Great Writers -- C2
Crystal Rains
Crystal Rains writes poetry exploring power, vulnerability, silence, and the hidden complexities of intimate relationships. Her work examines the wounds left by love and the quiet resilience that emerges from them. She lives in Wisconsin and is published in Scarlet Review, Literary Parthenon, and Local Gems Poetry Press anthologies
Blind Faith
Blind Faith
A tiny dress and bedroom eyes, I leave.
Perfume that’s sprayed upon my neck will fade.
Another ladies’ night, he still believes—
not seeing my heart bared, body displayed.
He never asks how I had spent the time—
cake decorating class had just run late.
One extra drink with friends is not a crime.
He does not watch the clock and doesn’t wait.
Hair wet from scrubbing out the smoky fumes,
pine scent upon my skin conceals the sex.
The sting of Schnapps upon my breath still looms,
Lips burn from all the kisses with my ex.
I do not come to bed—he doesn’t mind.
Perhaps his eyes—and love—are truly blind.
Thin Ice
The pond beneath my feet
is a solid pane of glass for now.
I see through to the murky water below.
Smoothest of waters.
My ankles wobble,
holding me up on these skates.
The rails harmonize with the ice
and also cut the surface.
Fragile,
could crack at any moment
from my overstepping,
the weight of my expectations,
or the heat of his constant anger.
My eyes focus on the ground.
To keep the peace
and to know if the foundation
is giving way.
One Bar
Blue light, Roblox pixels
Food for the pre-teen.
Nourishes until the battery is drained
or Wi-Fi goes out.
One bar!
ONE BAR!
he screams.
Starving
as though he didn’t eat
a waffle just now.
Thirsty
as though he hadn’t gulped
a glass of orange juice.
Can’t wait
to be fed again.
Such hunger pains
that squeal louder
than his stomach ever has before.
Casey Westenrieder is an English teacher in Corpus Christi, Texas and is working on an MFA in Creative Writing through UTEP. He is an Army veteran and has written an autobiography about his experience in Afghanistan.
The Bus Stop Girl
He drove by her at 7:04 every morning on his way to work. He called her The Bus Stop Girl. She was pretty. Probably too young for him, but it was hard to tell in the five seconds he would drive by, wave, and smile. She would wave and smile back. She must like him. When he got to work, he would stop at the work gossiper’s cubicle and tell her he saw her again.
“You need to pull over and offer her a ride,” Gossip would say. “If she smiles and waves, she’s going to take a ride. You have to do this!”
He couldn’t. He was too shy.
It was Thursday and she was walking to the bus stop. He tried to wave, but she didn’t see him. He stopped at a fast-food restaurant and bought a breakfast sandwich, turned around and stopped by the bus stop. She saw him. He rolled down his window.
“I came back to bring you a sandwich,” he said.
“You came back for that?” she asked. “That’s so sweet!”
“It’s no big deal,” he said, humbly.
“Can you give me a ride?” she asked.
“Jump in,” he said.
As they drove, she gave directions and ate her sandwich. He tried making small talk but just couldn’t wait to tell Gossip he picked her up.
“Do you do dates?” she asked after a few minutes. It was a confusing way to ask him out, he thought. What did she mean?
“I’m kind of introverted,” he responded. “I don’t date much.”
“Oh,” she said and paused. “Well, would you like to do a date? I could really use some money.”
It took him few minutes to register what she said before he pulled over and let her out.
CASEY WESTENRIEDER
THE RECLINER
He leaned back in his leather recliner, lit his cigar, and reached over to the side table to position his ashtray. His wife always warned him that one day he would burn a hole in the chair, so he was extra careful.
He heard her call him. His eyes rolled back slightly because he had just lit the cigar, but he was hungry, so he crushed out the cherry in the ashtray until it quit smoking. He put his feet into his slippers and walked to the dining room, where his wife had set the table with porcelain and silverware.
“What’s the occasion?” he asked.
“Only that I love you. And I made you a martini.” She held it out to him. “And we’re having your favorite chicken cordon bleu, rice, and broccoli.”
“You are a gourmet chef and so beautiful.” She blushed. He knew she loved the compliments.
“Do you remember when we met?” he asked her. “You were sitting at the desk at the doctor's office when I had my first appointment. You looked up at me and smiled, and I was hooked. I kept faking sick so I could go back to the doctor just to see you.”
He always talked about that day, and she never tired of hearing him tell it.
She smiled and even chuckled a little.
“Then, after I finally got the nerve to ask you out, I showed up for our first date wearing a suit,” he paused for effect. “You came out in jeans and a T-shirt. I was so embarrassed.”
They both laughed about that memory.
“Do you remember when I proposed to you?” he asked. “It was in the country by that railroad track and as I got down on my knee, a train passed by blaring its horn and I couldn’t hear whether you’d said yes or no until it had passed by!”
He watched as she put her right hand over her diamond and wedding band, remembering that day.
“When we got married I couldn’t believe how beautiful you were in that dress,” he exclaimed. “I literally was moved to tears just watching you walk down the aisle. Ever since that day, I’ve watched you get more and more beautiful!”
She blushed again. He loved making her happy.
“I’m going to drink the martini and finish my cigar, sweetheart,” he told her. As he stood up, he leaned over and kissed her cheek. He could feel her soft auburn hair and smell her perfume.
He went back to his chair, kicked off his slippers and relit his cigar.
He shuddered.
He must have fallen asleep with the television on. It was a white screen of static. He sat up in his ragged recliner and noticed his cigarette had burned a new hole in the arm of the chair. He picked up the stiff cigarette butt and put it into the metal coffee can he used as an ashtray.
He pushed his feet into his red house shoes, pressing his toes past the ripped lining at the bottom of one of them. He walked into the kitchen of the one-room apartment and noticed he hadn’t thrown away his TV dinner. It sat on the card table with the dirty bowl of macaroni and cheese from the night before.
“I gotta clean this place up,” he told himself out loud.
He glanced at the refrigerator and noticed her picture held in place with a small magnet. He could almost feel her soft auburn hair and smell her perfume. He longed to be able to kiss her one more time. A small tear formed in the corner of his eye.
“God, I miss her,” he told himself in his head.
He made his way back to his recliner, turned the television off, then lit another cigarette.
Then he sat there alone.