Great Writers - N
Nandita Banerjee grew up in India and now lives in Houston. With degrees in English Literature and Education, she spent years teaching in India, in the US and in the UK.
Love Is More Than Skin Deep
For the nth time
my reflection has not changed—
eyes still shine,
complexion’s a trifle sallow
my smile fixes it—
it’s all birdsong, all sunshine
in the bureau mirror.
Why he turns away—
that strange expression
when I try to meet his gaze?
Where is his stark admiration—
his raw honesty—
when every inch of him
screamed, “You are ravishing.”
Repulsed by my imperfections?
He said we had a deep connection—
fire in my eyes turned him on.
Has that flame burned out?
Or has his love slowly died?
Nausher Nash Banaji is a poet and photographer.
there is a waft of Chanel
there is a waft of Chanel in the air
the room is bare and you aren’t there
I see a flash of fabric, a shimmer of skin
i feel the burn somewhere within
I hold the doors to the night ajar
I feel the cold of the northern star
I bottle the memory of your scent inside
To remind me what’s true, what’s lies
In the end it is all just a speck in my eye
I just want to take a moment to say goodbye
I know I made a mistake coming here again
I remind myself of what, where and when
In a dream and a prophecy, barely a trace of that place in me
I look in the mirror and all I see, the ebb and flow of memory – NausherNash
It wasn’t until attending college that Neesy Tompkins was acknowledged as a writer by winning a National Essay Contest with her story entitled “The Gift.” She lives in Port Aransas, Texas and has a large social media following.
The Life of a Ship
It was like any other day, the day my father died. Oblivious to the crying and runny noses on the other end of the phone line, it seemed surreal, like the way talking sounds through the fog across a ship channel, muffled. With shaky voices, they talked of arrangements.
Voices repeated that he was really gone, as I tried to comprehend how I was supposed to act. And this huge sense of nothingness overcame me, like trying to stay adrift through a dark sea of bitterness and disappointment, blindly searching for an answer that is not there as I attempted to feel what they were feeling.
After the funeral, after the law books and business had been divided and before returning to the Island, my share of possessions resulted in a cardboard box filled with ships that my father had collected throughout his years, always on his credenza shelves in his law office collecting dust. Some metal, others bamboo, and even an oil painting in cobalt blues of a Spanish galleon tossed upon stormy seas.
The box went into the storage room of my old mobile home, in the place I stored things that I didn’t care to see. A junk room, cluttered with bird feathers and seashells, a rusty ironing board and old photographs of a life long ago known that had somehow changed so drastically to have tossed me here on this Island known as home for so long.
Home, such a strange word. How to define home? I was not born here but knew I belonged here. Here with the harsh Winters and a chill that reaches down the corridors of your heart, yet the ocean gave me comfort, like a warm blanket and a buffer between the world and me.
Until that day in August and a storm that drove in unsuspected, so only a few pair of clothing changes were taken as I loaded up for higher ground.
A week passed, holding my breath, stuck in a city with concrete and buildings that obliterated any chance of viewing a sunset. With an aching heart I returned, knowing that what was left might not be much after seeing video after video of first responders on social media, some of them close to my street but never my street exactly. Prepared for the worst, my feet trampled heavily through still wet and muddy ground, and a stench that was almost as unbearable as the mosquitos dive-bombed any flesh left uncovered.
My old mobile, what was left of it, lay on its side, white walls fallen like broken wings in the mud, weighted down by sewage and stinky mud. Everything was covered in a putrid brown color, the stench of rotting fish and seaweed halfway up the sides with wires exposed. Ironically, the kitchen shelves and dishes in the cupboards stood untouched, coffee mugs ready for a new morning and a new day. Searching through remnants for anything that might be salvaged, a few dead birds lay in awkward positions pointed the way on the saturated ground to where a book lay open. It was the only book found, Sue Monk Kidd’s The Invention of Wings, pages still damp, barely legible and opened to expose a line reading “Let not your heart be troubled. Neither let it be afraid”. And I started to cry. One of those long moaning cries that comes with the pain of letting go, and giving in.
It is odd the things that come to mind when you are searching through an invisible list, panicked at not recalling all the things stored that don’t float to the top like cream; the ashes to my old cat that had just passed a few months earlier, a tiny box of my daughter’s baby teeth, the bin of my grandmother’s crocheted tablecloth.
As I raced trying to recall what else I was searching for, it was with panic that the ships came to mind. The box of my father’s ships. Why did it matter? It mattered because that was all I ever had of my father. His dusty old ships that lay placid on a dormant wooden credenza in his office where the only light they ever saw was from fluorescent bulbs. Perhaps he collected them as his secret wishes of someday sailing the world from the bow of a schooner, free as the wind. And perhaps he knew that under my care, somehow those dusty ships were one step closer to the Ocean where they belonged. Yet, on that day when the wind came from the South, hot and humid, and the sweat dripping from my brow, the stench of death perforating through my clothes in the rising heat, I could not find his ships.
Looking back on that day now, it seems the Hurricane stirred up many things left hiding under the surface. Although nature can sometimes be relentless and cruel, she is always honest. And like the churning waters of a hurricane displacing things no longer useful, the ships under my care and possession had been tossed back into the Ocean and away from me. Perhaps it was my time to let go of things. His ashes, he wanted them scattered in the sea. Maybe someday that will be honored.
Months later, things are looking better. I have returned to the place where my family dwells, where his ashes sit on top of a mantle, collecting dust and far from any body of water. I too am far from the Sea because for now, that is where the currents have taken me. At times when I visit my old place by the Ocean, I still look for a sign of a toy mast, a tattered sail somewhere lodged on a tree limb that I somehow overlooked. Still nothing.
I like to think that somewhere on the horizon a few small toy ships bob on an Ocean of mirrored glass, sailing off into the sunset, because that’s what ships do best. I like to think that people are like ships, passing one another if meant to, never knowing where the tides and currents will take you. And perhaps someday, I will catch a glimpse of one of those ships that used to sit on my father’s credenza, doing now what ships do best, sailing free. That, I like to think, is the reason my father entrusted me to inherit his beloved ships, perhaps because he knew they would be one step closer to the Ocean that he so admired.
For my father, I pray he has found peace, perhaps riding on the high seas of a Spanish Galleon of a cobalt blue Ocean, free like the ships he used to collect. And as for me, I am no longer afraid of letting go. That is the lesson this Hurricane brought me, no fear.
Neina Chapa is a biologist who embraces her artistic side when she needs a break from reading
scientific articles and data analysis.
The Snake Escape
We used to slither through the marsh
Peek out under brush and burrow in soft karst
Nestle in between the bark and heart of a warm tree
Waiting till we can bask in the sun’s warm decree
Cold-blooded but hot with desire
We knew not of what was soon to transpire
We would glide underwater and snag our piscivorous prey with a snap
Bellies bulging from the nutrients as the meal fought back with a flap
One evening on our nocturnal hunt, we saw a shimmery gleam
What a fortuitous night as our frames had been turning lean
We slinked through the hole like it was made just for us
And gorged on terrorized fish till we could almost bust
At last we licked our scaled lips and ventured to leave late
Only to find the hole was as sealed as our fate
Our slit eyes in panic as we sought out each other
In this watery world we were doomed to suffer
We were left to consider how it all went wrong
Missing the place where we belong
And in the next early light we heard a low rumble
A murderous machine wheeling along with a grumble
We thrashed and rubbed snouts on the wire mesh
Trying to find the place where it gives and not stopping to rest
Suddenly the cage was heaved from the water and we sizzled in the sun
Predators in boots keenly eyed us, and we thought we were done
They unlatched the door and gave our prison a shake
Out we flopped on the limestone like the fish we ate
Made to feel like we were discarded
Our love soon darkened
And we could focus on nothing but our quick escape
Unaware of the rift in passion it would create
With every muscle engaged our adrenaline pushed us to slither
Forked tongues flicker, we should have fled together under the nearby leaf litter
But we sought refuge in opposite hideouts and became separated forever
Nick Martinez is a native of San Antonio, Texas, where he attended UTSA and obtained a Bachelor’s of Art in English. He teaches high school English and lives in George West with his wife and two cats.
Night Raid
“What were those things?” Sarah asked, her voice shaking with the fear. She placed her hands onto the man’s shoulders and squeezed, wanting to make sure he was still there. Blood dripped down her long blonde hair and onto her torn white shirt, but she didn’t notice.
“I’m not sure,” Raven answered, trying to keep his voice from quivering. He had to be strong for Sarah, no matter what. Blood streamed from a wound on his left knee, creeping its way down his leg and into his sock and shoe, creating a squishing sound that mingled in with the sound of the sewage that ran past them. The wound was deep but he kept walking; his pride and adrenalin dampening the immense pain that pulsated throughout his leg. He placed his left hand upon hers, his thumb caressing the back of her hand painting it with their intermingled blood. He held his revolver in his right hand, thankful that he always carried his keepsake with him.
“Just promise me that you won’t leave me alone,” Sarah whispered as she placed her forehead upon his back. Neither he nor she noticed that her blood was dripping onto his blue shirt, which she had bought him for their anniversary.
“I won’t leave you.”
“I’m so tired.”
“We can’t stop,” he said, squeezing her hand as they made their way around a corner. Cold air rushed past them as they entered the new corridor. He had no idea where they were going; all he knew was that they had to get out of there. He took a deep breath, much to the agony of his ribcage. He felt his sides with the back of his right hand and counted—three cracked and broken ribs on each side. “We’ve got to keep moving.”
She moaned, holding a hand to her head. She remembered a face—a horrid face, the flesh peeling off of the muscle, which was detaching off of the bone itself. The very thought of it sent a wave of fear through her soul, causing her to move closer into Raven’s back. The shivers racked her body as the fear filled her. “Please, baby? Please? I can’t go any further.”
He slowed to a stop. “Okay, but only for a few minutes.” He turned to face her. His soft green eyes scanned her, searching for any wounds. She sighed in relief and slowly collapsed to her knees, her sky-blue eyes falling shut. He quickly knelt besides her, despite the stench and agony of his wounded knee. He wrapped his arms around her and held her close. “You can’t fall asleep, baby, not right now.”
“But why not? It’s so comfy here.”
Raven smirked, knowing she would never be caught calling a sewer comfortable. Then he sighed and looked around. He remembered hearing the alarms and the screams, and the terror that the creatures brought.
They were eating dinner at a downtown Italian restaurant, Sarah’s favorite. It was their anniversary. He remembered hearing the sirens and wondering why the air raid alarm was going off when there hadn’t been a raid—for his whole life. The other patrons talked louder as panic started to spread, yet he was slow to respond to the danger. The only thing on his mind at that moment was Sarah, the one person that he truly loved and would do anything for. The screams of people outside broke them from their perfect night out. Women and men screamed at the top of their lungs. He ran to a window. A massacre was happening in the streets. The dead had been brought back to life and they were hungry. Their flesh was rotted and the muscle was peeling apart from the bone. He watched as a man tried to save his wife by spreading his arms out in front of her and yelling at the approaching dead. A zombie ripped one of the man’s arms out of the socket and beat him with it. The others attacked with a barbaric strategy: go straight for the kill, don’t let the target get away. They tore the flesh clean off of the muscles of their victims as they bit down upon their necks. They went for the quick kill in most cases, ripping out the jugular and having a quick meal instead of toying with their victims. One of them saw Raven and screeched, signaling the others that there were more to feast upon.
Raven ran back to the table and pulled Sarah into a tight embrace, tears cascading from his eyes. Three of the dead rushed through the door in a blitz, nearly tearing the door off of its hinges. The patrons of the restaurant screamed in pure terror.
The dead went straight on to the attack. They slashed through the staff members torsos and bit at their throats, spraying the ground and tables with fresh blood. Some of the waiters tried to fend them off with their trays, which only angered them. They dug their nails into the waiters’ wrists and pulled them in close before they bit down on their necks and twisted, tearing the entire muscle open and exposing their gullets. Blood showered over them. Anyone that was left alive dared not to make a sound. Raven held Sarah close, her body shaking in terror. The sound of a roaring engine passed overhead, catching the attention of the patrons and the dead. The dead screeched at the sound as if they wanted an explanation for the noise. Bright flashes filled the restaurant accompanied by loud explosions that ripped through the air, sending chunks of metal, brick, and wood flying and penetrating into the dead and the living.
The planes were dropping bombs to stop the onslaught. The military knew that many victims would die as well as they zombies, but the generals had decided there was no other option.
The blasts sent concrete and body parts flying through the air. A block of cement slammed into Sarah’s forehead, slashing across her brow and coating the ground with her blood. The ground crumbled and opened into a large hole in the street which stretched outwards to engulf the ground beneath the restaurant. Tables and chairs plunged into the darkness while the dead screeched and tried to grip onto anything to hold their ground, yet nothing they grabbed was stable enough to hold their weight, their screeches following into the abyss as they fell into its depths.
Raven and Sarah held onto each other as they too descended into the depths of the hole, not knowing where it led to or what dangers they would face within it.
“Sarah, we’ve got to keep moving,” he whispered as he shook her. She merely nodded and cuddled closer to him. He sighed and picked her up as he got to his feet, his muscles and bones tensing up after having rested for more than a minute. He knew she shouldn’t be sleeping, but he had no other option. He positioned her onto his back, his left arm resting beneath her to hold her steady.
He slowly moved down the tunnel, the extra weight upon his back causing his pace to slow even more than before. The stench of the sewage grew stronger with each passing moment. He felt that they were close to the end of the tunnels and the landfill on the edge of town due to the increase of the stench. The sound of dripping water on concrete echoed throughout the passageways as he turned a corner. A smile spread across his lips as he saw a light at the end of the tunnel. He maneuvered Sarah into a better position upon his back as he walked towards the light. “We’re almost there, baby.”
He whistled as he shuffled down the tunnel, dragging his left foot behind him for his knee had completely given out on him. He wanted to rest but he knew he had to keep moving. He whistled a melody as he shuffled along, a melody he had thought of a month after they had been together. He had never been musically inclined, yet he had whistled it for her while they lay in the grass after a picnic, and she instantly fell in love with it. She would whistle it to herself in times of complete silence, smiling and blushing to the knowledge that they always had each other to rely on. His heart swelled with joy at the thought of her. He whistled louder as he became lost in thoughts and memories of holding each other and enjoying the warm summer days.
A loud screech ripped through the tunnels and broke him from his thoughts. His eyes widened. He held his right arm out and tried to hold the revolver steady, yet his body was shaking in terror. At the other end of the tunnel one of the dead was looking right at him. It screeched against and rushed toward him in an animalistic shuffle. Raven smirked and chuckled, his pounding heart steadying as he aimed at its head, glad that it was only one. Another wave of screeches flooded the tunnels and bounced off of the walls, echoing into a chorus of chaos. Chills ran down his spine. “You’ve got to be kidding me…” he whispered as his eyes widened, his heart rapidly beating as terror filled his soul. The dead poured out of the passages further down the tunnel, their crazed eyes showing their hunger.
He wanted to run, to run and never look back, yet he was too scared to move. Tears fell as he faced the coming onslaught. He sank to his knees and looked to the ceiling. “I’m sorry Sarah. I’m so sorry.”
Tears dripped onto the stone cold ground. His index finger pressed down upon the trigger, firing round after round at the dead. Blood and chunks of muscle flew off of the bodies with each impact, yet it wasn’t enough to slow them. The dead pounced upon them and attacked, ripping at their jugulars and flesh. Raven screamed as his eyes were plucked from his skull; his throat punctured and torn to shreds, just as his chest was slashed by the hungriest of the lot. He tried to scream and struggle away, yet the multiple hands upon him kept him still and penetrated his skin under his diaphragm.
An animalist dying growl tore through his lungs and up to his Gods as his life drained from him. Then he felt nothing more.
The dead pulled at his bones and the sound of his sternum being broken in half filled the corridor. The claws punctured his stomach and heart. They pulled his arms and legs loose, and pulled out his intestines. His blood pooled around his body and mingled with the crimson liquid that dripped from Sarah’s equally broken body.
One of his hands fell from his wrist as two of the dead chewed on his arm. It fell palm-down onto one of Sarah’s severed hands.
Dr. Nicki Nance is a retired psychotherapist and professor of psychology. Her short stories and poems have been published in numerous anthologies and journals.
The Doll
It was a nightmare of a Christmas.
At four-years-old, I lived for Golden Books, stuffed animals, and an extra cavatelli – the one my mother said would be too heavy in my stomach. I’ve yet to find the cavatelli that could sink me, but that is a story for another day.
Christmas Eve
In the 1950’s, most Roman Catholics abstained from meat on Fridays and before Holy Days of Obligation, such as Christmas. On Christmas Eve, Italian Catholics honored the tradition with a seven fish buffet, replete with a lot of starchy, saucy side dishes.
My parents and I made the hour-long trip through the snowy hills of Pittsburgh to my paternal grandparents’ home for the Feast Fasting Fish Fiesta. I was the only grandchild, so aunts, uncles, and cousins fussed over me. I ate a lot of Italian cookies baked by my aunts, who wanted quizzed me often about which cookie was my favorite. The kitchen had a life of its own that night, and I got to watch Grandma Antenucci brain an octopus. When I was old enough to think about it, I wondered if she had run out of finned fish or just liked the braining process. One of her favorite teasing admonitions was, “I’m going to brain you!” We all knew she was capable.
After they attended midnight mass, Mom and Dad climbed the steep, narrow stairs to the bed in the unheated attic. It smelled mostly like the thousand or so western paperbacks my grandfather stockpiled there. Sleeping under these conditions populated my mother’s list of never to be filed grievances against in-laws. She was too polite, too stoic, and always in need of new material for a rant.
Christmas Morning
I don’t remember where I slept, or when I woke up. I only remember the disappointment, and later the unfolding terror. My aunts were a competitive lot. I was their only niece, and for this game, the one who pleased me the most claimed a year of bragging rights. This round, each of them gave me a beautifully wrapped large box. Each of them held an almost me-sized doll on its back in a cardboard coffin. Aunt Dina called the one with red painted plastic hair “boy doll” for a redundantly obvious reason. He was not anatomically correct. Aunt Betty gave me a doll with an “O” shaped mouth and a tiny glass bottle with a nipple on it. My twin aunts gave me twin “dollies” named Rita and Linda after themselves. The yellow frocked smaller twins sat stiffly through the festivities with startled glass eyes. I think they were afraid of each other. I was afraid of all of them, but I was a polite and stoic child, and I obediently thanked and kissed each of the demon donors.
Grandma was the self-perceived winner of the morning. The box she gave me was heavier than the others, so my hopes were high for books or a teddy bear. She helped me unwrap Wanda the Walking Doll. Wanda was laid out in a hideous green box. She wore a blue dress and matching bonnet. A pageant like ribbon stretched diagonally across her torso identified her as Wanda the Unaided Walking Doll.
Grandpa put aside the cigarette he had just rolled by hand. He took Wanda from the box. He pulled up her dress. The black key that was protruding from her side was the biggest I had ever seen. If Wanda was real, it would have surely pierced her spleen. I put my little hand on my own side as I watched. Grandpa wound her up slowly, then with a laugh, he lowered her to the hardwood floor. When she was steady on her round-toed bright white, he turned her loose. A scratchy click later, Wanda was on the move. She slid on rollers, left, right, left, right a robotic, awkward dance to the music of a rhythmic scratchy buzz. Her arms pumped up and down with each forward move. When her dead eyes blinked, I threw up.
The escape from Doll Island was quick. Within the hour, I was packed up, picked up, passed around, pecked on, and put in the car. I stood on the back seat floor hump all the way home. I was singing, sometimes with my mother, sometimes to myself when she needed a rant break.
Christmas Afternoon
It was a snowy Christmas, and a long ride home. My father carried me up the steps to the front door. When he turned the light on, I looked at the Christmas tree. One unwrapped present awaited me a napping, stuffed brown dog. When I squeezed his tail, he squeaked out a sharp little bark, so I named him Sparky. He turned 71 this year.
Thirteen Years Later
When my mother was succumbing to cancer, she told me she still had Wanda the Walking Doll in its original box. She asked me to give it to my pregnant cousin if she had a girl. The day after her funeral, I found the green box I remembered so well. The temptation of selling an old toy in its original box had appeal. I was quite sure my cousin would have Wanda take her rightful place at a city dump.
I honored my mother’s wish. I took the hideous green box down from the top shelf of the linen closet, set it on the clothes hamper, and removed the lid. I didn’t see Wanda immediately. My mother had shrouded her in a white dish towel which had become vintage. I wanted the towel more than I wanted to see Wanda, but, with the stoicism of a woman, I slowly peeled the towel off Wanda. In a single motion, Wanda buzzed weakly, moved her arm up, and opened one eye. I dropped her to the floor shouting, “you bitch.” I never saw Wanda after that. I know, now, though, that she was waiting for me. Otherwise, why would she wink and flip me off while blowing a raspberry.