember.
So easy that I want to keep
one promise.
I buy her Dippin’ Dots,
Chocolate and vanilla beads,
like a broken plastic necklace.
like a broken plastic tomorrow.

Andrea Abbott has written for many years, mostly poetry and essays. She has had a variety of careers, including twenty years as a correctional librarian in a men's prison. She has lived most of her life in rural areas of upstate New York.

‘Devilfish’

Photographer - Tobi Brun

Devilfish

An enrapturing chill swells across your body as your eyes open to an endless blue world. The salty Salish waters envelop you and curiosity strikes intensely as a pressure pushes you from below. You break through the twinkling surface and feel a sudden relief as oxygen fills your lungs. Your delicately fresh eyes spot tall black spears circling towards you before submerging once more. Clicks and whistles fill the sea and their curiosity turns to a happy greeting of squeals and splashing at the surface. Their size triumphs over you, but you don’t feel threatened. They greet you as a new friend, and you begin to recognize each click and whistle as their own.

Your mother takes you to meet the salmon, and taste their rich, pink meat for the first time of many. A friend says there used to be many more in our home, but the sea has gotten warmer and the salmon only smaller. Your cousins take you to the floating patches of kelp and play in its slimy buoyancy. They grab a piece in their mouth and chase you with it. Squeaking from laughter, you pick up speed towards the surface and feel the sudden chill of the wind for just a short moment of being airborne. In that moment, you see a whole different world that rolls in hills and mountains. A lush evergreen ocean. You crash back down into the sea and share your excitement in ecstatic clicks that shared a new meaning of happiness. They tell stories of the animals who live in the evergreen ocean, that they don’t like us but we respect them all the same. As the sea grew quieter, your new family leaps into the sky countless times, and you marvel at how much higher they can go.

The orange glow of the setting sun sunk over the horizon as you and your new family float still atop the waves. Glimmers of the star sparkled over the surface of the quiet sea as you watch your first sunset over your new home.

Is every day this beautiful? You ask.

Yes, they all reply.

You dive quickly and ascend even quicker. The surface breaks and the force of gravity pushes you back down towards the sea, as if to say: Not yet. A quiet splash traveled through the air as you came down, followed by the multitudes of thunderous crashings by your family. Flying through the air again, and again, squeaks of joy and pride fill your home, your sea. You are one day old, and this is the best day of your life.

A few hundred sunsets pass over, and you are still minimal in comparison to the sizes of the others. Each day that has passed, that will pass, is filled with discovery and a forever emboldening curiosity. Every new day you feel yourself leaping into the sky a little bit higher than the days before.

As the seasons change and the sun sets at its latest, the islands are where you call home. They always were home, that was known without being told. As you circle the islands through the days and nights in search of the salmon, another family that looks almost entirely like you passes by, but their language is nothing you can understand. They look empty of the joy you share each day. Your mother notices that there aren’t as many as she remembers. You pass in different directions with little acknowledgment but shared solemnity. This new feeling of a dampening inside nearly overwhelms you, but it subsides in an instant as you find new salmon to chase. The sun sets over your sea as another day ends, and you choose that like every other day, this one is another favorite. This will be your final favorite day. The rising sun shone over the evergreen land to the west as a new day danced over your home. The infinite colors of the sea floor were especially bright today. Everyone greets the new sun with skyward leaps. From a distance, a low hum emerged through the sea. This was not a foreign sound to you, you recognize it as families from the evergreen. You click to find your mom, but an explosion louder than any family breach rocks your sonar into a deafening ring.

White bubbles of air float upwards around you as you cry in shock. The new members of your family cry for their moms in the same sea-splitting tone. Your mother appears from the surface and urges you to take off. Everyone follows as you push your tail through the sea with intensifying pressure. More explosions rock the sea around you. The mothers urge you to stay away from the surface for as long as you can. You feel your heart pound beneath the fat of your young body and a new feeling engulfs you: fear. You need air, you and the other small ones can’t stay under as long as the others. You break the surface and take in the cool air for an instant, but you are thrown with the violent force of another explosion, this one brushed your fin. You return to your mothers side, but the sea grew shallower, shallower, and shallower as the hum of the machine rose above you. A small cove lay ahead of you and wide nets sprung out from the machines, blocking off where you came in. There is nowhere to go.

The often silent sound of the sea became a violent shrill of terrified clicks. A net is thrown down in front of you and the other little ones, separating you, your friends, and your mothers. The fright became an indecipherable terror as you hear more screaming cries ring out through the sea. Desperate to be back in their mothers grace, you and the other little ones swim deep to sneak through the netting. You gnaw and shake through the rope, but can’t squeeze through. You move back and observe the older family members on the other side of the net make their futile attempt. Through their fright, four of the little ones attempt to charge through the netting. They twist and twirl and shriek, and the ropes catch around their fins. Their mothers feel them gently with their fins until they go limp without air.

The mothers nudge them with their snouts, but they loll in the netting. The life in the little eyes dim as quickly as they once glowed. You rise for oxygen, and in that moment you break the surface you feel a net cast around you. As you are pulled away, you see the animals on the water machine hoisting your little friends out of the sea. You push against the force that is pulling back, but the force exhausts your little body. Small bodies of your friends rise from the sea, and they are slowly hoisted up. You watch them plunge a blade into their small bodies. An incision opens along their small snow-white stomach, staining it red. The animals begin to fill rocks into your friends' lifeless bodies. Their blood began to drip into their home like the river the salmon ran from.

Their bodies are encircled with chains and an anchor, and thrown back into their home with a dull crash. Sounds of the machine animals' laughter infect the sounds around you. You dive to help bring them back to the surface, you think they just need more air, but the net yanks you back harder. The smell of their blood fills the water around you, and you cannot escape it. You want to fight, but you can only watch as they bathe the mothers and cousins and siblings in their family blood. The machine begins to tug you faster, and your family becomes a blip on the horizon. You call their names, but your pleas are lost to the sea. After many pulverizing moments of swimming against the machine that tugged you along, you cry once more, only to again hear nothing in return.

You turn and swim with the machine that chose you to come along. You feel yourself lifted into the air. The force of gravity screamed at you for the prolonged skyward flight, and you felt your weight crush against itself. You are placed in a small pool. White concrete surrounds you in a slope. There are no new friends to meet or places to explore. The only view to the outside was a small rectangular window, where the animals using the machines stare at you in unintelligible sounds. You swim in a circle for endless sunsets. You call for your family, and a little one you recognize responds from a neighboring pool. Are you okay, you ask them. I want to watch the sunset with my mom again, they reply. A shuddering crash from their pool shakes your little sea. Another one, and another, until you smell their blood from across the pool. You feel them crush their skull against the concrete prison walls, each crash followed by an echoing crack, and deeper thicker blood pooled out with each thundering shudder.

A quick, painstricken shriek follows, but you can only listen as the cries grow fainter as the stench of family blood grew inescapable. The sun sets over you once again, and the silent stillness of the pool seemed to shrink its walls in on you. You watch the animals from the machine carry your friend's body out later that night. You’re bigger now. Bigger than your mom was the last time you saw her. You’ve been moved to different pools throughout your life, made to do tricks for fawning animals in crowds.

They laugh and yell the same way they did on your last day home. You remember sharing a pool with one who looked almost like you, one with a voice you recognized from the passing family you shared solemnity with. You wonder if your family passed others like that. Each night you watch the sunset pass over your sterile concrete tank, and you hope that one day you can watch its orange glimmering glow over the sea with your family one more time, and you think that may be your favorite day of all.

Ben Gates is a fan of orcas, dinosaurs, and the outdoors. Born and raised in the Seattle area, he is no stranger to the heavy raindrops that shed their tears before the North Cascades which have towered over him all his life. To look at mountains so big, Ben sees their history, their potential to be a story so grand, it towers as high as the Cascades. He hopes to one day capture that story, but for now, he is a student at Western Washington University, pursuing a degree in the English creative writing department with a Film Studies minor.

‘The Sleepless Knights’ Excerpt

Photographer - Tobi Brun

The Sleepless Knights

“...I’m Cayden. Cayden Donnelly.” He held out his hand.

“I know who you are.” She hesitated before giving him a lightning quick handshake.

She wanted to pinch herself since the only time and place she confidently talked to a boy was in her dreams, especially a boy so effortlessly cool and out of reach. His features were like a work of art - each detail carefully crafted with precision. The stubble on his jawline, his tousled chestnut hair, and his piercing hazel eyes gave off an air of mystery and danger. Despite his intimidating appearance, she couldn't help but be drawn to his raw attractiveness. He wore tight Levi's that hugged his muscular legs, a slightly worn black leather jacket, and a gold chain around his neck. A white t-shirt peeked out from under the jacket, completing his edgy look. Maeve's hazel eyes paled in comparison to his striking gaze - they were like the leaves just before they turned in the crisp autumn air. As she spoke to him, she couldn't help but feel a sense of both exhilaration and unease, knowing that this boy was completely unattainable but also dangerously alluring.

“I never caught your name.”

“That’s because I didn’t throw it, James.”

“James?”

“As in Dean.”

“Oh yeah, nice!” He smiled and nodded with pride.

You listen to our music?”

“If it pops up on the radio. Can’t say I’ve added you guys to one of my mix tapes yet.”  

“So what do you usually listen to? No wait, don’t tell me..The Bangles, or Tiffany, right?”

She wasn’t surprised he named a popular girl rock band and a solo singer, both of whom played religiously at the roller skating rink that she and Rhiannon frequented.

“They’re okay..if you need something to dance to. But growing up in my house you have to be into hard rock, the longer the hair the better. At least that’s what it used to be,” she finished under her breath.

“That’s cool. My dad was a hippie, so everything he listened to required tie-dye and acid trips.”

Maeve nervously shuffled through the stack of papers sitting on the counter, her mind racing as she tried to come up with something interesting to say. She couldn't shake the feeling that the more she spoke, the more evident her lack of conversation skills would become. In an attempt to fill the awkward silence, she began tapping her fingers on the table and whistling along to a tune playing in her head. Her eyes darted around, searching for inspiration or distraction from the handsome man sitting across from her. He was a member of a rapidly rising band, destined for Bon Jovi-level stardom, and Maeve felt intimidated by his presence. What could she possibly say to impress him? But she couldn't deny the fluttering in her stomach every time their eyes met or the way his lips curved into a smile when she spoke. As much as she wanted to make a lasting impression on this hot musician, deep down, she knew that once he left, any words or actions on her part would fade from his memory like a fleeting melody.

“So..do you like working here?”

“It’s okay. Gives me plenty of time to myself since what you see is what you get as far as customers,” she waved her hands around the empty store.

“Must get kind of boring though, huh?”

“I’m alone a lot but rarely bored.”

“Ha, sometimes I wish I knew what being alone is like. When you’re on the road with your five brothers, and you can barely run into a Dunkin Donuts without getting bombarded by screaming girls, you don’t get many quiet moments.” He smiled but she could tell he was only half joking.  

“Awww, what’s the matter? Too much Aqua Net and frosted lipstick for your tastes,” she quipped, offering him a stick of Juicy Fruit which he accepted.  

“Definitely,” he chuckled.

“Well, trust me, unless you like boardwalk games and Pork Roll, egg, and cheese, don’t bother with a Jersey girl.” She was only half kidding.

“Ah, the classic debate of pork roll versus Taylor ham, and let’s not forget the iconic boardwalks and diners of New Jersey. I understand completely. Being Irish and from New England, people often assume I'm a heavy drinker who eats clam chowder all day.”

“Do you ever get asked if you’re a Kennedy?” she laughed.

“Not yet,” he smiled.

Even if she was in the midst of anger or sadness, his smile would be infectious. It spread like wildfire, lighting her up from within.

“So are you going to tell me your name, or are you going to leave me in suspense?” He spun a turning rack of calendars around, still trying to hide his presence from fans who may happen to pass by.

“If I tell you, you’re not going to stalk me are you? I mean, I know my intense allure is hard to resist,” she bantered. It was fifteen minutes to 9 pm, so Maeve used her key to bring the gate a quarter of the way down, a classic mall indicator of approaching closing time.

“So… do you like working here?”

“It’s okay. Gives me plenty of time to myself since what you see is what you get as far as customers,” she waved her hands around the empty store.

“Must get kind of boring though, huh?”

“I’m alone a lot but rarely bored.”

“Ha, sometimes I wish I knew what being alone is like. When you’re on the road with your five brothers, and you can barely run into a Dunkin Donuts without getting bombarded by screaming girls, you don’t get many quiet moments.” He smiled but she could tell he was only half joking. 

“Awww, what’s the matter? Too much Aqua Net and frosted lipstick for your tastes,” she quipped, offering him a stick of Juicy Fruit which he accepted.  

“Definitely,” he chuckled.

“Well, trust me, unless you like boardwalk games and Pork Roll, egg, and cheese, don’t bother with a Jersey girl.” She was only half kidding.

“Ah, the classic debate of pork roll versus Taylor ham and the iconic boardwalks and diners of New Jersey. I understand completely. Being Irish and from New England, people often assume I'm a heavy drinker who eats clam chowder all day.”

“Do you ever get asked if you’re a Kennedy?” she laughed.

“Not yet,” he smiled.

Even if she was in the midst of anger or sadness, his smile would be infectious. It spread like wildfire, lighting her up with warmth.

“So are you going to tell me your name, or are you going to leave me in suspense?” He spun a turning rack of calendars around, still trying to hide his presence from fans who may happen to pass by.

“If I tell you, you’re not going to stalk me are you? I mean, I know my intense allure is hard to resist,” she bantered. It was fifteen minutes to 9 pm, so Maeve used her key to bring the gate a quarter of the way down, a classic mall indicator of approaching closing time.

“A little too self-deprecating don’t you think?”

“I speak as I find, Mr. Donnelly,” she smirked. He followed her around the store closely as she straightened racks and shelves. With every step he took closer to her, she tried to take a step away.

“But what if others find you interesting?”

“I kind of don’t know what that’s like.”

“Well, I think you’re interesting.”

“But you don’t even know me.”

“Trust me, I know more than you think..I mean..I’ve been around plenty of girls like you.”

“Girls like me, huh? And what kind of girl is that?” Maeve's heart raced as she stared at the stranger in front of her. She could feel his penetrating gaze on her, and it made her skin tingle with anticipation. With a shaky hand, she opened the register and began counting bills, anything to keep a safe distance from him. But even as she tried to maintain her composure, she couldn't shake the feeling that he was dangerous, a seductive rock star who could lure any woman into his bed without even trying. Maeve wasn't the kind of girl who fell for those types. She was smart, sassy, and always kept her walls up - never letting anyone get too close. Guys didn’t want to be chased by a girl less exciting than a can of Tab soda.

But then he spoke, and his words hit her like a punch to the gut. He saw through her facade and recognized the fear and pain she kept hidden within herself.

“Smart, quirky, sarcastic, but closed off, like you’re always trying to hide from everything and everyone. But you don’t realize that..that you are…everything..to somebody.”

And just like that, everything changed. She couldn't move or speak, frozen in shock at his perceptive words. Her mind raced as she tried desperately to form a response, but all she could manage was a whispered “thank you”. Her cheeks burned with embarrassment as she struggled to hide her true feelings from this man who seemed to see right through her.

“And I guess you know me so well, huh?” Maeve finally answered, trying desperately not to smile as she counted coins.

“Of course I don’t know you. But let’s just say..I see a lot in people they don’t necessarily see in themselves.”

Tara Lesko is a Jersey born and raised special education teacher, professor, and writer whose work has appeared in The Comstock Review and NJ Bards. She is the author of Serotonin with a Side of Fries, please - a collection of poems and stories. Her second collection of poems is titled Let Us Keep Driving. Most recently, she published I Drank from the Garden Hose - a collection of Generation X/80's and 90's nostalgic stories and poems. Tara is a William Paterson University alum who studied under the tutelage of phenomenal poets and writers such as Rachel Wetzsteon, Timothy Liu, and Philip Cioffari. She is also an avid mixed media artist and miniature creator. Find her at www.facebook.com/taraannlesko or idrankfromthegardenhose.com

‘Barren’, ‘Besotted’ & ‘Eros’

Photographer - Tobi Brun

Barren

When there’s no more blood

To be had

From this shriveled and

Desiccated stone

I will let my heart

Lie fallow

In the field

This season

So there’s a chance of

Something to be collected

When the future reaping comes

Besotted

I trampled through the soot

Barefoot

For weeks

Unwilling to cleanse myself

Of you

Even though

I’m the one

who foolishly

struck the match

Until one day

I swept the ashes

Into a pail

Before carefully sifting them

Into a bottle

Bottle to vile

Vile to cup

I drank the tincture

Of the remnants

Of an incomplete love

Burned in a blaze of wildfire

grown cold

And cast aside

Whose carbon memory

now stains and sustains

Me from the inside out

Eros

I could be

A hundred women

I could make

A hundred homes

I could live

A hundred lives

But I could never

Love

As I love you

Legacy

Who will continue to hold

Our failures against us

Or sing the praises

Of our success

Once we sleep

Under stones

Carved of granite

Rebirth

Everywhere I look

I’m haunted by

The ghosts of women I used to be

They whisper to me

In sweet melodic tones

And cast their shadows

Of yesterday

On the woman

I am becoming

Becky A. Benson's work has appeared in print, online, and various television and podcast outlets. Becky holds a degree in psychology, is an advocate member of the Access to Equitable Carrier Screening Coalition, Certified Peer Support Specialist through the Child Neurology Foundation, and works for the National Tay-Sachs and Allied Diseases Association as the organization’s Family Services Manager. Find her at beckyabenson.com.

‘Mr. O’Brien’

Mr. O’Brien 

Doctor Hazel felt obligated to attend Mr. O’Brien’s funeral. He rose early on a windy Saturday morning, kissed Marie goodbye, and hurried crosstown to Saint Michael’s. This time of the year, the days were brief and severe. Doctor Hazel wore rabbit-fur mittens and his scarf was wrapped tightly around his neck and head. He stood with a clean-shaven heavyset priest and the priest performed the memorial service. There were a few gravediggers waiting to lower the casket but nobody else was in attendance. This was a bit odd, Doctor Hazel thought.

Because for twenty-five years, Mr. O’Brien had been the most famous dramatist in America. He’d achieved every literary award, including the Nobel Prize. He’d been so famous, that Doctor Hazel couldn’t help but to feel uncertain and timid around him. His work with Mr. O’Brien was kept private. Marie was an admirer from her romantic college days and his daughter, Essie, had played a prostitute in a performance of a play that had once won Mr. O’Brien the Pulitzer Prize. Mr. O’Brien was only being fifty-five. There was little to say about Mr. O’Brien that wasn’t personal and mean-spirited. Because of an uncontrollable tremor, he hadn’t written a word in ten years. He was often drunk and his wife had left him.

When Mr. O’Brien died, of cerebellar cortical atrophy, a form of brain deterioration commonly found in horses, the news went around the world. Marie had been troubled because she’d read every play of him when she’d been in college. Then she said funnily that she’d forgotten if Mr. O’Brien was dead or alive. That’s how long it’d been since she’d thought of him. The excitement of Mr. O’Brien quickly dispersed as time went and other worldly events took place. His plays were a bit out of fashion and he hadn’t been so public a celebrity.

The service was restricted to a brief speech by the priest. Mr. O’Brien had been trying very hard to be a Catholic. The priest spoke well of this struggle, and of Mr. O’Brien’s final absolution upon facing death. While listening to this, Doctor Hazel considered that Mr. O’Brien had refused a priest from seeing him at the very end of his life, that last rites hadn’t been given.

After the service, they descended the hill together. Doctor Hazel rewrapped the scarf tighter, for the wind had picked up, and noted that the priest’s flabby face was splotched an ugly purplish maroon. At the bottom of the hill a decorative gate secured the cemetery from the street. The priest made sure the gate-door was securely tight and they continued strolling together as if they were ordinary friends. Saint Michael’s was in a quiet neighborhood of shops and restaurants and there was a thin, but bustling crowd on the streets. It was only eleven in the morning, but Doctor Hazel badly desired a glass of beer and a cigarette.

“Well, that’s over with,” Doctor Hazel said as they stopped at a corner. He’d said it to say something. “That was a good memorial given the circumstances. You spoke very well.”

“Did you say something?” the priest asked.

Doctor Hazel coughed. “I thought a few people would’ve shown.”

“Why would you think there would be more people? He was an older man.”

“He has children and other family somewhere.”

“Is that right?” the priest asked. “Yes, you’re right.”

Once everyone had wanted to know what he’d thought about this or that, but Mr. O’Brien withered from depression and was prejudiced towards most people. Everyone had been vanquished from his life. One of his children had committed suicide by jumping out a window. His other son was addicted to opiates, like Mr. O’Brien’s mother had been. His daughter was estranged because she’d married an older man – they had several children and lived well in Los Angeles. He hadn’t known his daughter well because he’d been separated from her mother upon her birth. He’d left her for another woman, had made this woman his wife, and had driven this wife out. This wife was living in New Jersey. These were facts Doctor Hazel head learned.

“I liked what you said up there,” Doctor Hazel tried with the priest. He realized he didn’t know the priest’s name. “I don’t know your prayers or anything, but I liked what you said.”

“Thank you.”

“Did you know him well?”

“No, not very well,” the priest said. “His wife wrote me, saying how he would’ve wanted a Catholic service. I said that was fine.”

Doctor Hazel nodded and felt the cigarettes in his pocket. “He would’ve liked that you did the service because he tried very hard to be a Catholic and was always resentful that –”

“It’s not so hard to be a Catholic. He didn’t want to be one.”

Doctor Hazel took out the cigarettes, looked at them, and put them back into his pocket. “It was hard for him to stick to it. His mother was a Catholic, of course.”

“That’s what she told me, that it was a struggle.”

“Yes, one play would be about God and the next wouldn’t.”

“Did you read them?”

“My wife knows all his plays.”

The priest nodded and asked for a cigarette. Doctor Hazel lit it for him and they smoked together as they went on. It didn’t feel very odd to walk with a priest, and Doctor Hazel even allowed himself to feel a little epiphanic and holy himself.

“It’s a bit unfortunate, this whole thing,” the priest said. “Stop for a beer?”

“I was thinking the same thing.” Doctor Hazel looked up at him. “They let you in bars?”

“Nobody will care,” the priest said with a little laugh. He looked up at the grey sky and shook his head. “It looks like it might rain and there won’t be anything to do on a day like today except go back and sit for a while inside.”

“It’s a day for a funeral and a day for getting a beer with a priest,” Doctor Hazel said.

The priest coughed. “Yes, that’s right. Down here.”

The priest led them down a coiled staircase to a basement bar where a few old men drank calmly. The bartender had long white sideburns. He poured them beer in old-fashioned pitcher-glasses with handles. Partway through pouring Doctor Hazel’s beer, he left to turn on a radio. The radio played a news bulletin.

“I felt that someone would’ve come, even someone who had a little interest,” Doctor Hazel said when they’d sat in the back. He brushed his thinning hair aside.

“I don’t watch plays, so I wouldn’t know.”

“Neither do I. But if you told my wife I was his doctor she would’ve been excited. She knows plays. My daughter acts too. She’s a good actress.”

“You should’ve told them. They would’ve liked to hear about him.”

“I can’t because she would’ve wanted to know too much.” Doctor Hazel sighed. He felt good sitting here in this warm barroom with this priest. He would need to go home soon, but that would happen when it did. “She would’ve asked questions and wouldn’t have liked the answers. My wife is very romantic.”

“What sort of romantic?” the priest asked.

Doctor Hazel considered and decided not to answer the question. He waited a little long, and then changed the subject. “Mr. O’Brien was trying hard to believe in God and all that at the end.” This wasn’t true. “He tried so hard, but he didn’t believe in it at all.”

“He must’ve not tried so hard.”

“I believe he did.” Doctor Hazel paused for a long moment. He stared out the little window that showed the staircase and part of the street. Sometimes a porter would walk down the stairs or one of the old men drinking would stand on the top, looking dully about. “He told me how his mother was one, and that she would’ve liked it if he was too.”

“He should’ve tried harder. Anybody can believe. It’s a choice.”

“Yes, but he had a difficult life, from what he told me.”

“A lot of people do, and they try all the harder. Not that it matters to me. If a person doesn’t try, they only have themselves to blame. It’s no skin off my knuckles.”

Mr. O’Brien would’ve wanted him to say something bold and mean in his defense, but Doctor Hazel couldn’t bear to lie to a priest. “I’ve never sat in a bar with a priest before,” he said and tried to chuckle. “I’ve always assumed priests couldn’t drink, but I guess I don’t know why you wouldn’t. I guess I don’t know much about priests.”

“I don’t drink very much. Sometimes on Saturdays I’ll get one in.” The priest chuckled. “There’s nothing wrong in it.”

“I’ve never drank a beer at eleven in the morning. Frankly, I drink very little.”

“If God invented beer, it was for a good reason.”

“They say that about a lot of things.”

“Beer is alright.”

“Don’t tell some of my patients that,” Doctor Hazel tried to joke.

“A beer here or there hits the spot.” The priest sat with excellent posture. His eyes were closed though they opened a little when he brought the glass to his mouth. Sometimes he seemed to be swaying to a slow ballad. “There are worse things.”

Doctor Hazel nodded. “Do you like being a priest?” He didn’t know he was asking the question and he didn’t know what he would’ve said if anyone asked him if he liked being a doctor. “I’m sorry for asking, but I don’t know.”

The priest said, “Excuse me? What do you mean?”

“It must be interesting to be a priest. A priest and a doctor are alike in ways.”

“We probably are,” the priest said. “However, I still don’t know what you mean.”

Mr. O’Brien had been a wealthy man but much of that money belonged to other people. Doctor Hazel wasn’t sure but he imagined that a great many favors had been asked by Mr. O’Brien’s wife to secure the casket and the priest. She must’ve thought she’d done everything of which God would’ve requested her to do, and that was why she’d stayed behind in New Jersey.

“What should a man like this expect?” Doctor Hazel mumbled to himself as he sat. “What was the prayer you said?”

“Excuse me?”

“The prayer that you said at the service?” Doctor Hazel swallowed, feeling that his head light. He didn’t want to say anything stupid. “I’m only talking aloud.”

“What?” The priest asked and then he stood with a funny shake. He stared down at his hands and then jerked awake. “Want a shot of whiskey?”

“No, thank you.”

“I’m getting myself one.”

The priest went to the bar wearing his coat and his hat. He drank a whiskey given to him by the bartender and then departed the bar. The priest stopped on the staircase to readjust his jacket then went on. His collar shielded his face from the windblow.

Doctor Hazel didn’t think the priest was going to come back, but he watched the window. He didn’t watch the window waiting on the priest, but there was little else to look because of how dim and murky the barroom was and how poor his eyes were from the many years of reading and studying required for him to become a doctor.

He stayed in the bar for far too long after he’d drunk the glass of beer, and it was the afternoon by the time he’d left. He hurried and his face felt frostbitten by the time he was back near his home. Coming up on it, his house looked no different than the others on the block. He’d worked very hard to become a doctor and it didn’t annoy him that the house was small because he supposed being a doctor was no different than any other job. There’d been many plans to do this or that, but everything had been settled in this way a long time ago.

“You smell of cigarettes,” Marie said as she came in. She was busying around the kitchen but she wasn’t doing anything.

“I had a cigarette,” he admitted. “Oh well.”

“Don’t be so loud,” she whispered. “Jonathan is studying upstairs.”

“It’s Saturday.”

“He’s writing a term paper.”

“It’s Saturday.”

“We can’t bother him until he’s finished. I went up to ask what he wished for lunch and he stormed at me, telling me not to bother him.” She stared at him. “The next time you smoke a cigarette, wash yourself before you come home.”

“It’s Saturday,” Doctor Hazel whispered and sat at the kitchen table.

“I’m going out later,” Essie said from the doorway. “Could I have some money?”

“No,” Doctor Hazel said and covered the folds of his eyes with his palms.

“I did all my homework already. I made sure to get it done.”

“Ask me in a little bit. I’m not in the mood to give out money.” He tried to smile at her. He would give her some money. He only didn’t want to yet.

“Your father is tired, so don’t ask him for anything,” Marie said.

His daughter stared at him for a little while, a dazed expression on her face, before she shrugged and left. She stomped down the hall and her door slammed.

“Essie tried very hard this morning to get everything done,” Marie said with a sigh. “The next time you have a cigarette, clean yourself up before you come home. That’s all I ask.”

“That’s all?”

“For the moment.” She laughed a little suddenly, so she covered her mouth. “What am I supposed to do in a house that smells like smoke? I’m not Mrs. Clean?”

“Cigarettes are alright occasionally. I should know, I’m a doctor after all.”

“Maybe they are and maybe they aren’t, but don’t smell like them.”

“They reduce stress.”

“Do they?”

“Probably.” Doctor Hazel winked at her. “What am I supposed to do after a funeral?”

“Don’t pretend like I’m asking you something unbelievable.”

Doctor Hazel propped his head. “I was the only one there, me and the priest.”

Marie was busying and not listening so closely. “You should’ve given Essie the money. She’s been working hard all week.”

“I’m still not sure why I went,” Doctor Hazel said. “I thought people would’ve gone.”

“You should’ve given Essie the money. It doesn’t matter what happened at the funeral, you don’t mean to your children.” She sighed. “Don’t go to funerals anymore.”

“I need to go to the funerals. It’s part of my job.”

“Not anymore, if it puts you in a bad mood.”

“I’m not in a bad mood. I’m in a thinking mood.”

“One more thing that you must work on.” She grinned. “No more thinking.”

Doctor Hazel shrugged. He’d only seen Mr. O’Brien a handful of time and they hadn’t gotten along. The nurses watched and aided Mr. O’Brien, for there were more consequential patients for him to worry on. Mr. O’Brien hadn’t wanted to be alive at the end.

“You shouldn’t go to funerals if they’re going to depress you,” Marie said. “I mean so.”

“No, I shouldn’t go to funerals. But I must.”

“You can’t go to funerals if you smoke cigarettes afterwards.”

“Alright.”

“I mean, don’t you think so? I’m not taking crazy pills, am I?”

Doctor Hazel put the cigarettes on the table and nudged them across until they were out of reach. Marie looked at them with a funny smile, a youthful smile he’d always liked. He held a cigarette up at her and kicked the chair out. Marie sat after a moment and took the cigarette. He was feeling so good, he crossed himself. She laughed and they heard a door slam from the other part of the house. He liked smoking more than anything, and there wasn’t anything better than when Marie had one with him. She always made him promise on Sunday evenings to quit tobacco and he would make the same old promise again, like always.

“I wonder what you’re thinking on,” she told him. “A penny for your thoughts?”

“I’m not thinking on anything.”

“You know that you shouldn’t keep anything from me.” She blew a cool stream of smoke. “Now, you’re miserable and I can’t help.” She smiled. “I don’t have pennies anyways.”

“I don’t keep anything from you,” Doctor Hazel said carefully. “There are only things I don’t like to say. Anyways,” he said, and stood suddenly. “Jonathan shouldn’t be upstairs writing a paper on a Saturday – he should be out with friends, like Essie.

“Essie is going with friends. But she doesn’t like to go if she doesn’t have money.”

“You interrupted me. You never let me finish. What I was going to say was that she was going to the movies. I was kidding – I’ll give her money. But Jonathan should be going out too.”

“Then go tell him.” She waited. “He’s writing the term paper.”

Doctor Hazel went out of the house to the back. He stood outside Jonathan’s window, looking up at the grey sky. Jonathan came out and stood nearby. His hair was stuck up and there were purple splotches around his eyes. That he was the best student in the school meant he was respected but not much liked. He said that his mother wanted him to stop working.

“Go get Essie and your mother and we’ll go to the movies,” Doctor Hazel said. “It’s a movie day. Wouldn’t that be fun?”

“Essie was looking for money. She was almost crying.”

“Go get her and we’ll go to the movies.”

“I have some more of my paper to write,” Jonathan said. “I’m only taking a break because Mom wanted me to see you.”

“You can work on your paper later.” Doctor Hazel turned to go back in.

“I wanted to finish it today. Movies are stupid.”

“Movies might be stupid, but that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t watch them.”

“Dad, my paper …”

Doctor Hazel took his son by the shoulder and walked him back in. “It can wait. I’ve decided we’re going to the movies. As a family. Get your coat.”

Hunter Prichard is a writer from Portland, Maine. Follow him on Twitter at @huntermprichard.

‘Shots’, ‘Poisoned Love’ & ‘Deep Love’

Photographer - Tobi Brun

Shots

In a world where the night lights exists,
I prefer to sit in my night lights in my bedroom,
penning my craft.
While others are out there taking shots,
I'm in here flipping through the pages of a novel.
I enjoy being away from the crowd and all of the noise,
doing what I love;
there isn't anything that I'm missing out there.
It's just me being here in my creative bubble,
and others are trying desperately to break it.

Poisoned Love

The way you traced your long veined fingers on my back,
Sends me to a different realm. The tugging and sucking, sweet love making.
Sends my soul straight to a hologram.
The sweet taste on your tongue has me addicted,
Like it's  poison ivy.
The toxic relationship we share is like a poisoned love,
Unbreakable, for breaking it may break us both.

Deep Love

I want to fall in love one day,
believe me I do.
I want to experience love and all the nostalgia that comes with it.
I know how that feels as I experienced it as a teenager, or so I thought.
The love I had for this teenage boy was deep that I felt as though I couldn't live without him.
I know we were just teenagers and didn't know what we were doing,
but that love ran deep and due to that, I've been guarding my heart since.
I'm afraid to lay it on the line as I know not if the next guy that comes along will love me and not stress me.
I grew with a single mother and heard stories about the turmoil my aunts went through at the hands of their husbands.
So I'll continue living a chill life and if love is to be for me I'll welcome it with open arms.
If not, then I'll continue to enjoy my peace of mind, cause peace of mind is way better than being in depression.

A Poem for My Sweet God Mother

From birth till now, you’ve been at my mother’s and I sides.

She could’ve always called on you no matter what, cause that’s who you were.

You looked out for everyone around you.

You were one of the best God mothers.

This journey we call life is so beautiful yet unexpected.

A fight you fought, for when your time was called you took it with stride.

Even though it hurts, we realized you were hurting more; for you were in so much pain.

I will never forget you, none of us would; since you touched many lives from your home to your friends, staff and students at the hospital.

Sleep on in Peace and rise in awesome glory, until we meet again.

 P.S. We’ll also miss that delicious white pudding you made with so much love.

Saskia's love for writing on a whole is incredible. She yearns to become a published writer one day, so she can finally fulfill her dream. Beginning her writing, moreso poetic journey at 18, she has been and continue to face rejections.

‘I wish…’, ‘Taking off’, ‘Meditations on this Morning’s Misadventure’, ‘Fine Threads Stolen in the Night’ & ‘Slowly Returning Back to the Woods’

Photographer - Tobi Brun

I wish…

…we could sing the world alive

like the ancient ones did,

blue and green, holy and mysterious,

forming from the throat,

painting the sky,

from the lips,

painting the sea,

from the tongue,

painting the world.

Aeronauts whispered and flew,

compelled by different virtues.

Gods yet to settle the debate

of whether we should join or not.

So, we decided.

We joined in such a way to make the body shiver

in excitement, horny to create, and overwhelmed.

Animals heard the words, understood them,

participating in the ways stars do,

like the ocean does with the moon,

in a forever partnership.

Then we got greedy, expectant.

We attacked.

Magicians fled, those practicing

soul medicine, fled.

Dreams gave way for the ground, we landed,

hard with the extra weight of gravity.

There we stayed, desiring to return,

thinking space is the same realm.

It is not. We fell too far.

For a moment in time, however,

the trees and mountains weren’t just beautiful,

the jellyfish wasn’t just dangerous,

the deer weren't just boundless,         

they were us.

Taking off

I wasn’t found in the city,

far on the other side.

Nor in the fields of wheat,

beyond.

They could not locate me

in the forest, with the trees

beautiful trees, towering, yet

rooted to the earth.

They looked, the land lovers.

Maybe I would be amongst the

waves. It was radical enough.

They could not conceive that one

would enjoy feet off the ground,

as I did, swaying.

They did not look amongst the birds

who watched over me, curious,

cautious, with biting beaks.

I took off, loving to fly,

the flock surrounding me,

new wings.

I was here, I was gone,

rising, I was here,

I was gone.

Meditations on this Morning’s Misadventure

Oh magical merriment of a meeting once meet,

in a meadow of masquerading madams and men.

We must have mastered our musings of the masses,

for at midnight, we moved like meticulous mice,

and materialized on the mythical plane,

and migrated into the mental mind,

minding not the musk and muck,

as we manipulated marvelous mathematical mystics,

into a motley gang of messy metropolitans,

meaning monsters of magnificent measure.

Oh, our matriarchal mother, a macrocosm of might,

masked this moment in miffed madness,

muttering, "must you mess with the minds of

such modest mathematicians?  

That’s a massacre of manners!

It’s mutated morals!

Major mending of this myopic maneuver is mandatory!”

We moaned and felt melancholic at this misfortunate meeting.

So to maintain a manageable middle,

we manifested medieval mead,

and meditated on this morning’s misadventure.

Fine Threads Stolen in the Night

Take this thread,

weave a partial coat,

cover me up,   partially.

Red, blue, yellow, gold.

Fine threads stolen in the night

from the pillow of the king.

Still, never enough fabric

to cover the grief of a broken world.

Bread swiped from Shelly, Blake,

stolen from Stafford,

warm and hidden under my shirt.

I could take a bite, really.

Instead, it was passed on to that man

on the street. Remember him?

The one you stepped over.

Little did we know,

there was salmon skin

stuck to the crust,

blistered from an open flame.

Wisdom demands vision.

Kings demand loyalty.

I have my preference.

Slowly returning back to the woods

Rambling through the leaves

through uncertain ground,

I wonder who put river rocks

here, where there is no river?

Two doves fly down to greet me,

or were they ravens?

Lives intertwined

Braided morality.

On this day, I could understand

the birds, their language.

They said, strange night,

the wolves forgot to roam.

I didn’t understand until years later,

When, having left the woods,

I found what felt worth forgetting

for the safety of my kids.

In the early morning light,

sheltered in my study,

I look at the things now owned,

considering in the language of men,

maybe I forgot too much.

Brian Rohr is a writer, poet, and performative storyteller based outside of Portland, OR. His essay, “Living in a Broken and Magnificent World: On Being a Story-Carrier,'' was recently featured in the two-volume book set about Jewish Storytelling, P’ri Etz Yitzhak, Fruit of Yitzhak’s Tree. He’s the founder and director of “The Stafford Challenge,” an international poetry project inspiring over one thousand participants to write a poem every day for a year, influenced by legendary poet William Stafford. His feature-length poetry book, Shaken to My Bones: A Poetic Midrash on the Torah, is forthcoming from Ben Yehuda Press (September 2024). brianrohr.com | staffordchallenge.com