Writers AM-AZ
Hunters, Gatherers
by Amanda Rosas
We hunt and gather
our stories into baskets
the color of drained
tea leaves. Baskets
like folded paper houses
with graphite smudges,
simple to chronic.
Your voice tastes
of woven grass
and time. I ladle your
words alone, hold them
in my water cup,
let them soak
against my lower lip.
In this way,
we stare out
connected.
Vultures soar above,
the sun wilting
their wings.
1970s Love Poem
Amanda Rosas
Today, you randomly brought home four retro lawn chairs, placed them
in the living room. They were dressed in green and white cross stitch,
a staple of any late 70’s backyard. I could smell the sun on nylon and steel,
feel the wildflowers of July baking with the dirt on my skin. I think you want
to create a childhood we both knew, where we grew up drinking the same blue
staining Kool Aid, and ran each other down in a grass so clean, we’d lick our
Dorito dusted fingertips even after the tackle. All the invisible memories, yours
and mine, induced by the winter sale of summer chairs, are so strong, they can
only be called universal. And though I grew up in the perennial southern sun,
while you were losing electricity in the fury of blizzards, we know clouds bear
both, and fierce cold and fiercer heat cross one another like this nylon plaid of
late blooming flora. Once we were a winter and a summer, now, we are one
smooth strip round the belly of the Earth, awaiting solstice.
Amanda Rosas is a mother, educator and poet. She draws spirit, beauty, strength and creativity from the Latina women in her family and from her husband and three young daughters. Originally from San Antonio, TX, Amanda writes to preserve the memories and stories of her Mexican American ancestors. Her poems have been published by the Latino Book Review, Anti-Heroin Chic, Brown Sugar Lit, among others, and her personal narratives as an educator can be read online at Edsurge.
Ana Varela lived in Los Angeles, Buenos Aires, and Taipei before moving to Corpus Christi, and then to Denver.
My Desert Jay
The valley knew that it would change my life forever. The longer that I spent in it, the more sure I was of where I needed to be. Nothing could be the same after that summer in the desert.
I met Jay in the three days that I spent at the end of spring in the Joshua Tree Desert. I would not leave for good until the come and go of a year of seasons. If I was once a seed I had grown into a mesquite, and I was finally enjoying my shade. Before, I had wandered content, well-nourished from the freedom of decisions that had led me to this event. When I reached the desert, I gave in to a restful time and listened, for once, to the message of a music festival. If “music is the soul of life” then the desert is the body from which energy might manifest as humming, the vibrations as song. I met my Jay in Joshua Tree, and, one day, I flew away with him.
My first winter with Jay was a high-desert January and a world of wonder. I drove the three hours from Los Angeles, as I had done so many times throughout the summer, to reach our paradise in the desert. The last hour of the drive, heading up the mountain after a windmill valley, was hard on the car but easy on the mind. I passed the small but popular Joshua Tree city, catering to the tourists that came from around the world to visit the national park, the businesses boutique with faux-desert facades. Farther up the road Twentynine Palms -- an even smaller bucolic town that most only know if they have heard of the military base. Two different cities, like two very different beasts, feeding on that which keeps them growing. Turning off the main street there, I drove for a quarter of an hour more as the asphalt turned into dirt road. Not too far in the distance, with its red stripe around its side, the 1970’s El Rey camper was my minds favorite sight. I imagined that I could hear Jay's small dog panting as he listened for my tires driving up the property. I was moments from Jay's smile and feeling the weight of the wine glass in my hand.
The sky in winter matched Jay’s eyes -- a crisp and clean bright, blue grey. By morning, I was happy to be in the El Rey, warmed by the closeness of our bodies. If this had been August, the camper would be empty by midday, and we would be somewhere else searching for shade. Winter called for a noontime wandering. When the morning freeze had melted under the sun, we set out from our cozy home. Imitating the flower buds of the cacti around us, we wrapped up in layered bundles, bursting with anticipation for spring. Vast and limitless, ours was the most beautiful backyard in the world. Except for the few trails we had worn around the property, we explored in a new direction every day. There was every shape of twisting branch discovered for each pairless shoe found. When the afternoon warmed enough, we stopped anywhere in a greasewood bush field to drink wine, laugh, and watch as the stars appeared.
The Joshua Tree seemed the greatest teacher, the desert the greatest classroom. For it to survive, the Joshua Tree gave parts of itself to the desert; fruit for the sloth (extinct to humans) and seeds for Yucca Moth larvae to eat. When the flowers bloom in spring, the appreciative moth pollinates other trees. It is a thousand year old dance of coevolution. The philosophy of the Joshua Tree was simple; keep only that which you need to survive and a partner to help you grow- the rest is too heavy to carry.
Jay had a bird’s eye view of the world, and could see farther than I ever could alone. He could see where the wind would blow, dropping pieces of desert trash and treasures in a secret sand bowl. It was a long valley, hidden between a row of small mountains and sand dunes. Burnouts and storms and time had turned parts into pieces and sections to shreds. Collecting our favorite fragments of broken plates, plastics, and metals, Jay and I spent afternoons creating our mosaics. Longing for a body of water, the sound of a crashing wave, or the salt saturated spray of ocean mist, he brought a sea creature to life in the dry desert. With teeth of glass and shotgun shells for scales a devilish angler fish appeared from the sand. Once, a friend, stopping in our desert on a roadtrip across the country, painted a monarch over a wide boulder in our secret mosaic sand bowl. Before him, that boulder had looked like an abandoned Volkswagen bug in the distance. Then, it was as if the butterfly had flown swiftly into the side of the boulder and left her color splattered all over the sand. So vast, in fact, was this mosaic valley, that when we returned to find the massive monarch, with a wingspan twice as large as mine, she seemed to have flown off. Perhaps the Volkswagen had suddenly driven away.
Nothing dies in the desert. A seemingly dry greasewood, when its bare branch snaps, reveals a jade green center, ready to feed the new leaves of spring. If something begins to lose life, it crumbles over the sands' surface and smooths to preservation becoming an important particle of the ever growing land. Everything becomes the desert again.
The first time I crashed a motorcycle I fell into the soft embrace of the desert. The deep trail behind me snaked its way more sharply the closer to where I lay. Jay hadn’t seen me yet. I didn’t want him to think that I was hurt. I unburied myself from the sand and, despite the pain in my shin, walked over to the other side of the little red Honda to pull it up. By the time Jay had noticed, I was loading onto the bike again. I only fell once more that day as we were leaving the mosaic valley, burying my front tire into the side of one of the dunes. Again the snickering snake led to exactly the point where I was splayed across the sand.
Summer had gone months before but the grab of its rays still burned like yesterday in our memories. Each blazing day of that season, when the rocks and the trees and the mountains began to see their shadows, we set off on another ride. The buzzing motorbikes echoed through the canyons we explored. The world hummed to the tune of our adventures. Eager for curious visitors and luring us in with their shade, we rode up to the mouth of the hungry caves. Abandoned mines that had no notion of time. It would be weeks before the next desert riders would find them again. Leaving behind the cold and burning superheated summer surface world to the lizards, we walked into the earth and entered the cool, endless darkness. Deep blue turquoise streaks lined the inside of the otherwise rough earth; perfect lines of oxidized copper led us deeper and deeper inside.
Like Plato's allegory of the cave, I wondered if my high-desert stories made sense to many city dwellers or the strictly social media savants. Would they see the value in the voids or the expanses of the desert? How might I convey the worth in the woe of an abandoned mine? After allowing our internal temperatures to drop, and our inner thoughts to cool and calm, we wander back to see how the sand of the summer had changed. Time is measured by the sun, and it waits for no one.
We were never lost following the cooing and whispering hints of the wind, then the allure of the light. Emerging from the mine, we were enveloped in a warm embrace by the two; the sky and the sun welcomed us again. Unlike a city, where the alleys at night should be avoided, this world would not punish me for walking into the darkness.
Regardless of the season, each morning my eyes were opened by the gentle kiss of sunrise, calling for me to come outside to face the rising Ra. These 2,700 feet above sea level are pure -- similar to starving the muscles for oxygen, so does the elevation strengthen the soul. There is little room for the toxic smog of my mind that I bring with me from the city each drive and soon it is all taken away by the very same wind the urges me forward. I must have followed that very wind to that Spring festival that took me away with Jay forever. Each day in the desert since then, we did as the animals did and looked to find shade at noon otherwise, we would be bake in that retro and aluminum camper. We had to move or risk withering away as I once did on the third day that I had met my Jay.
I was falling in love with a blue Jay, and distracted I forgot to drink water, to eat, or to sleep under the stars. So, I unknowingly was fading away until I finally fainted. Catching me, as if I were a seed, Jay took me under his wing and placed me in the shade of my desert realty; there is no room for toxicity, remember the lessons of the Joshua Tree; only take what you need, and he chose to take me, the rest was too heavy to carry.
While in that daze of those days, I remembered the day Jay firmly dodged the first time I reached for his chin. In a tent booth full of precious gems and crystals, he was the most captivating -- the most valuable thing. Resonating over the entire Joshua Tree valley, the festival music enveloping the tent seemed muffled and low to the mocking Jay’s song. Would he believe that we would spend so many sunrises together in this very desert? Or riding home each sunset before the darkness could envelop the two of us on our motorbikes? One day, although it was sudden, we would fly away. We were unlike the valley’s ephemeral blooms, destined instead to flower forever. Nothing was the same after that summer in the desert and, after a year of seasons, we flew away together, my desert Jay and I.
Shelter for Her
Pacing back in forth in the lobby of a women's shelter
she paused at the paperwork, looked at the baby and felt that no one could help her.
She lifted her daughter, flipped up her hoodie and walked back into the blur.
Pacing back and forth in the lobby of a women's shelter
she paused at the paperwork, paused at the baby and noticed the same day on the calendar.
She lifted that baby, and she put her back down and tried to remember where they were.
Pacing back and forth where they said that they can help her
she paused at the thermostat, thought about smoking crack
and wondered where she could get hers.
She flipped up her hoodie, flipped it back down-
She couldn't feel the right temperature.
Pacing back and forth, wondering about her worth
She looked past the paperwork, stared at the floor
and saw her crawling daughter.
She lifted that baby, walked back into the blur and felt that no one could help her.
SWEETIE, YOU ARE
You are talkative, aren't you?
Oh! Expressive too!
Too
Emotional, maybe
Overwhelming lately.
Out of nowhere, really
you are
Overreacting or just
Out of your mind
or out of control And
Suddenly, Involuntarily, and Perpetually
out of line.
you are SO
out of it and in over your head
and losing your shit.
Now calm down. Go back to bed.
You were just dreaming.
Okay, sweetie?
EL MUNDO INHALO (The World Inhaled)
EL MUNDO INHALO (The World Inhaled)
Alguna vez te paraste a los pies de un árbol alto? Miras hacia arriba y pareciera que las últimas hojas tocaran el cielo. Dentro de su tronco hay un rio corriendo desde la tierra hasta llenar las nubes. Como vos, toma lo que le da su mundo y crea algo nuevo; frutas, aire, sombra, ideas, energía, apoyo. Alguna vez sentiste la tierra, recorriendo por tu ser, y de tus pies hacia tu cabeza, surgieron palabras frescas y deliciosas, las cuales el mundo inhalo.
THE WORLD INHALED (El Mundo Inhalo)
Have you ever once, stood at the feet of a tall tree? You look up and it is as if the tallest leaves could touch the sky. Within its trunk there is a river running from the earth to fill the clouds. Like you, it drinks what the world gives it and creates something new; fruit, air, shade, ideas, energy, support. Have you ever once felt the earth, flowing through your entire being, and from your head to your feet, fresh, delicious words appeared, those which the world inhaled.
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Since 1981, Annie Huckabee has worked as an adjunct instructor in English at Del Mar College. She also supervises first-year teachers as they complete their certification journey.
Random
“Cucumber martini, Titos, and one Turks Head, please.”
It’s the usual drink order here at the Shelf Life Swim Up Bar in the Caribbean, where I’ve worked as a bartender for the past twenty years. Varieties of vodka are endless today, and everything having to do with hops and yeast is now crafted sport, but most calls are what they’ve always been—some kind of draft, a shot of hard liquor.
And that’s how it is when you live and work at these island getaways; everything especially prescribed and made to order. Stereotyping here, but most bartenders catering to the holiday tripper know what drink the divorcee is going to begin with: wine always; bubbly champagne for the first year anniversary couple; beer, shot, beer, shot, beer, shot, shot, shot…yeah, the predictable bachelor party.
Working for most of my adult life in the tourist industry, my complaints seem pretty petty. Steel drums dominate anything coming out of the bar speakers most of the time, but once a month, I design the playlist. I like to go with themes —John’s “Hard Day’s Night,” Billy’s “Tonight,” Alicia’s “I Love the Night Life,” Cory’s “I Wear My Sunglasses at Night,” Justin’s “Nights in White Satin,” and so on. Nightengale herself Ella always ends the set with Cole’s classic “Night and Day.” It’s a perk for sure.
The spa therapists are allowed to accept gratuity, but they’re good folks, and I don’t want to take anything away from them. I mean, after all, they actually touch their clients. I try to make contact in a more cerebral way.
Customers wade, float, or sit on the half dozen seats surrounding a counter I keep sparkling and spacious with plenty of elbow room for those just stopping in for a refill, a slice of lime, or to offer social commentary.
As proud of my work as I am, I’ve given two weeks' notice. It’s time to head off to some landlocked locale, my beloved bottle opener in my back pocket. Endings always make me philosophical. I realize what keeps cynicism at bay is the unexpected, the random. In the middle of the sameness and the routine, my favorite times behind this bar have been those chance, unforgettable human connections.
***
She ordered a gin and tonic for the urn seated to her left.
“Whiskey neat for me,” she added. “We’ve always loved the Caribbean. It’s where we stop every now and then while we’re on our RLS journey.”
“I didn’t realize people took Restless Leg Syndrome trips.”
The laugh exploded as she gave a furious wave.
“No, no —it’s Robert Louis Stevenson.” Her eyes lit up. “We first met at the Stevenson cottage in Saranac, New York. I was a soon-to-be out-of-work caterer; they were a Stevenson aficionado. I joined them visiting every place Louis had ever lived — Scotland, Belgium, France, some ramshackle hovel in Nevada. At least I found a decent casino nearby.”
“A writer’s trip, that’s cool. At least you aren’t on one of those True Crime adventures. Do you remember the woman Aillen who murdered six or seven men in the 80s in the South? Before I came here, I barbacked at the place where, years before, Aillen had made her last call before the FBI arrested her. Even years later, fans came in wanting to know the exact stool she sat on and what she ordered.”
“What was it?” she asked.
“Beer. Her last meal before lethal injection? Barbeque chips. Ironically, the name of the bar is the Last Resort. Stevenson, Treasure Island?”
“Right — Dr Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, A Child’s Garden of Verses, Kidnapped.”
She glanced over at her companion.
“Can I freshen?” I asked.
“They’re fine. I’ve always been the drinker of the two of us. Anyway, we are winding up our bohemian travels headed to our last stop, Stevenson’s tomb on top of Mount Vaea in Samoa. When he suddenly died, the Samoans, who knew him as Tusitala the storyteller, carried his coffin up Mount Vaea’s for burial. For over 140 years, devout Stevensonians have made the trek to the summit to pay their respects. The beautifully dangerous steep path to his grave is called the Road of Loving Hearts.”
She lowered her glass and stared past my left shoulder. Even for me, a practiced preserver of silence, the pause proved almost uncomfortable.
“By the way, we admire your expert multi-tasking, listening, pouring,” and here she breaks into a very pleasant alto, “coooom--mis-er-ating—Green Day lyric, right?”
“Blink-182, but on the same musical map. Anyway, the Turks Caicos novices got nothing on me—I’ll have you know I’m the fastest shot slinger this side of the Caribbean.”
A nod. A grin.
“Let us leave you with a gift, dear barkeep, Stevenson’s epitaph that he wrote himself.” She recited it.
“Under the wide and starry sky,
Dig the grave and let me lie.
Glad did I live and gladly die,
And I laid me down with a will.
This be the verse you grave for me:
Here he lies where he longed to be;
Home is the sailor, home from the sea,
And the hunter home from the hill.”
They didn’t stay any longer. The waters seemed to part when she stood, urn cradled and secured.
***
Cacophonous splashes break my reverie as I look up to see most of the outdoor staff swimming up to the bar, even the head of maintenance is doing a mean free style.
“Our best bartender, our life coach, our confidante, our man of the hour. You may be gone from here, but let us assure you that a little slice of you will always remain behind that bar, my friend. From all of us, we present you with a special tribute that will hang in this hallowed place of honor.”
The owner draws back to reveal my name imprinted in big, bold capital letters on a three ft. by three ft. metal plaque. It’s in the shape of a bar key, appropriately enough. I can’t help but give a cheer when it’s hung between the Macallan and the Hennessey instead of over the frozen daiquiri machine. You can’t wipe the smile off my face.
A sudden atmospheric drop in pressure cuts short the ‘ray’ in “Hip, Hip, Hooray.”
And then no one can breathe.
***
Remote chance, that’s what scientists prophesied about Ceres breaking free from its orbit.
In fact, far-thinking scientists had long championed the idea of setting up life on the ever-stable Ceres, the dwarf planet rich in carbon, hydrogen, oxygen, and nitrogen. But, as it turned out, Ceres couldn’t wait for the world to get its act together, and on a warm early December day, hurdled all of its septillion-pound mass into a stunned earth.
Survivors in their privately owned $79,000 underground bunkers had waited for the catastrophic, and their patience certainly paid off. Two generations flourished in the underground communities. When the time seemed right, the committed survivalists decided to stay put in their womb-like existence, while those who itched for new discoveries chose to leave.
Feeling in their souls that they had been granted a second opportunity, the ones who exited the interior vowed to get everything right this time. Intolerance had doomed humankind in the first place, so warping the world that differences were never valued. When exploration began, all pledged that they would respect cultural subtleties and would honor all that they did not understand.
Incredible views punctuated the four-mile trek up the mountainous trail on the newly found island gem in the West Indies. When the exploration team reached the island’s summit, careful excavation began. Four feet down, the team found a thirty-inch-deep ditch, and then to the thrill of their adventurous hearts, half a dozen molded seats appeared facing a definitive center. Hypotheticals commenced. Could it be a defensive moat? A bath of healing waters purging sins and offering rebirth in the presence of six devout disciples who observed the spiritual transformation? Discovering the first shards of colored glass in the center only added to the wonderment. Had stained glass protected a holy shrine? Did these originate from bottles holding consecrated oils? They understood that their work had been blessed when a sun ray played upon the fragmented mosaic.
Brushing off the last remnants covering the script on the newly discovered three ft. by three ft. metal plaque, the excited group rushed the artifact to the dig director. He paused to read silently, mouthing the letters carefully so as to not fate the sacred name into a lifetime of mispronunciation.
Facing the faithful, the misty-eyed leader lifted the prized relic and made the announcement in a voice worthy of triumphal proclamation.
“Their god has a name. Let us hail the great and the mighty——HARRY.”
Timothy Cratchit, Esq.
A Christmas Carol by Charles Dickens
1,225 steps,
more when unforgiving winter swept through,
the crutch digging deep
until the thankful contact
of a few dry cobblestone patches
offered relief.
Summer meant better traction
but it was worth
hobbling down that London city street,
looking into the cold sparseness
of that darkened counting-house
Virtuous or evil,
I knew something remarkable happened here.
The day that changed everything—
not the life changing surgery,
not the raise the old man got that spurred
the veiled neighborhood resentment, the lifted eyebrow,
the unspoken why not us?
No, the prize turkey delivered on that day of rebirth
made it so easy to wish everyone
much cheer, God’s blessings, and to mean it.
This is what power and money look like, I thought.
This is what silences the sighing of the needy.
After a time of inevitable deaths,
the nephew didn’t want it, no head for business so he said.
I proved a match,
good at numbers and much, much better at philanthropy.
Removing the sign proved an exorcism of sorts.
The almost indecipherable S
now encased in some primordial mold
came down with a deadening thud.
The freshly painted one speaks of life—
Timothy Cratchit, Esq.
I am here alone as is my preference.
No complaints,
just the old familiar twinge in the hip every now and again.
The fire is roaring.
Random
“Cucumber martini, Titos, and one Turks Head, please.”
It’s the usual drink order here at the Shelf Life Swim Up Bar in the Caribbean, where I’ve worked as a bartender for the past twenty years. Varieties of vodka are endless today, and everything having to do with hops and yeast is now crafted sport, but most calls are what they’ve always been—some kind of draft, a shot of hard liquor.
And that’s how it is when you live and work at these island getaways; everything especially prescribed and made to order. Stereotyping here, but most bartenders catering to the holiday tripper know what drink the divorcee is going to begin with: wine always; bubbly champagne for the first year anniversary couple; beer, shot, beer, shot, beer, shot, shot, shot…yeah, the predictable bachelor party.
Working for most of my adult life in the tourist industry, my complaints seem pretty petty. Steel drums dominate anything coming out of the bar speakers most of the time, but once a month, I design the playlist. I like to go with themes —John’s “Hard Day’s Night,” Billy’s “Tonight,” Alicia’s “I Love the Night Life,” Cory’s “I Wear My Sunglasses at Night,” Justin’s “Nights in White Satin,” and so on. Nightengale herself Ella always ends the set with Cole’s classic “Night and Day.” It’s a perk for sure.
The spa therapists are allowed to accept gratuity, but they’re good folks, and I don’t want to take anything away from them. I mean, after all, they actually touch their clients. I try to make contact in a more cerebral way.
Customers wade, float, or sit on the half dozen seats surrounding a counter I keep sparkling and spacious with plenty of elbow room for those just stopping in for a refill, a slice of lime, or to offer social commentary.
As proud of my work as I am, I’ve given two weeks' notice. It’s time to head off to some landlocked locale, my beloved bottle opener in my back pocket. Endings always make me philosophical. I realize what keeps cynicism at bay is the unexpected, the random. In the middle of the sameness and the routine, my favorite times behind this bar have been those chance, unforgettable human connections.
***
She ordered a gin and tonic for the urn seated to her left.
“Whiskey neat for me,” she added. “We’ve always loved the Caribbean. It’s where we stop every now and then while we’re on our RLS journey.”
“I didn’t realize people took Restless Leg Syndrome trips.”
The laugh exploded as she gave a furious wave.
“No, no —it’s Robert Louis Stevenson.” Her eyes lit up. “We first met at the Stevenson cottage in Saranac, New York. I was a soon-to-be out-of-work caterer; they were a Stevenson aficionado. I joined them visiting every place Louis had ever lived — Scotland, Belgium, France, some ramshackle hovel in Nevada. At least I found a decent casino nearby.”
“A writer’s trip, that’s cool. At least you aren’t on one of those True Crime adventures. Do you remember the woman Aillen who murdered six or seven men in the 80s in the South? Before I came here, I barbacked at the place where, years before, Aillen had made her last call before the FBI arrested her. Even years later, fans came in wanting to know the exact stool she sat on and what she ordered.”
“What was it?” she asked.
“Beer. Her last meal before lethal injection? Barbeque chips. Ironically, the name of the bar is the Last Resort. Stevenson, Treasure Island?”
“Right — Dr Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, A Child’s Garden of Verses, Kidnapped.”
She glanced over at her companion.
“Can I freshen?” I asked.
“They’re fine. I’ve always been the drinker of the two of us. Anyway, we are winding up our bohemian travels headed to our last stop, Stevenson’s tomb on top of Mount Vaea in Samoa. When he suddenly died, the Samoans, who knew him as Tusitala the storyteller, carried his coffin up Mount Vaea’s for burial. For over 140 years, devout Stevensonians have made the trek to the summit to pay their respects. The beautifully dangerous steep path to his grave is called the Road of Loving Hearts.”
She lowered her glass and stared past my left shoulder. Even for me, a practiced preserver of silence, the pause proved almost uncomfortable.
“By the way, we admire your expert multi-tasking, listening, pouring,” and here she breaks into a very pleasant alto, “coooom--mis-er-ating—Green Day lyric, right?”
“Blink-182, but on the same musical map. Anyway, the Turks Caicos novices got nothing on me—I’ll have you know I’m the fastest shot slinger this side of the Caribbean.”
A nod. A grin.
“Let us leave you with a gift, dear barkeep, Stevenson’s epitaph that he wrote himself.” She recited it.
“Under the wide and starry sky,
Dig the grave and let me lie.
Glad did I live and gladly die,
And I laid me down with a will.
This be the verse you grave for me:
Here he lies where he longed to be;
Home is the sailor, home from the sea,
And the hunter home from the hill.”
They didn’t stay any longer. The waters seemed to part when she stood, urn cradled and secured.
***
Cacophonous splashes break my reverie as I look up to see most of the outdoor staff swimming up to the bar, even the head of maintenance is doing a mean free style.
“Our best bartender, our life coach, our confidante, our man of the hour. You may be gone from here, but let us assure you that a little slice of you will always remain behind that bar, my friend. From all of us, we present you with a special tribute that will hang in this hallowed place of honor.”
The owner draws back to reveal my name imprinted in big, bold capital letters on a three ft. by three ft. metal plaque. It’s in the shape of a bar key, appropriately enough. I can’t help but give a cheer when it’s hung between the Macallan and the Hennessey instead of over the frozen daiquiri machine. You can’t wipe the smile off my face.
A sudden atmospheric drop in pressure cuts short the ‘ray’ in “Hip, Hip, Hooray.”
And then no one can breathe.
***
Remote chance, that’s what scientists prophesied about Ceres breaking free from its orbit.
In fact, far-thinking scientists had long championed the idea of setting up life on the ever-stable Ceres, the dwarf planet rich in carbon, hydrogen, oxygen, and nitrogen. But, as it turned out, Ceres couldn’t wait for the world to get its act together, and on a warm early December day, hurdled all of its septillion-pound mass into a stunned earth.
Survivors in their privately owned $79,000 underground bunkers had waited for the catastrophic, and their patience certainly paid off. Two generations flourished in the underground communities. When the time seemed right, the committed survivalists decided to stay put in their womb-like existence, while those who itched for new discoveries chose to leave.
Feeling in their souls that they had been granted a second opportunity, the ones who exited the interior vowed to get everything right this time. Intolerance had doomed humankind in the first place, so warping the world that differences were never valued. When exploration began, all pledged that they would respect cultural subtleties and would honor all that they did not understand.
Incredible views punctuated the four-mile trek up the mountainous trail on the newly found island gem in the West Indies. When the exploration team reached the island’s summit, careful excavation began. Four feet down, the team found a thirty-inch-deep ditch, and then to the thrill of their adventurous hearts, half a dozen molded seats appeared facing a definitive center. Hypotheticals commenced. Could it be a defensive moat? A bath of healing waters purging sins and offering rebirth in the presence of six devout disciples who observed the spiritual transformation? Discovering the first shards of colored glass in the center only added to the wonderment. Had stained glass protected a holy shrine? Did these originate from bottles holding consecrated oils? They understood that their work had been blessed when a sun ray played upon the fragmented mosaic.
Brushing off the last remnants covering the script on the newly discovered three ft. by three ft. metal plaque, the excited group rushed the artifact to the dig director. He paused to read silently, mouthing the letters carefully so as to not fate the sacred name into a lifetime of mispronunciation.
Facing the faithful, the misty-eyed leader lifted the prized relic and made the announcement in a voice worthy of triumphal proclamation.
“Their god has a name. Let us hail the great and the mighty——HARRY.”
Judy/Siduri
(an excerpt from Such Character)
Many years after my sister's death, I came across her creative writing journal from the senior class of 1953, Spring Fever. What a find. I love all the pieces in this book, but especially her critical review of Mickey Spillane's Kiss Me Deadly. Judy argues a strong case that no one builds a scene quite like Spillane. The teacher comments that she needs to study her punctuation and compound sentence structure. Really, Ms. Creative Writing Instructor.
At the age of 38 Judy traded in her role as stay-at-home mother for a short stint as a cocktail waitress/bartender. Not server, waitperson, or wait staff, no in the 1970s women serving drinks in bars were cocktail waitresses. With her shoulder-length raven black flipped hair, pink halter top, white terry cloth hot pants, tanned tights and white knee-high boots, she commanded any tavern she entered. I have to add that the woman could wield a mean eyeliner pencil.
A good waitress, she proved an even better bartender. I believe that her prowess as a bartender stemmed from her incredible listening ability. Only two members of my family never interrupted the person speaking: Judy and my dad. Patience personified, they observed and waited for their turn to speak. And she possessed an essential trait of every successful bartender—a boisterous, honest laugh.
I like to think of Gilgamesh's Siduri as my Judy, the sage-like ale woman who listens intently, dispenses needed wisdom, and embraces the mantra: Live Life.
Siduri
~the alewife from the Epic of Gilgamesh
Stop me if you’ve heard this one…
Gilgamesh, Hemingway, and a lost soul walk into a bar.
Eyes downcast
mumbled mesopotamian moans
not the hero everyone expects,
the unchecked king laments
‘It comes as a bitter truth
that immortality is a sham.
Base offenses fill
my mortality ledger -
pillaging, plundering,
defiling the brides of countrymen,
failing to cherish a selfless brother in arms,
I’ve only one question –
what merciless gods have brought me to this place?’
Not searching for a clean, well-lighted place,
begrizzled, besotted, bedeviled Ernest bellows
‘Shut your goddamned whining.
You want to know why you’re here, buddy -
You drink first to preserve
a place
a woman
an idea
but at the end
you drink to erase
a place
a woman
and the irony of all ironies,
they shock the ideas right out of you.’
Like a Kilimanjaro echo, Papa’s words
reverberate
and then quickly disappear…
The lost soul says, “I’ll take whatever you have on tap.”
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Easter Rabbit Hole
Annie Huckabee
Bound to the tropical bloomed plant
thoughtful daughters have gifted me
I find one handy declarative
and imperative driven card.
My younger one reads.
‘The calla lily is easy to grow.
With showy white blooms,
this smooth sword-like foliage
comes complete with white freckles.
Plant in full or part sun.’
Because nettlesome interruption
is what I do best
I interject
‘The calla lilies are in bloom again.’
‘That’s a famous line, you know.’
I realize I don’t know
why the line is famous
only that it is.
Late night cybersleuthing
crowds out reason.
I do not google the line
but a remembered
Merrie Melodies cartoon
parodying old Hollywood
spoofing
a Marlowesque Bogart
a diaphanous Lombard
her larger than life Gable
the bent spine stalking
cigar puffing Groucho Marx
and at last
the impossibly
high cheek bones of
Katherine Hepburn.
Level I
An animated Kate speaks the line
but why?
Search sated for now
I click on to another Hepburn.
‘Darling, would you reach in the drawer there and give me my purse.
A girl doesn’t read this sort of thing without her lipstick.’
The fragrant cutting from Capote’s bouquet
Breakfast at Tiffany’s refreshes my quest.
‘
Traveling west from Holly Golightly’s Fifth Avenue mecca
I cyber navigate Midtown
coming to rest at one famous
Stage Door.
Pay dirt!
Kate adlibs
as ingenue Terry Randall
in the 1937 film
spurring on Dorothy Parker’s barb
‘Hepburn’s acting ran the gamut of emotions — from A to B.’
I return to Looney Tunes.
Level II
What is the name of that boy/man
from my earlier life
who mimics Road Runner’s beep beep
with Mel Blanc artistry
the one who when he picks me up
in his ‘67 diamond blue Mustang
instead of accessing my driveway
backs up 40 yards to the cross street
and proceeds forward.
In an uncomfortable reverse
I glance at the front porch
where my dad relays a telepathic message
you’ve brought home yet another winner…
The one who gives and takes back
his polished class ring
but most importantly
who sends me my first roses.
Is he still alive?
Did the boy/man make it out of Vietnam?
Did anyone make it out of Vietnam?
From murky mind boonies
a name surfaces
albeit with questionable spelling.
Three empty strokes in
I attach the finite descriptor obituary.
No hit
No autobiographical slide show set
to any kind of grace
amazing or otherwise
No in memoriam guestbook to sign.
Relieved that part of my past
has not disappeared completely
I continue on.
Last Level
Pinpointing a possible match
age about right
I enter a last known location.
True Tornado Alley town
Canton boasts a population of 4,229
weather-tested Texans
but between tempests
it hosts
the world’s largest flea market
and in certain months
mostly midsummer ones
the calla lilies are in bloom.
Annie Huckabee
The Crier
I kicked him a second time to make sure he wasn’t dead.
Thunderous snorting confirmed life.
I moved a lock of graying hair and leaning in I whispered,
“It’s now, Crier—the square’s nearly full.”
The old man grunted, ““Eh, what, what. Such a dream I be having. Aye, feels like I partook in a night of nanty narking.”
Like a seasick sailor on the high seas searching for some kind of ballast, he hobbled with a noticeable list to a nearby stool.
“Crier, do you have the reading?”
“Aye, aye.”
I watched as he made his slow trek to the front of the tavern. The cumbersome black boots seemed like weights, the frayed red coat swallowed his frame. All had seen much better days.
Once upon a time he had been a magnificent Crier. Although forgotten bell ringing and fumbled words now dominated his announcing, on occasion his magnetic blue eyes could still command the crowd.
It would be one of those rare days.
Taking his place underneath the White Harte sign, he shook the bell—the ring barely audible.
“Oyez, oyez, oyez!”
“Our beloved Royal Majesty King George III has approved both the establishment of rates for wharfage and cranage in the Port of London. The newly created Marine Police Force on the River Thames will prevent the Port of London and West India Docks pilfering.”
“Our brave navy commanded by the valiant Admiral Nelson has been triumphant once again. Although suffering many British casualties, and he himself being severely wounded, Nelson and his gallant men destroyed a French fleet of 13 ships of the line in a glorious victory forever to be known as the Battle of the Nile.”
Whether for dramatic effect or more than likely to catch his breath, the Crier paused before closing.
“His Majesty wishes his subjects continued good health and good fortune.”
“God save the King!”
He heralded king and country of course, celebrating royal proclamations and military feats that had little relevance to our village.
I did not know the power of existence.
In my before life, I was a practiced watcher of things. Like a starved animal, I appeared on market days to scrounge for forgotten scraps of food, waiting for the turned head to steal from vendors.
The Crier had seen me on those days, a nameless girl surviving in cold, cramped spaces.
On a spring morning in front of the baker’s stall, he tenderly took hold of my arm.
“Would you do me the greatest of favors and take a bite of these creams to make sure they’ll agree with an old man’s stomach.”
I eyed him with distrust. “You be trying to poison me?”
He did not appear insulted.
“Aye, perhaps what is called for here is the appointment of a royal food taster.”
“What be that?”
An individual who tastes the food and drink before his Majesty imbibes. May I serve in this capacity? Is this a suitable arrangement?”
I nodded. They were the best morsels I had ever tasted.
I did not know the power of a name
The Crier determined that an extraordinary concoction of courage and kismet had accounted for my survival.
“You be Gwendolen—a name fitting for Welsh queens and honored wife of the greatest of all magicians, Merlin.”
Then his explanation made little sense.
I did not know the power of knowledge.
Soon after my arrival, the Crier’s reading lessons commenced.
“Let’s begin with a favorite of mine when I was a wee boy.”
The Crier lowered himself gingerly to one knee searching a bottom shelf.
“Eureka, here ‘tis—what a gem, Newbery’s A Little Pretty Pocket-Book, intended for the Amusement of Little Master Tommy and Pretty Miss Polly with Two Letters from Jack the Giant Killer.
A glorious title indeed!”
Something red and round rolled across the floor.
“Oh my lord look—tis the ball it came with.”
I glared suspiciously at the object. Toys had never been part of my childhood.
The Crier proved an intuitive teacher, allowing me to read silently so I could relish the voices talking to me alone.
“How’d you come to have all these books? Were you once a thief?” I questioned one day.
He snickered. “Oh, I was not always a Crier you know. The tale of my humble beginnings will be revealed, I assure you.”
Returning from his travels he would bring home books peopled with characters who would become treasured friends. Miss Evelyn Anville from Frances Burney’s Evelina, or the History of a Young Lady's Entrance into the World told her extraordinary life though captivating letters. Evelina taught me the meaning of the word grumpy, a trait she and I shared at times.
The Crier found women writers a curious lot.
“I don’t know what they would know about the world,” he mumbled. “You won’t find the likes of a Crusoe or a Gulliver, I wager.”
He said, “No one knew who wrote Evelina for a long time. Then some nosy poet let the world know it be Fanny Burney.”
Confused, I asked, “Why didn’t she let people know it was she who wrote it?”
He thought for a bit before answering, “I believe she wanted to see if her writing would be worthy.”
I wondered if it were best for a female to be anonymous.
I did not know the power of friendship.
He had taken in the older boy Thomas before me. On the road outside of Leeds, Tom had jumped up on the Crier’s horse and declared, “Whatever direction you are headed to, sir, I be going as well.”
A good-natured creature, he preferred a life lived outdoors. Wide fields and untamed moors seemed to regenerate him. To Tom the reading sessions served as a form of imprisonment.
He protested, “Aye, when the Crier opens the book, I hear the clank of the cell door.”
Through our time together, we grew to be close confidants, reliving the day’s happenings at each evening’s close.
Eliza, wife of Edward the town weaver, invited me into her home often and encouraged my reading aloud the stories I cherished.
A natural nurturer, she painstakingly cared for the thriving plants in her flower garden. She knew all of their names.
Eliza celebrated her impressive triumphs with me, “I think the white roses will be a wonder this winter! Weren’t the fox gloves brilliant this summer? Though a bit fussy, when the peonies bloom, they are charming things.”
Eliza had learned not to name her children.
She had lost many pregnancies—a son had survived for only a few hours. Miraculously, the passed down, handcrafted cradle now held a two-month-old, healthy baby girl .
When I rose to leave after one fine visit, she said, “We’ve decided to name our little one Ivy. Her middle name will be Evelina.
We hope she be a reader like you and perhaps one day pen
letters like the clever girl in your book.”
I did know the hour had come.
When the Crier became too ill to stand, he summoned Thomas.
“It’s your day to shine my boy. Open the window wide so I can hear the bell’s loud ringing. Remember, I am with you in spirit, dear Thomas.”
Villagers could not remember a time when the Crier had failed to announce and looked on with curiosity at the child before them.
“Oyez, oyez, oyez!”
“The White Harte invites its patrons to take pleasure in a freshy arrived stout port. Enjoy with a pint of hardy ale or fragrant punch.”
“Weaver Edward Kirkley is styling a frock coat of striped and napped wool from the new Batley weave. Designed especially for our apothecary and druggist David Dodsworth, this special coat has a turned down collar and ten mother-of-pearl buttons.”
“But this is not the only new addition in the Kirkley home. We all welcome our newest villager Ivy Evelina Kirkley, daughter of Edward and Eliza Kirkley.”
“Our bard Shakespeare says it best—this is the day when it is much better to weep at joy than to joy at weeping.”
“May true prosperity be ours.”
“God save the King.”
Murmurs of delight spread through the scattering crowd.
“Why, it’s a wonder—who knew Thomas could speak so fine.”
“He reads like a practiced Crier.”
“What strength in a young one—he rings the bell with such spirit and has no trouble posting the notice!”
“The young fellow has a sharp eye and ear for the village goings-on, I tell you.”
I found Thomas in his room when I came in from the square.
“So? How’ddd it go? How didididi I do, Gwgwgww-innie?”
The stammering that had plagued his public speaking all of his young life now made an unusual appearance.
“Aye, it went well.” I took off the coat and hat. After unclasping my hair to let it fall loose, I sat at the end of the bed.
I had left the boots and bell downstairs.
“How’d it feel?”
I could not answer. Every single second, from the opening cry to the final hammering, had been remarkable.
When we entered his room, the Crier beamed. He reached over to rumple Tom’s already unruly hair.
“You are a marvel, my boy. I heard you all the way from up here- so good and practiced with the words, Thomas. There’ll never be a finer Crier—I promise it, lad.”
Later as I stood in front of the White Harte for the second time that day, I knew the power of the empty square, so alive with possibility.
Azrael Montoya grew up in Corpus Christi. As a child, he was a Power Rangers and Spiderman fan.
Love You
It was hard to find you.
I really had to try.
You drove me to work and I was
thankful. Your smile was beautiful and
luminous like daisies in the field.
Your laugh was like a beautiful wet shark.
I said all
the time, I
love you.
I love you.
I really did.
Touching your body all time was smooth as a record. We kissed for long periods of time and it was greatly appreciated. It will go down in history.
I love you.
I love you.
I needed you.
You put on your blue uniform to go fight in the war for the spiritual world. You always followed the prescriptions in your zenned up journal.
Our focus on love was like an Act of Congress.
It was powerful and atomic.
Its very essence sure of itself.
Then the other better man came with his gun in the air to get your attention.
And finally you left me in my house with clutter to be back no more.
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I need a transparent woman in a transparent dress.
I’d like to have someone who knows me best.
It’s hard to ignore all the scattered B L O O D
on the news reports.
The migrant (........)
smoke is filling up my brain.
I need some philosophy to fill up
the empty space (.........)
in my heart.
Like a boomerang or an old house,
I bend back to my old habits.
I want to build my own friend and robo tank.
I want my entire mind blank. ( )
I want to be hurled many years back in time.
So I can have conversations with dinosaurs.
And NOW we’re getting somewhere.
I go back to sleep.
AZRAEL MONTOYA
The Clinic
I woke up in a secluded and quiet room, not knowing how or why I was there. It was terrifying. There was a bookshelf, a couch, a chair, and a very secure door. There was a window, but it didn’t look out over anything. There was only a white wall behind it.
I was trapped with nowhere to go, trapped like a lab rat in a maze that struggles for direction. Everything was dead silent, so silent you could hear a pin fall. My name is Donna Lange, and this is my horrific story.
I looked around the room. There was another woman in the room. It is Brooke Chambers!
Trust me when I tell you we have a past. This was the one person I wouldn’t want to be stuck with. I thought to myself, “Who would do this to me? Does my kidnapper know I hate this woman more than anyone else on earth?”
Brooke was just waking up, and she was just as shocked to see me as I had been to see her. She said she had no idea who grabbed her or why, same as me.
“Someone quietly snuck into my hotel room and grabbed me,” I said. “I don’t remember much. All I know is he was dressed in all black with a ski mask. He must’ve knocked me out with chloroform, I don’t know.”
Brooke told me she was on her way to her car, and a similar man came up behind her and hit her with a crowbar over the head. He then threw her in the back of his white van and drove off quickly. She had a bandage on her head and put her hand up to it. “Wow, it still hurts.”
I thought, “Oh, this is pure hell. I’d rather die right now than be stuck with her.”
The origin of our mutual hatred for one another was complicated, but I’ll tell you the simple details. Me and Brooke used to work for a city magazine called Bold Style, and she was having marital issues with her then-husband Nick Chambers, who ran the magazine with us.
For reasons Nick didn’t want to get into, he turned to me, and we had an affair which Brooke eventually discovered. Me and Nick bonded over playing video games. We needed some joy in our lives. To make matters worse, I ended up pregnant with Nick’s second daughter. Nick and Brooke lost their daughter to a drunk driving accident. Their daughter Lilly was 15. On the night in question, one of Lilly’s older friends was too wasted to drive home. Lilly took it upon herself to drive them both home. Lilly ended up accidentally crashing into a tree, and she was killed instantly.
So, since then, we’ve been a blended family for about fifteen years, trying to keep the peace between us.
Putting Brooke and me together in the room had to be a sick joke, whoever was doing this to us. Brooke was as confused as I was, and I know a bit about her rough past. She has a history of bipolar disorder, so this wasn’t good for her. We needed to get out, and we needed to get out now. I looked around the room, and it didn’t seem anyone had ever been there. The door was locked and there were no clues and no way out. There was only the fake window. Wherever we were, nobody probably knew. Brooke blamed me for putting her there. I had no idea what she’s talking about, but of course, I blamed her too. It was the natural thing to do since we hated each other. I broke up their marriage, and it’s something that still haunts me. Nick is currently single after all this strife, focusing on his career as the CEO of a major media company, Dark Horse Unlimited.
After a bout of screaming at each other, we looked for clues on the bookshelf, but there were none. Brooke told me she hoped I’d die, and she’d be the one getting out alive. She grabbed one of the chairs in the room to try to break the window, but I pointed out that it wasn’t real. She smartly put the chair down. I thought to myself maybe our kidnapper is taking revenge on us for writing some damning article against them but I come up with nothing.
Brooke started to panic, and I needed to calm her down if we were going to get out. She told me she would kill me before she escapes. This sounded like a person who WOULD KIDNAP ME AND WANT TO MAKE ME SUFFER.
She went to the door to try to use one of her hairpins to unlock the door with no success. She said to me, “Fuck you for blowing up my life and my marriage YOU BITCH. You probably did this to me, landed me here.” Of course, this didn’t make sense. Why would I want to be there with her? “FUCK YOU TOO” I told her. Then suddenly, there was a very loud alarm. A mysterious man’s voice came over an intercom. “Hello, ladies, and welcome.”
“Who the fuck are you” I asked. The voice then said, “My identity isn’t important, but what you both are about to do here is. You both know each other very well, perhaps. Work together, or you will never see your families again. Work together, or one of you will suffer the consequences.” I thought these were the ravings of a madman, and I didn’t want to work with Brooke. However, after much debate, I told her I’d work with her, but behind my back, I had my fingers crossed.
The voice said, “Good, well done. Go to bed now, and in the morning, there is much work to be done if you want your freedom.”
The next day, I woke at about 10 am with Brooke on the couch. I tried to pick the lock on the door but couldn’t. “Fuck I’m never, never getting out of here. I’m stuck here with this bitch.” I walked back and forth for about ten minutes, thinking that I’d never see my daughter again. I’m going to die here with Brooke.
I noticed that Brooke hadn’t gotten up off the couch. I went to her. She wasn’t moving. I thought she’d been drugged. “Oh, God, what happened? Did I do this?” I tried to give her CPR multiple times. I pressed down hard on her chest as if her life depended on it, because it did. I finally got a pulse, and Brooke woke up.
The alarm went off, and the voice came on the intercom. “I told you what would happen if you both did not work together, didn’t I? I told you clearly that one of you would suffer. Brooke’s face was flushed with redness so much so that you could see every bead of sweat coming off her skin. The sound of the voice was like thunder or the crack of a whip. “Nobody knows you’re here, and I’m in complete control. Work together or die.”
Brooke pleaded. “Why the fuck are you doing this to us? Who the hell are you? Let us out of here now.”
“Don’t worry about who I am. Worry about how both of you will be dead in a few hours if you don’t pull together. Call this little situation an experiment.”
Brooke and I paced back and forth with anxiety. I told her, “Look, we can go on hating each other, and that’s fine. Let’s agree when we get out of here to never speak to each other again, ok? For now, let’s work together, deal?”
“That’s totally fine with me. It’s a deal. After this, I hope I never see you again.”
We shook hands.
Elsewhere and sometime later in Farmington Park, a man walked, enjoying the sunny day, and pulled a receipt from his pocket. The receipt identified a Harmony Health Haven Clinic. Bing. His cell phone went off. On it was live video footage of Brooke Chambers and Donna Lange shaking hands. The man smirked happily and said, “FINALLY. Let the game begin.”
Backstory
Sometime after Lilly's tragic death, my affair had been in progress with Nick. We saw each other at Dark Horse Unlimited frequently. Passing glances in the office and little lunch dates. Brooke caught us having sex one time in the Chamber’s barn property. Brooke nearly strangled me to death. Nick had to restore order quickly. While she was on top of me she had a look of raining blood in her eyes, the kind you get when you’re high on stimulants. A hatred of a thousand suns. Nick very judiciously pulled her off me.
Brooke had a similar affair with one of my childhood friends named George Caplan. George and I always promised each other that no matter what relationship we were in, we would always have that unshakable knowledge that we would keep our lasting friendship. It’s the kind that you swear on the Bible for. George eventually moved away from this town to pursue a Business Master's at Harvard. He worked on Wall Street for a while, devising scenarios and rollercoaster-like ideas on how people could invest their money. Our friendship, though, was always on the elemental chart. He came to Farmington to be closer to me as a friend, and he took a job with Dark House. So, as you can see, this is one Romeo and Juliet type situation between Brooke and me. I have no idea what will come next for me or Brooke, but one thing is for sure: nothing ever lasts, and people always go back to form.