weekly muse...
volume 1, issue 15 | 2022-10-05
poetry
serial killer
i killed another bird today some by accident some by neglect while i was out saving the world what does it profit if i lose my own soul not even a sparrow will fall without notice always the same dead bird
-- from homebound
cow
i mostly keep my nose to the ground i chew each wad one hundred times and then i chew again when i look up the field is wide and filled with so much grass with so much grass
-- from along the way
red soil
here and there the earth turns red an open wound giving back the blood we shed weeping for her children
-- from everything rhymes
folksinger
-- for ed o’reilly, folklorist, balladeer hunched over his guitar in awkward embrace nuzzling soft curved rosewood smooth as skin with his stubbled face his cupped hand soothes the delicate neck like a ruffled swan in a cooing voice we watch his slender fingers pick their way along tight strings on fretted joists --- he sings of drunken vessels lost at sea, of murderous wives, of rusted factories, and union brothers dying to be free he tells of boxcar hobos off the tracks, of dusty highways, lumberjacks, and desperados with their backs against a wall tales of rural woe and urban blight, of lonesome coyotes howling in the night, and concrete dams that stop a mighty river in its flow --- from the hole in his guitar, his craning throat, takes shelter in our ears each dying note as we make them our own when he shuts the instrument in its hard shell velvet case, we think of all the stories trapped inside still singing for release and clap our palms together one last time for him to free just one more life crying out for peace
-- from lives of the poets
summer roads
pressing doughy tar cracks in the road like a three-year old child leaving my mark another day -- from another day
short stories
wedding plans
January 1995, No Turning Back
Ren and Bob were going to meet Robert for the first time. They were picking up Marie and him from UIC’s main campus downtown, and from there were all headed for a three-day weekend at the Iron Mountain ski resort in northern Michigan.
Marie and Robert were students there, and had met earlier that winter. She had been giving them strong signals about him. Without having met the young man, this is not something they wanted to hear. They were married at age nineteen themselves. Ren and Bob knew how hard it could be. They wanted things to be different for her.
They were also concerned about the fact that Robert's mother had been divorced two times—the last, from his father, who was a recovering alcoholic. They knew of their own bitter struggles with marriage and family life, and how Marie was there with them to suffer through it all. This brokenness had to leave its mark on the children someplace?
The weekend went well enough. They talked, skied, snowshoed, and gathered together in their rented vacation unit to bake frozen pizzas. Robert got along fine with everyone, including Leo and Cissie, Marie's younger siblings, who were skipping a day of school to enjoy the extended weekend getaway with them.
Bob had a rough time with the skiing part at first. He had been on skis only three times before, and had injured himself pretty badly two out of the three times. He insisted on working the “bunny hill” (for young children and other beginners), until he could gain some control. Ren, Marie, and Robert stayed with him. Clinging to the handle grip on the moving rope, he slowly moved up and down the gentle slope in a stiff panic. His progress was minimal. He whined like a baby and kept telling them he wanted to give it up and do something else. They could go skiing without him. He would be fine.
When all this complaining reached its peak, Leo came whisking along. He and Cissie had been out on the slopes together. They had only been on skis once before. Like so many of the young, they were able to do it right away. Leo dragged Bob out to one of the real hills, quickly showed him how to bend his knees against the direction of the turn, and with a gentle nudge eased him off the top of the hill. There was no turning back.
The two of them zigged and zagged together down the slanting hill with wild abandon. Bob was laughing out loud throughout their descent, with giddy thrill. Gliding in bursts of speed with frequent sideward sliding respites of control. When they reached the bottom of the hill, still standing erect, Bob threw his arms around Leo's shoulders in a triumphant embrace, like he had just won the Olympics downhill gold medal. Leo glowed softly at his unlikely protégé, with the quiet indulgence of paternal pride. One of the more esoteric and happier proofs of the theorem that “the child is the parent of the child.”
On the last night of the weekend, Robert asked Ren and Bob if he could speak with them alone. Marie had been telling them all along that he wanted to do this.
“I want to tell you how I feel about your daughter.” Robert was completely at ease. “She is the most wonderful person I have ever met.”
“Thank you.” Bob answered stiffly. “We think she's great too.”
“It's more than that. I want to be with her.” He explained patiently.
“Well, you're both so young. You should get to know each other better, and other people too. That way, you'll each know for sure when you find the right person.”
“We already know. That's what I'm trying to tell you. Marie is the one for me.”
And there it was. He stared at them with all due respect. Resolute, unblinking in his declaration. This would not go away. Bob knew. He had seen it before.
-- to be continued...
-- from signs & wonders
lucy (losing the light)
…continued
“Hello, Lucy…Lucille.” Mrs. Nance greeted me with a warm smile. She was my favorite librarian. I used to work here part-time after school, stacking shelves.
Actually, all the women here were good librarians, now that Mrs. Taylor was gone. Librarians are like witches in The Wizard of Oz. There are the good librarians who love people and books and are happy to share the wonders of life contained in them. And then, there are the evil ones, like Mrs. Taylor, who dislike people (and maybe books) and felt it their miserable duty to hoard over the books and protect them..from us. There is no in between. Fortunately, it seemed like the evil ones were all dying out (or retiring, like dissolving in water). Things were looking up in Oz these days.
“Hey.” I handed my card to her. “How’s Lynn?” Her daughter.
“Gone.” She scanned my card. “Off to school.”
“Already?”
“Orientation.” She handed back my card. “Her father took her down yesterday. Classes start next week. How about you?”
“Next week too.”
“You have one item.” She knelt at the shelves of waiting books behind the checkout desk. “Did you decide on photography?”
Mr. Davidson stood about twenty feet away, staring up at the skylight in the vaulted ceiling through my camera. The library was a modern design. It’s funny how buildings these days all start to look alike, no matter what their use. Offices, churches, banks, and schools, even some houses, take on a similar look of angled glass and brick, like modern castles, what I call the “visitors center” school of design.
“Not sure.” I slipped my card in my wallet. “My parents still want me to take accounting. Something ‘to fall back on’ they say.”
“I see.” She pulled out a book the size of a city telephone directory. “Here it is.”
The dreaded 2001 Occupational Outlook Handbook published by the U.S. government. How depressing. The sum of every possible parallel world in all of my future lives. Thousands of directions for me ‘to fall back on,’ meshed in a tight safety net. It must have weighed nearly five pounds. More than the human body with all the water removed. It felt so much bigger than me, a smothering quilt from which dangled a thread, a singular life that would be my own. I tucked the book under my arm.
“That’s an overnight loan.” She smiled apologetically. “Mr. Lawrence had to fiddle with the computer to get this to circulate. It’s a current reference.”
“I know.” I gushed. “Thanks so much.”
Mr. Davidson came over with my camera, tugging the book from my armpit.
“Mrs. Nance, this is Paul Davidson, the photographer.”
“Nice to meet you.” She smiled with enthusiasm. “Will you be one of Lucille’s teachers at the College of Lake County?”
“No, Ma’am. I’m retiring.”
“Mr. Davidson teaches at the Art Institute school downtown.” His words jarred me. I had no idea he was retiring.
“Oh.” Mrs. Nance acted pleasantly surprised. “And what brings you here to little old Lake Villa, Illinois?”
“Lucy and I are taking pictures here.” He handed the camera to me. “Would you mind posing for us?”
“Oh my.” Mrs. Nance primped her hair with both hands and got a bit flustered. “Why would you want to take a picture of me?”
“Because you’re Lucy’s favorite librarian.” He exuded charm.
“Lucy. Lucille.” She slightly blushed. “You shouldn’t have said that.”
I hadn’t. That’s the thing. I never told him that.
“Now, set up your shot.” He was speaking to me. “Fill your frame.”
“Where do you want me?” Mrs. Nance warmed up to the idea.
“Right there is fine.” He answered calmly, still focusing on me. “Lucy will capture you in your domain, goddess of the temple of books.”
Mrs. Nance stared straight at the camera. She had a quiet dignity, an earnest beauty I had not noticed before. It was in her face, her subtle smile, her lively eyes. Her cheeks had a rosy tinge, her pudgy flesh confirmed her soft features. Her pale lips were quietly luscious, her skin perfectly smooth, her hair like freshly combed silk.
“That’s perfect.” Mr. Davidson cooed.
“Yes.” I exclaimed. “Stay just like that.”
I went through the steps: open shutter; focus and compose; set shutter speed and aperture; close and cock shutter; insert film holder (albeit empty); withdraw film sheath; trigger shutter to take picture; replace film sheath; remove film holder and hand it to him. It was hard for a lefty, with a right-handed camera. A tripod would have helped. Plus, he made me nervous looking over my shoulder. Thank god there was no film.
“Done!” I chirped with glee. “That’s great. Can I come back and take it again when I have some film?”
“Sure, Lucille.” Mrs. Nance was puzzled. “Anything for you.”
Mr. Davidson winked at her. “Yes. Lucy will be back.”
We walked through the curved security bars and tripped off the beeping alarm. Mrs. Nance was not able to demagnetize the tag on my reference book spine.
“That’s okay, Lucy.” Mrs. Nance smiled. “You go on ahead.”
We shook with giddy laughter when we got outside.
“That was so great!” I whooped. “She had no idea.” It felt like we had stolen a rare book, to take someone’s picture without any film.
-- to be continued...
-- from summer’s end
microfiction | a history of the world
…continued
soldier (gatling gun)
How many fell? I cannot say.
We just cranked and swiveled. Cranked and prayed. They broke like cresting waves. Crackling foam, spilled on the field.
We kept them at bay. Breaking faster. Keep them away.
The blood red tide. If it reaches us. Then what? Our gun!
Crank and swivel. Crank and pray.
-- to be continued…
-- from a history of the world