Synchronized Chaos January 2014 – Scouting Parties

 

Welcome, literary family and friends, to January 2014’s issue of Synchronized Chaos Magazine! We invite you to pull up a chair and a mug of ale or tea, and take a cup o’ kindness with your fellow creative souls.

This month’s theme is Scouting Parties, about the little personal expeditions we take to learn about our world. How we cope with not knowing everything, where we go to discover our world, each other, and ourselves, and then what we do afterwards with the information we have gathered.

Fran Laniado reviews Adam Brown’s Astral Dawn, where a young man finds himself on a surprise journey, wandering into a fantasy realm, which he must use his strength and insight to protect. As Laniado points out, one of the novel’s strengths is the development of the main character. He’s neither tragic nor perfect, and he has goals and strengths, although like many real-life young people, he isn’t sure how to achieve them.

W. Jack Savage shares a lengthy piece, “The Beginning,” where love gradually develops between a couple in an unusual arrangement, when they work through their problems, including their lack of knowledge about each other.

Roger Charlin, idealistic journalist at the heart of Daniel Jacobs’ The Eyes of Abel, as reviewed by Elizabeth Hughes, also means well, but faces a lack of knowledge. He must decide what to do when what he sees appears to contradict what he has come to believe over the years.

Hopefully, as people re-think their preconceived notions, our world will overcome prejudice, imperialism, racism and the desire to control others. Then, the Jews, Muslims, Christians and others in the Middle East, and elsewhere, will be able to coexist in peace.

Bruce Roberts discusses such a coexistence in his review of Every Christmas Story Ever Told (And Then Some)? Written by Michael Carleton, James Fitzgerald, and John K. Alvarez, this play, performed at the Town Hall Theater in Lafayette, California, presents a mishmash of classic holiday stories, including Dickens’ Christmas Carol and the movie It’s a Wonderful Life. 

Christopher Bernard reviews the play Edward Gant’s Amazing Feats of Loneliness, by Berkeley’s Shotgun Players, that also illustrates in a fun way how our minds work to combine and synthesize narratives and information. As in Every Christmas Story Ever Told (And Then Some)?, characters make sense of interspersed, overlapping stories from various genres.

Some contributors describe physical journeys and explorations. Laurette Tanner shares vignettes from her time in San Francisco, and Berkshire, Massachusetts. Full of sensory details, her writing encourages readers to learn about and notice the details of their city and wilderness environments. ‘Enjoying nature’ becomes a lot more interesting when one knows what to look for.

Emily Burns, of the Save the Redwoods League, offers a portrait of California’s coastal redwood ecosystem, affected in various complex ways by climate change. As described by Cristina Deptula, her talk at Oakland’s Chabot Space and Science Center also focuses in on the ways nature can act as a storyteller, reflecting past events and broader changes through tree rings, geology, and the changing distributions of different plants and animals over time.

Mitchell Grabois presents poetry about a trip to France, where his narrator gets jolted by thoughts and encounters with people he’s met, along with the river rapids. Jeff Rasley’s travel essay about visiting Basa Village, Nepal also explores cultural dislocation, but in a gentler way by a narrator who desired a change of scene.

In poet John Grey’s work, the characters blend with the rough landscape, eking out existence amidst the rocky paths, crackling ice and coyotes. There’s a sense of isolation in Grey’s writing, of thoughts and desires unspoken, just out of reach.

Emma Bernstein’s lush piece about the light and sound of dawn, the natural environment, offers personal sanctuary and solace.

Artist Tim Davis turns in another direction in his quest for creative escape and inspiration, presenting work inspired by a video game.

It has been said that we should not turn to nature and imagination just to escape reality, but to create it. Hopefully, this month’s contributors will inspire a new and heightened world of enlightenment and beauty.

Happy New Year and enjoy the issue!

**San Francisco Bay Area folks** We have a get-together scheduled for the evening of Thursday January 23rd, 6-9 pm drop-in at San Francisco’s Cafe Enchante, 6175 Geary St. near the corner of 25th Ave. All welcome, please feel free to bring writing and art to share! Facebook event page coming soon, RSVP appreciated but not required.

 

NOAA National Archives Photo Library [LC-USZ62-24481]

NOAA National Archives Photo Library [LC-USZ62-24481]

Christopher Bernard reviews Berkeley’s Shotgun Players’ production of Edward Gant’s Amazing Feats of Loneliness

 

 

 

gant

 

Edward Gant’s Amazing Feats of Loneliness

By Anthony Neilson

Shotgun Players

At The Ashby Stage

Through January 12, 2014

 

AMAZING FEATS OF THEATER

 

A review by Christopher Bernard

 

Scottish playwright Anthony Neilson’s short omnibus of original fairy tales appears this season in a brilliantly imaginative production by the Shotgun Players at the Ashby Stage in Berkeley.

Edward Gant (a cunning and adroit Brian Herndon) is the impresario of a little band of wandering players, and our factotum and guide into Neilson’s maze of stories that are ghosted out of imagination, a few planks and thin air before the audience’s childlike eyes. The show, set sometime in the late nineteenth century, is part magic act, part vaudeville, part sideshow, part musical, part poetry recital, part comic existential quest, part tragic farce, as we are led into Edward Gant’s attempt to find an answer to what will turn out to be his own despair.

The production is an example of how little it can take a fertile imagination to concoct a world: the back of a truck, serving as a kind of stage-within-a-stage, a few lights strung up in the rafters, a papier-mache ball and a pulley and wire, and voila! There you have the Earth itself, spinning quietly in a theater suddenly become all of space.

A gentleman from Gant’s troupe walks about, carrying a stick from which hangs a white paper sphere: it is the sun. A lady traipses in with another stick from which hangs, like a fish frozen in astonishment at being caught, a pale crescent: the moon. Another gentleman walks by with two sagging rods from which are suspended little cages signifying the planet of war – Mars – and the planet of magic and mystery: Saturn. (Edward Gant’s troupe being limited to three, plus himself, the rest of the solar system must be left—to our imagination!).

Thus the setting of the loneliest planet in space is made the heart of the show, where we witness three stories that take us from Sicily to Vienna, from London to the Himalayas, from a boy’s lonely bedroom to a small stage in Berkeley. The first story, set in Italy, is centered in an encounter Gant once had with a young lady (Sarah Moser, who, like all the players, does multiple duty, and shows great variety and skill; this is her first appearance with the Shotgun players) suffering from a virulent form of acne that destroyed her prospects for romance and marriage. Amazingly, however, her acne has a miraculous side: each of her pimples, when pinched, yields a pearl, which would have made her fortune (if not her happiness) had not her own sister, a “beauty,” queen bee and alpha female, taken advantage of her.

The second story follows the attempt by a man (Ryan Drummond, very fine in his several roles, and especially in this one) to wipe out the memory of his great love and of her cruelly ridiculous and pointless death. The attempt leads him into the Himalayas to a holy hermit (Patrick Kelly Jones, a wonderful character actor), who convinces the poor suffering fellow that the only way to remove the memory will be by way of a primitive lobotomy: hammer, chisel, and drill, followed by removal of the offending area of brain. Very spiritual indeed! But the surgery has unforeseen consequences….

The third story brings us, by way of a farcically sappy story about a lonely teddy bear and an imaginary tea party, to the here-and-now with dramatic suddenness as one of Gant’s players, in an attack of sanctimoniousness, rebels against Gant himself, against the fairytales he is being made to perform, indeed against the entire project, which he sees as empty, pointless, “pretentious” drivel. “People come to see about real loneliness, real suffering, real poverty,” he shouts, while gesturing toward us, the audience. “Not this pompous, silly, made-up nonsense! You’re a fraud, Gant! And I’m not doing anymore of it!” And he threatens to stamp out of the theater in a huff, back to “reality.”

Just as the show threatens to fly apart at the seams, Gant himself pulls everything together – all three stories, with their elements of fantasy and reality, fairy tale and realism, dream and reality, fact and truth, of “imaginary gardens with real toads in them” (as Marianne Moore famously described poetry – for that is what this show is: the purest poetry), and even his rebel’s demand for authenticity, for “reality” – with a gesture and a word that complete the show with a hard, sharp click.

Beth Wilmurt provides the superb direction; the witty and atmospheric set design is by Nina Ball; the properties, of particular interest in this production, were by Kirsten Royston.

_____

 

Christopher Bernard is a poet, novelist, essayist, photographer and filmmaker living in San Francisco. He is author of the novel A Spy in the Ruins and the recent collection, The Rose Shipwreck: Poems and Photographs. He is a also co-editor of the webzine Caveat Lector.

 

 

Poetic sketches from Laurette Tanner

THE GARDEN
my love will come, my love
belongs beside me in my arms.
so strong & sure & lively, too
it’s he alone that i will woo.
see the roses climbing up
along the garden gate,
so still with color and fragrant dew –
it’s here i sit and wait.
he’s sat on this step
so many times, and waited for my voice
& now i sit here patiently
abiding by his choice.
it’s spring and now the buds are out,
i’ll leave if he’s too late;
water the gardens, walk away
and leave love up to fate.

Tales of The Country and a City View

            There is a whole city to get lost in.  The bus lines weave a pattern on the map, braiding together a cloth which like the symbol of infinity goes around in the figure eight on its side; forever eating and giving birth to its tail.  There are some places, along the way, I find and relish, keeping them to myself for a while.  I must mark a place mine, visit it many time before sharing it, luxuriant in its atmosphere, food or view.  These are perfect, unique lovely gems in their own setting.

Once, it was not like this.  In the beginning, I was dismayed by the cool white fog creeping over the low buildings and through the moisture-loving trees. These buildings were the opposite of the tall apartment buildings I was familiar with in New York City, and the three-story houses lining the Pacific Heights hills displayed a shocking waste of space.

I’d walk my dog, and concentrate on the night sounds and smells of an area where cars never stopped moving through the streets.  All the parking places in the streets were taken already, as they perpetually are, and Maxwell would strain at his leash to smell the most interesting tires and leave his marker, unaware that tomorrow could find their owners hundreds of miles away.  The pungent, musty, sharp of fireplaces burning their note to the nighttime bouquet.  These experiences were at the very beginning of my San Francisco lifetime; a piece of cloth that was begun with me and has been stitched onto every day.

 

Massachusetts,  Berkshire Mountains 1968:

 

I am here at camp, after a four-hour bus ride made in great anticipation.  I was here last year as a seven-year-old and so I know where the salamanders hide. New York City was beginning to become really hot and humid in the third week of June, but up here the temperature isn’t causing sidewalks to fry, and the air to smell like old oil.  Here has the smell of hay fields and earth.

Camp Southbrook has a brook for which the camp was named.  It’s at the bottom of a hill that gently sloped into where a large pool had been formed by damming the water up.  The water resumed its travels over a large man-made waterfall.  When we camped out, we went upstream to pre-made campsites next to the burbling, singing water.  Sleeping near it was a much nicer experience than trying to be taught how to swim in it.  I had stood waist-deep in the water, the last one out, the last because I refused to practice blowing bubbles in the water.  It was cold, almost icy, and beneath my feet squished a three-inch layer of soft mud.  I was scared of water-bugs and snakes and rocks beneath my feet.  There was no one I could turn to for help, because the swimming instructor was of the mind that what was deterring me was stubbornness.  All along the banks, trees stood quietly, stirring in the wind.  They couldn’t help me; their woody bodies were tied into the earth.  It was nearly silent around the water, and instead of the environment bringing a restful sense of peace, the stillness brought a sharpening of the senses.  The air sparkled with the weight of the sun, nearly a presence that could be tied to a string and pulled like a balloon. Up there in the gentle mountains, the glow would reappear intent on its desire to illuminate the growing things, in this haven of nature.  However, occasionally, clouds hung in the sky.  It rains there in the hot summer.  Rain, thunder and lightning.

 

These days, in the city, I will pack a paper bag with sandwiches and mineral water for a picnic, and take it to Golden Gate Park.  I go to walk along pathways and keep to the wild uncultivated areas.  The trees are of a Northern California city kind: these can withstand months without rain.  After lunch, I hike my way out, a journey of ten minutes.  Mount Tamalpais is within easy driving reach, and has lots of interesting trails for the urban dweller, but I don’t drive.  I remain a city-ite, like a prisoner in a palace, confined to my luxurious quarters and destined to have dim memories of primordial freedom of roaming around the wilderness.  I am a silver bird in a gilded cage.

In a city as refined as ours, civilization has many delights.  Beautifully cut garments are de rigueur at the many fine stores; mail order catalogs are superfluous.  The many goods we have access to be considered a fair trade for the fields and trees of the country, but all that fresh air is also fertile ground for large spiders and other insects.  Cold and rain bring them indoors.  We in the city, except for the homeless, don’t significantly alter our plans because of weather.

Four-fifths of Americans live in cities, and in many cases, the children don’t experience the outdoors, don’t know that ghost stories are best told around a warm campfire on a cold night, and think sleeping bags are for staying over at their friend’s houses.  They know of crowds on sidewalks, when to cross the streets and what city parks look and feel like.  My memories of the camp are rough stones polished by the passage of time, now as smooth as silk.

 

           Massachusetts, Berkshire Mountains, 1968 – August:

 

It rained last night, the sounds drowning out the bullfrogs that live in the little pond next to the tree that’s good for climbing.  The ground will be dry by nine a.m. except under the big tree where no sun goes; under there will be big storm puddles that are all shades of gray, drifting about, with the sun shining through in big gaps.  It is the second to last week of camp, and the monotonous breakfast food is ready.  As I’m walking to the food building I see all the sheets hanging on the line that were not brought in are pulling down the ropes, so that they will have to be rewashed, anyway.

Today the sun favors us, and we are not to be sequestered indoors the whole day, making taffy and marshmallow cakes from scratch.  The normal outdoor activities are scheduled and I begin my round of activities with my chore for the week, feeding the rabbits.  I love creatures we are able to pet, but these are not to be taken out of their cages.  They are ridiculously plump, and seem to be able to keep eating s much as anyone gives them.  The cage is too small to allow them much exercise.  I pity them, for soon I will be back in the city and will know much less freedom myself.

Just before midday, I visit the archery range.  I have been here frequently, straining, trying very hard to make my bow line up and my arrows behave.  At times I’ve given up in disgust and been content to have the arrows fly over the target, covered with cloth and filled with straw.  Some people are so good they hit the target every time.  Today I’m relaxed and not feeling obligated to think of it as a sport or a game.  I pull the arrow back carefully, as I do with each one I’ve used and coincidentally, accidentally and without putting much thought into it, hit a perfect bull’s-eye.

 

A Christmas Play Review from Bruce Roberts

 

Every Christmas Story

 

Every Christmas Story Ever Told

(And Then Some): Review by Bruce Roberts

 

A collection, a collage, a cornucopia, a bubbling cauldron of laughter—how does one describe a play that literally encompasses Every Christmas Story Ever Told (And Then Some)? Written by Michael Carleton, James Fitzgerald, and John K. Alvarez, this story is anchored around tradition—Dickens’ A Christmas Carol—but because most of the three man cast does not want to do A Christmas Carol, they spin off into every other Christmas story and tradition imaginable.

Michael Storm is the director of this brilliance at the Lafayette, California, Town Hall Theater, and aided by three outstanding comic actors—Henry Perkins, Liam Callister, and Justin DuPuis—has crafted a masterpiece of non-stop wit, satire, and slapstick, all on a somewhat demented Christmas theme.

Henry Perkins—actually a brilliant understudy for the ailing Dennis Markham– has prepared to perform A Christmas Carol, drawing the audience deep into the somber plot with “Marrrrrley is DEAD,” orated with all the ponderousness it deserves. And he keeps trying to carry this out, but each time he tries, lighthearted rebellion bursts forth from his co-actors, Liam and Justin—all three known by their actual names since they play so many parts, naming them by their roles would be ludicrous.

In fact, Henry plays the center of this comic whirlpool beautifully, for no matter what he tries, he’s resisted, satirized, and put on the spot. In one skit, he very logically, with absolutely unrefutable statistics, proves that Santa does not exist, only to be forced to backtrack at the heartbroken wailing this brings out in Liam, playing one of his youngest myriad characters. In his final attempt at A Christmas Carol, Henry’s again forced to reconsider because his fellows are bouncing back and forth between Dickens and It’s a Wonderful Life. Inevitably, he too is bouncing: one second he’s Scrooge, the next George Bailey, then Scrooge again, with all three distinguishing the stories through accents, from Dickens 19th century British, to George’s 20th century New England

As the antagonists here, Justin and Liam are sensational, showing incredible talent. Every voice, every expression, every posture possible is handled deftly with comic intent. They are old, they are young; they are meek, they are aggressive; they are male, they are female. Whatever’s needed for the plot to defy expectations, they do, and oh so well.

The Lafayette Town Hall Theater is a cozy scene with great seats everywhere, the home of many amazing performances. Everyone in the Bay Area should keep alert for the next play here. But for Christmas laughs, no matter where performed, watch for Every Christmas Story Ever Told (And Then Some).

 

Bruce Roberts is a recurring writer and reviewer for Synchronized Chaos Magazine, and may be reached at brobe60491@sbcglobal.net

 

Work from W. Jack Savage

 

The Beginnings, short fiction from W. Jack Savage

The beginnings were hard to see then. When I was young and things were always happening, it seemed as though every other day brought a new start. But they had become few and far between. I remember this had been on my mind that day. I was winding down. That’s what I was feeling anyway.

I don’t know exactly why I decided to go into the hall for coffee after church. But I suppose it’s because I wanted something to happen. I was simply availing myself of every opportunity to connect. Of course, nothing ever happened. And nothing seemed as though it would that morning. In fact, I was having a nice conversation about golf with somebody’s husband. I was not in the state of waiting for something to happen, when it did. As I’ve imagined for many years, the only moment when things do happen is when you least expect it.

After finishing my coffee, I headed to the men’s room. On the way out I saw her and smiled as I passed. Just one of those “hi, how are you” smiles that said nothing more than that. As I passed into the courtyard on the way to the parking lot, she caught up with me.

“Excuse me,” she said.

I turned and looked around as if she were addressing someone else. “Yes.”

“I’m sorry, but I was hoping to get a chance to talk to you. I’m Emily Young.”

I don’t remember, but I’m sure I uttered some response and shook her hand. I don’t remember exactly because I was far ahead in terms of wondering why this woman was talking to me. Not what she was saying, but what she really wanted. I must have seemed quite awkward because in thinking back, I couldn’t remember a woman stopping me this way. I seemed to be quite at a loss for anything to say as well.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m really not this scattered normally. What were you saying?”

“Well, it’s just that Tom, your pastor, said you were a writer. I write myself, and I thought maybe we could have coffee sometime and talk about it.”

“Sure,” I said, but ‘a beginning’ is what I was thinking. So, as a writer, I decided to share it with her.

“Mind you,” I continued, “I’m not saying that you and I are beginning anything more than a simple exchange of views on writing. But it is a beginning of sorts and they—beginnings I mean—don’t happen as often as they did when I was younger. That’s why I seemed so tongue tied for a moment there. I was imagining all the implications I guess.”

She smiled. “Yes,” she said. “Do you have any plans today?”

“No, not really; I’m freedom’s prisoner as they say.” I immediately regretted doing so.

“I’m sure you’re not,” she said. “Do you think we could get together today?”

“Sure,” I said. “Would you like to come over to my place or would you be more comfortable at say Starbucks or some similar establishment?”

She surprised me by saying my place would be fine, and before I could get the place in order, she was at my door. Naturally I apologized for the mess, but she not only didn’t seem to mind, she didn’t seem to notice either. There was no sizing up of my home the way women usually do. I found this curious because a nesting instinct commonly demands this sort of curiosity in the women I’ve known.

I had put the coffee on when I got home, so it was ready as I put away the last of the magazines I had strewn about. I was finding her more curious by the moment and told her so.

“I imagine you’re a lot more interesting than I am,” she offered.

I smiled. “Not to me. Are you married?”

“Yes, my husband is an engineer. He travels a great deal.”

“That must be tough on you both?”

“Neither one of us actually. We’re both used to it, and we have an understanding about the realities of living apart most of the time.”

I nodded as I processed her response.

“And you?” she began, “Tom said you were divorced, I think. Anyone special in your life?”

“I’m thinking that as a writer,” I said, “you might clearly discern that there are none in evidence.”

She smiled and replied, “None in evidence doesn’t necessarily mean none.”

“Thank you for the benefit of the doubt, but there is no one. There is everyone and no one, none in my real world, certainly.”

We continued for a while, and strange as it seemed, I did feel she was interested in me. As I became more comfortable with her, I began to feel more comfortable with myself. Her looks were not daunting in any real sense, but she was attractive. And while I doubted anything would actually come of it, she was providing me with wonderful material to fantasize about later. Still, there were yearnings of company missed in our exchange. I was enjoying our conversation and, in an effort to keep it from ending, asked if she’d allow me to make her dinner. “I assure you that I’m a better cook than I am a housekeeper.”

“Yes, I’d like that; maybe I can help.”

It was a most pleasant departure from my usual Sunday routine. We went shopping, and I made her my famous spaghetti. It was playing house, and as the day wound down, I noticed the little things that I hadn’t straightened out before she arrived, had magically been taken care of with her around. She even made the bed. With the dishes done, I poured out the last of the wine, and we settled in the living room.

“That was the best spaghetti I ever ate,” she said enthusiastically.

I must have smiled too sadly because she picked up on it at once.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

I dropped my head and shook it. “I’m sorry, but I found myself wishing I had something else to offer you. The dinner is over, and I’ve enjoyed your company and the day we’ve had. I just had the feeling for a moment that it was ending or going to end. You’re very perceptive. I hadn’t meant to be that obvious.”

“Nothing is ending,” she assured me. “In fact the interesting part is just beginning… don’t you think?”

“Again, I’m sorry, but I’m afraid I don’t usually allow myself to think that. I lack optimism, I suppose. But it’s nice to hear you’re not running off.”

I got up and stood there for a moment. I wanted to ask several questions really. But I felt I shouldn’t, if only in the interest of not looking the gift horse in the mouth. But in the absence of her questioning me as a writer, which she hadn’t really done much of, I sensed a minor agenda. This again seemed absurd, but I supposed that with the signs all there, she must have found me interesting at some level.

“Should I put on some music?” I asked.

“That would be nice; you seem to want to ask me something. Do you?”

“No, I don’t think so, not really. It’s just that I seem to have myself at a disadvantage. I didn’t think I missed the company or minded being alone. It seems I was wrong. In a way it’s keeping me from enjoying your company in a more complete way, you know? The sadness that it will end kind of hangs in the air. I’m sorry.”

She got up and came over to the CD player so silently that when I turned around and she was standing there, it startled me. She moved very close.

“Can I tell you something?” she asked.

I nodded.

“I really like you, and I have no intention of going or ending anything unless you do.”

She kissed me lightly on the lips and lingered there until I kissed her back. I did so with all the panic I was feeling. Later, as we kissed some more, she commented how my kissing and my mood had seemed to improve. It was all true and mostly wonderful. She stayed the night, and all the fears that prospect might have held for me earlier seemed to evaporate in her arms. She was passionate and wonderful, and I made her my famous pineapple pancakes in the morning. We made a date for dinner that night, and after she left, I knew that beginnings needn’t be as scary as this one began.

I spent the day writing and got a lot done. In the afternoon I took myself out for an iced frapachino and stopped by church on the way home. Pastor Tom was just leaving as I pulled in and paused by his car when he saw me.

“Hi, Tom.”

“I just called you,” he said shaking my hand. “You snuck off yesterday, like you usually do, and I wanted to introduce you to someone.”

“It wasn’t Emily Young, was it?” I asked. “We met.”

He seemed delighted. “Oh, I’m glad. She’s a budding writer and said she wanted to meet you.”

“Well, she did and I must say that she’s a wonderful lady.”

He attempted to fill me in on her life. “Husband is gone a lot, I understand. He’s some kind of engineer. I thought you two might get on.”

“Given up on the single women, have you?” I asked. “Is this some new age ecumenical match making that I’m not aware of?”

“Why not at all,” he said with a wry smile. “Why do you ask? Did your interests find other avenues apart from writing?”

“If they did,” I began, “I’ll come looking for you when it starts feeling like a swift kick in the nuts.”

“You usually do,” he called out while getting into his car. “After all, that’s what I’m here for.”

I drove home and used my caffeine buzz to clean my house. By seven thirty I dressed for dinner and waited to hear from Emily. By ten to eight, I gave her a call. When a man answered, I said that I had dialed the wrong number. But I hadn’t dialed the wrong number and, assuming the man was her husband, figured dinner was off. I confess that I was a little disappointed. But she was, after all, married, and the reality of that fact that I had conveniently been ignoring finally came to the fore.

I sat there for ten more minutes and decided that since I was dressed for dinner, I’d take myself out. So I headed to Chili’s and thought I’d get a sandwich and watch the Angel’s game in the bar. I no sooner walked in when I came face to face with Emily.

“Hi,” she said and the man swung around and smiled. He was a good-looking fellow whom I guessed to be around forty.

I returned her greeting. “Hi.”

She turned to him and introduced me as the “writer I was telling you about” and before I knew it and in spite of trying to get out of it, I was sitting with Emily and Terry and getting ready to order dinner. Emily got up to go to the restroom, and Terry and I were alone.

“What happened tonight?” he asked. “Emily told me you two had a date.”

Truth be told, I wasn’t that shocked.

“I never heard from her and assumed something had come up.”

“Was it you who called?” he asked.

“Yes,” I admitted. “Sorry. But when you answered I thought it best.”

“I understand,” he said. “Anyway, it worked out fine for me. I got to go out to dinner.”

An urbane response, I thought given the circumstances. Then a thought occurred to me.

“How long have you two been married?” I asked.

His smile was instantaneous. “I thought that might be it,” he said. “We’re not married. I guess you didn’t hear her. I’m Emily’s friend, basically. We saw each other when we first met but that was long ago.”

Emily returned and Terry, who was now enjoying himself more then ever, related the mix-up, and after we ordered, he went to the restroom.

“I’m sorry about this,” I began, “but when you didn’t call…”

“No, it was my fault. I got behind, and I should have called you earlier. I’m glad we got together anyway. Yesterday was so wonderful, and I thought about you all day.”

Terry came back and we ate and talked about this and that, and I confess to wondering how this would all shake out when we left. I didn’t wonder long because Terry announced he’d be going home and would I be good enough to take care of Emily and so on and so forth. As we broke up, he shook my hand and hugged Emily, and however strange it had all began, we were finally alone and together. Driving back to my place, I reflected on all of it and shared some of my thoughts with her.

“Mind you,” I said, “when I was younger, I’m sure I would have reacted differently.”

“In what way,” she asked.

“More impatience,” I answered. “Disappointment and probably a feeling that I’d allowed myself to get too attached too soon. As you said, yesterday was wonderful, and I’d been looking forward to seeing you all day.”

She smiled and looked ahead. “I’m so glad we ran into you; I was so upset that I missed you.”

I don’t know why, but when we arrived at my place and I saw no message on the machine, it rather bothered me. After fixing us drinks, I finally asked.

“You know,” I began, “I know why I said I had the wrong number when Terry answered your phone, but why didn’t you leave me a message when you called here?”

“I was upset, I suppose,” she explained. “I was mad at myself mostly, but when you weren’t there only ten minutes after you called, I think I was a little mad at you, too.”

“Well, that was largely defensive. I didn’t want to sit there and stew over it. I was dressed, hungry, and didn’t want to let my disappointment turn into something else. Anyway, I’m glad you’re here now.”

But as she smiled an affirmative response, I could see my explanation wasn’t quite what the doctor ordered. Naturally, after only one day and a minor mix-up that had seemingly ended well, I found this subtext of a snit, somewhat odd. Still, I didn’t know her very well.

I put on some music and fixed us both a drink, but soon after, she seemed to close up a bit. Her body language began to suggest that I was no longer quite as interesting and had somehow been grouped in a category of men. It wasn’t exactly a red flag, but I confess to wondering if any of this was going to be worth it in the long run. As I did, I began thinking that this was the perfect time to end anything that was going to turn out badly in the long term.

I decided to be forthright. “There seems to be a distance between us tonight. Is anything wrong?”

She shook her head and got up. “Yes, and it’s my fault. I was going to be mad at you because you hadn’t waited. In fact I was mad when we saw you at Chili’s. With Terry there I felt like I was deprived of the chance to vent a little. Now, I’m in a mood. I looked so forward to seeing you tonight. I’m not usually this neurotic. But you haven’t even kissed me and I’m just wondering if we both shared the same experience yesterday.”

I’m a bit slow on the uptake, I suppose, but I immediately got up, took her in my arms, and kissed her. It was wonderful because she was showing me this demure, uncertainty that I was being invited to overcome. Our kissing was tentative at first and brooding and finally passionate and hopeful. We continued, and soon we were fumbling to undress each other and moving toward the bedroom where it seemed I was making love to a different woman. It was now urgent with longing, and it frightened me a little. Afterward, as we rested there together, it had seemed that so much had occurred so fast. I knew that I could risk spoiling it with irresistible questions as to where this might go. But I did resist. I didn’t want it to end.

I got up and retrieved our drinks from the living room and rejoined her in my bed.

“I like you more than I thought I would,” she murmured, with a playful smile. “I’m mad at you for that, too.”

“Yes, I apologize for that. But if you really want to be pissed at someone, go look in the mirror. You’re inspiring these heights in me. You’re to blame in the end.”

It was again comfortable and marvelous, and day two seemed to be ending better then the day before. Perhaps, though I was feeling less panic, I should have been feeling more. But I allowed our sex to keep making me feel like the man I never was, and as we fell off to sleep in each other’s arms, all seemed right in the world.

We woke up and made love again, showered together, and went out to breakfast. Over the last of our coffee, she began asking me questions I might have asked her, but hadn’t.

“Where do you think this might go?” she asked.

“With you being married, it seems like that should be my line. Where would you like it to go, Emily?”

“That’s not at all fair, and you know it.” She sounded distressed.

“Yes, you’re right. I have loved every moment that I’ve spent with you. It’s almost overwhelming. You’ve built me up in such a way that, while I should be terrified, I’m really not.”

“Terrified of what?” she asked.

“Of falling in love with you…what else? After all, two days ago I was on my own, alone in my world. That seems long ago now. But, in fairness, your situation poses the main questions.”

She looked down. When she looked up I could tell she was weighing something.

“Emily, let me ask you something. You approached me about my being a writer. You said you wrote as well. We haven’t really talked about that much at all. We both know I’m not attractive enough for you to go after were it not for your interest in me as a writer. And yet, here we are. You’re beautiful, wonderful and married. I was wondering what future you might see for us.”

“You are very attractive,” she said. “But you’re right. My questions always seem to get in the way. Alright, I’ll tell you what I could see. I could see you and me together: a couple, living together and loving each other.”

“As man and wife?”

“Is that important?” she asked.

I chose my words carefully. “Not in the sense that marriage is necessary. Not to me anyway. But it’s not our marriage that I wonder about. It’s yours.”

She looked away with a gesture that told me this argument had come up several times before. But I didn’t push it and said that for as far up the road as I could see, I wanted her in my life. That seemed to lighten things up again, and we finished up and left the restaurant.

On the way to the car, she took my arm and looked at it as she did. It was as if she was trying it on the way one might try on a hat. Several times that day, she made similar gestures. For example, she made a late lunch for us and frequently invited me to taste things during her preparations. Little familiarities I imagined, and it had seemed I was passing every test. For my part, life with Emily seemed somewhere between a dream and some parallel universe that I’d been living in all along. It was that comfortable.

As evening came on, I decided to see what, if any, rules for continuing this relationship on her terms might hold. “Assuming you would like to continue this, as I would, what should I expect in the way of limitations when your husband is in town?”

“None at all,” she said. “We can see each other as often as we like. Other than maintaining our home, Bill and I have very little in common. Tell me, what was your impression of Terry?”

“Seemed like a nice guy, I guess. Why?”

“No other impressions?” she asked. “As a writer I think you can do better than that.”

“Okay,” I said. “He appears to be very personable, friendly. His stare held a certain subtext: some underlying agenda of sorts. He seemed very comfortable in the situation; therefore, I imagine that whatever there was between you two was over long ago. I’m slow to pick up on these things, but while he didn’t appear effeminate, if you were to tell me he was gay, it wouldn’t surprise me.”

She smiled and said, “Pretty good. And Terry is gay. Of course, he hasn’t quite given into it yet. He calls himself bisexual, but his preference is clearly for men. He and I were casual lovers. One day he dropped by when Bill was home and I wasn’t. Not long after that, Terry suggested we all get together sometime, and I knew immediately what had happened. It had happened before. Bill is gay and always has been. He can sense that sort of thing in other men and draw it out. That was the end for Terry and me as lovers, but we stayed friends.”

“I see,” I said. “Why the pretense?”

“Bill’s family,” she said. “They all know, but marrying me made it seem less objectionable to them. There’s quite a bit of money there, and Bill’s grandfather was very old school. His will held the condition of marriage in order for Bill to receive his share. After he died, there seemed no reason not to continue. I have my life and he has his.”

“If I may ask, why did you agree to the arrangement?”

“I didn’t know it was an arrangement at first. We dated, and he was nice. He seduced me and asked me to marry him. I thought I was getting married. He slept with me for the first year. But he seemed so unhappy that I finally asked him about it. He cried and carried on. It had been torture for him, and in other ways we had grown very close. I made a decision. I said I’d remain his wife as long as he liked and that we could lead our separate lives as adults. I have at times regretted it. But I’ve come to believe that if someone can’t accept my circumstance, they can’t accept me.”

“I can see that,” I said. “I’d suppose the arrangement works to Bill’s advantage in some way?”

“Yes, Bill likes being gay. He’s somewhat promiscuous and being married to me, he avoids any talk of being exclusive to someone.”

“Quite a story,” I said. “You should write it someday.”

She looked directly into my eyes. “Now you know; do you think you can accept my life as it is?”

I nodded and said, “Yes, I think I can. But after only two days, I still wonder if you can accept mine. It’s not nearly as intriguing as yours. In fact, it’s quite boring by comparison. We’ll see, I guess.”

We smiled at each other a lot that night. Emily made no audible sigh but a weight for her had been lifted. She stayed the night and went home in the morning to pack some things. That day she pretty much moved in, and by Friday I realized I hadn’t done any writing. I told her I needed my space while I was working on a project, but I must not have meant it because all I seemed to want to do was be with her. It was truly marvelous, and I seemed to grow by inches daily. I became agreeable almost to a fault, and on that subject came the first of the red flags. On Saturday she asked if we would go to church together. I told her I didn’t attend every Sunday and hadn’t thought much about it at all.

“Well I’d like to go,” she said.

I agreed and said “fine.” But my answer didn’t seem sufficient to her.

“Is that all?” she asked. “I mean shouldn’t we talk about this?”

“We can if you like,” I said, “but I don’t see what there is to talk about. You want to go to church, and I said fine. Was there something else?”

“I guess I’m wondering how it would look.”

I looked at her with amazement and repeated, “How it would look? I don’t give a damn what those people think. I don’t go to church for that. Why? Do you think we should go separately or something?”

“I was just wondering how you felt, that’s all.”

I gave her an uncompromising look. “Well now you know.”

She looked down and away, and I knew something else was bothering her.

“Tell me what’s on your mind Emily; clearly, something is bothering you.”

“It’s Tom,” she said.

I didn’t immediately pick up on “Tom” as opposed to “Pastor Tom” or even “Father Tom.” As an Episcopal Priest any of those were fine with him. I knew that he was divorced and saw one gal in our congregation for a while—at least that’s what I heard. But, as she began her further explanation, it suddenly occurred to me.

“Wait a minute,” I said. “I think I’ve got it now. You and he saw each other? That’s it, isn’t it?”

I could tell right away that was it.

“Just for a while,” she admitted. “A few times. He was helping me reconcile my crazy life in a spiritual sense. It was nothing really. I was just lonely, and he was nice to me.”

“Out of curiosity, I’d like to know when my name came up.”

“It never did, really,” she said. “I told him I was writing, and he mentioned you were a writer. He offered to introduce me.”

“Was that while you two were being intimate?” I asked.

“Not really; it was before that. Then you didn’t come to church that Sunday and well, we got together the following week. Why?”

My answer was truthful. “I’m not sure. So whose feelings are we worried about here—his?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “It does seem a little awkward. I just thought we could talk about it.”

“Well, to begin with,” I said. “I’ve got Sunday solved. You go to church, and I’ll stay home. That way you can tell Tom who you ran into Monday and that we’re involved. Run it by him that way. I’ll stay here and get some writing done, and if you like, we can go out to breakfast later.”

Nothing she had said was that upsetting really. But I felt annoyed just the same. Several times over the next few hours, she changed her mind and said that we should just go together. But I held firm. Then she said that maybe she wouldn’t go herself until I finally just told her to drop it. She did, but as I said it, I could see just the trace of a sense of satisfaction on her face. She seemed to want to push it that far and did. I drank a bit more then usual that night, and for the first time, we didn’t make love.

After she left for church, I got up and worked on my notes for a while. By the time church was ending, I was at the computer and back working. On such a day I have always been thankful for the ability to lose myself at the keyboard. I was that day. That is, until I finally looked up and saw it was nearly noon. Church with coffee time was over by ten thirty at the latest. So I went on with my work but the rhythm had been broken. Besides, I was hungry, and I knew that if I took myself out for breakfast, it would only be for the purpose of seeing if Emily’s car was still in the parking lot at church. So I made some toast and had another cup of coffee. I showered and got dressed for the day and just as I was about to sit back down at the computer, Emily came in. It was one fifteen.

“Hi.”

“Hi,” I responded, but I was pissed.

She came into the study and gave me a kiss. I returned her kiss and stretched as I got back up.

The next question was “how was church?” but I refused to ask it.

“Have you eaten?” she asked.

“Yeah, an hour ago. How about you?”

“Uh huh, I went out to breakfast with Tom and Mrs. Travis—Helen Travis.”

After that I had nothing to say at all. The blush was off the rose, and I was thinking it would be wonderful if she’d just go home. But I didn’t want a fight so I just went back in the study and sat down to work. She changed out of her church clothes and busied herself in the kitchen for a while. Finally, she came into the study and kissed me on the cheek.

“Do you want to do anything today?” she asked. “Or should I just leave you alone?”

It was her polite “nothing is wrong in the world” questions, and my response surprised me. I stood up, kissed her, took her in the bedroom and basically took her with a vengeance. I did things I could never remember doing. I slapped her ass and pinned her arms and pulled her hair and altogether felt it to be an out-of-body experience. Afterwards, we remained on the bed, two separate people for a few moments. What seemed like only minutes later, our embrace turned into passion again, and I began taking her once more. But at my age and relative inexperience at this new unbridled passion I was feeling, I began to wear down halfway through. Emily, now caught up in the whole thing, took over, and when it was over, I felt spent beyond anything I’d experienced. We never said much during the act and even her voice seemed foreign when she did finally break the silence.

“You’re mad about Tom and me, aren’t you?”

“I guess I am; any other ex-lovers I should know about: my druggist, my doctor?”

She got up on her elbow and smiled.

“No, no others. I knew last night you were mad. I’m sorry, but I thought you should know sooner rather than later.”

“Yes,” I said, “and you seemed to take a certain satisfaction in making me mad. What was that all about?”

She lay back down and said, “Well, it was nice to know you cared.”

“Geez,” I muttered. “You women and your little tests. I don’t like games, you know. Games bore me and take me out of myself in ways you wouldn’t find flattering. It’s the reason why I’m a divorced man instead of a married one.”

I got up and walked to the bathroom. I looked in the mirror and felt the sex had built me up to a degree where a confrontation was something. I suddenly felt up, too. Better to get things straight now is what I was thinking. As I started back toward the bedroom, the phone rang. I put the receiver to my ear. “Hello.”

“Is Emily there?” It was a man’s voice.

“Yes,” I said. “Can I tell her who’s calling?”

“Her husband,” he answered with a smile in his voice.

We spent the afternoon separately: me watching the golf tournament and Emily playing on my computer. By five thirty I was dressed for a casual dinner with Emily and her husband Bill. I was rather calm, I thought. Under the circumstances, which seemed like the basis for a goofy short story, my manner might have been different. But Emily had built me up, and I felt equal to whatever the evening held. Besides, the whole thing seemed so crazy, what could one do but simply go with it.

The restaurant was a good steak house with a very fine reputation. Bill, I learned was a vegetarian, and I rather supposed a flamboyant homosexual as Emily had intimated. I might have guessed he’d have kept us laughing with his gay wit while wondering out loud how anyone could eat red meat, all the time sizing me up as a match for his wife. I was wrong. He seemed a very down-to-earth fellow, and upon first meeting him, I couldn’t imagine anyone taking him for being gay. He was not particularly good looking but had a polished ease about him that was very appealing. During cocktails I imagined had anyone been observing us, they’d have taken all of us as old friends. Just before Emily excused herself to the restroom, I thought I saw something pass between them—a sign perhaps.

“I’ve read your work,” he said. “You’re very good. You write women particularly well.”

“Thank you,” I said. “I enjoy writing in the woman’s voice. A lady at one of my book signings was quite disappointed that I wasn’t a woman, writing under a man’s name. I took that as a compliment.”

“Why do you enjoy the woman’s voice?’ he asked.

“Well, apart from the challenge, I suppose it has something to do with exploring that side of my personality. One can’t know women, really. I can’t anyway. But based on the women I’ve known and observed, it gives me a chance to be that which I’ll never know myself, in a literary sense that is.”

He nodded. “Very candid of you, I must say. It’s clear why you’re successful. Ever write anything concerning the gay lifestyle?”

“Not specifically,” I said. “But several of the characters I have created were or have been gay. But for the same reasons I’m fond of writing women and my admiration for them in general, gay men in particular haven’t been a problem for me to write.”

“You don’t find the parallels confusing?” he asked.

“Not for my purposes,” I replied. “Women are better than men in most ways. Men who have found a sexual component in their feminine side are emulating that in my estimation. And men who find those men attractive are reacting to that same appeal. We’re all chasing the same thing in some ways.”

“Yes,” he said. “I think you may be right.”

Emily returned, and Bill nursed his salad through our main course with such ease that you’d never have known you were dining with a vegetarian. I normally never take desert, but Bill’s enthusiasm for the cheesecake won me over, and during coffee, he finally made reference to our seeing each other.

“I’m so glad to meet you,” he began “and to know that you’re the kind of man I’d want anyone I cared for to be seeing.”

“Thank you,” I said.

“I care for Emily a great deal, and our arrangement is not something every man could be comfortable with.”

It wasn’t framed as a question but that’s what it was nevertheless.

After a brief pause, I spoke. “As a man and I suppose from a writer’s perspective, I’ve always found that women pretty much choose us. I try not to delude myself with judgments. Life is more interesting that way. But Emily has become a big part of my life in a very short time. I feel I’m the lucky one.”

Emily had been rather quiet through dinner. But then, this was my interview. Nearly the same look they shared before Emily went to the ladies room passed between them again, and I excused myself to the men’s room. Washing my hands, it occurred to me that while it hadn’t been important what he thought of me before dinner, I rather wanted to pass muster with this guy for myself and not just for Emily’s sake. Still, while he had clearly taken me off guard with his friendly confidence, I was feeling I should be careful somehow. The feeling continued as Emily and I drove back to my place.

“So,” she began, “what did you think of him?”

Speaking honestly, I admitted, “Not at all what I’d imagined—a very impressive guy.”

“He was taken a bit off guard by you also,” she said. “That doesn’t happen often.”

“Well, it’s funny you should put it just that way,” I said. “I was wondering how many of these little interviews you two have shared.”

Her voice was defensive. “There was only one other time. Why?”

“Was that Terry?” I asked.

“Yes,” she said quietly. “Bill wanted to meet you. He’d read some of your work and said he wanted to meet you. And it was not an interview; it was dinner.”

“And a very lovely dinner it was, too,” I commented. “But it was an interview of sorts. Tell me, how much sway does Bill’s opinion hold for you?”

“None,” she said. “Besides, he thought you were wonderful.”

“I’m more wonderful for knowing you, but wonderful is rarely used to describe me. Anyway, it was fun. I enjoyed it.”

We went home and made love. Emily held me with more urgency, and I began to imagine that she’d been quite in love with Bill. But having fulfilled his needs by allowing him a separate lifestyle, she still needed someone to want her. And so I held her back with the same urgency. It was too late for me by then anyway. I was already in love with her.

Questions can kill. I had many, of course, but didn’t want to spoil what we had. She’d consulted my pastor on spiritual matters and wound up bedding him. She’d approached me on writing, and we were now living together. Coupled with what I guessed was some lingering insecurity about Bill and then Terry, I was sure there had been others. Perhaps even others, still. As long as I didn’t know, nor wonder too often, I couldn’t see a problem.

As the weeks began to approach two months, our routine had become very comfortable. I began getting up earlier and writing until noon. Emily had filled the place with little comforts of her own. She’d go off in the afternoon to check on her house and collect mail. We ate out on Friday’s mainly and usually rented a video afterward. I stayed away from church. Emily went every Sunday. Finally, Pastor Tom called me and asked if we could have lunch. It turned out to be a very strange meeting, indeed.

“I know I haven’t been to church much,” I said.

“You never were regular. You’ll show up again when it suits you. That’s not what I wanted to talk to you about. I ah, I’m involved with a woman in the parish.”

“Yeah,” I said, “so?”

“It’s ah, gotten to be a bit much; I think it’s been a mistake.”

“Of course, it’s a mistake for Christ’s sake. I would have thought you learned that lesson with what’s her name. Who is she? Anyone I know?”

“No,” he shook his head and then paused. “Maybe. You said you met her. Emily Young?”

I looked at him as if searching my memory.

“The writer, yeah,” I said. “Nice looking woman.”

He went on to say that she had first wanted to talk about her husband and their arrangement. But there was no mention of Bill’s being gay. They met a couple of times for lunch, and finally she invited him over. He confirmed what she had said about being lonely, and when she broke down, he comforted her and that’s how it began. But it hadn’t ended there, and what I realized was that Emily’s afternoons were frequently spent in Tom’s office at the church, and as often as not, her place. Three or four times a week, he said. But she wouldn’t see him at night leading him to suspect that—arrangement or not—she was still seeing her husband.

“Well, this sounds nuttier by the minute, Tom. Why don’t you break it off?”

He sighed and said, “I’ve tried. But then she shows up at the church and it gets started again. I’ll lose my job, you know. I’ll lose the parish.”

“Do you think she’s psychotic?” I asked.

“I don’t know; do you think that’s possible?”

The laugh jumped out of me so fast it rather startled Tom. I apologized and told him things weren’t so bad and that I was sure it would be okay. After lunch I told him the key was for him was to stay away from her as much as possible.

“Alter your schedule for a while,” I suggested. “Come in early and take afternoons off for the time being. Stop back in the evenings if you like, and most of all, stay away from her place.”

I could tell he was in pain, which made what there was of mine, more vengeful. I went home, driving by the church. I had few illusions really. I knew Emily would stay with me until she got bored and found someone else. After all, her arrangement with Bill was to her benefit as well. Until she got tired of me, she knew that I’d enjoy her attentions and love her as I did. That was over now, but the real pain wouldn’t fully land until she was gone. First would be the matter of getting her to move out. The answer came in the form of a phone call.

“Yes,” I said into the phone. “I’ll catch a plane tonight. Thank you.”

“What’s wrong?” she asked with concern.

“My uncle passed away this morning.”

“Oh, I’m sorry” she said.

“Thank you but he was 99. It was a good run. I’m glad his pain is over. I’m flying out tonight.”

For some reason, I began framing what I might have said next as if in the context of dialogue in a story. “Would you come with me?” or “Would you like to come with me? were wrong. “Will you come with me,” was what I might have said, supposing I hadn’t just had lunch with Tom. And so I began by sharing those thoughts with Emily.

“Will you, is what I’d have said,” I began, “and you would have said ‘yes’ and we would have gone back to Minnesota and buried my uncle. Instead, what I’d like you to do is move back home while I’m gone. I’m sorry but what we had has ended, and I think it would be best.”

She looked shocked, but this quickly turned to anger as well.

“And I have one other request. I want you to stop seeing my pastor, and we’d prefer it if you found another church to attend. He doesn’t know about you and me, but I think it would be the best for both of us. He could lose the parish if this gets out, and I’d hate to see that.”

It was quite a performance, really. She went back and forth between anger and pleading with a certain ease, and I began wondering if it was possible that she did have mental problems.

I remained firm. “No,” I said. I’m not doing this. That’s why I’m happily divorced. I won’t fight about things that have already happened and have irrevocably ended this relationship. All that’s left is to begin getting over it, which I intend to do beginning now.”

“But I love you,” she pleaded.

“I suggest you start getting over that now, as well. If you don’t mind, I’d like you to leave now because I have to pack. Keep your key and move your things out while I’m gone. And if you persist with Tom, I assure you that I will whisper this in the ear of one lady on the alter guild who will see to it that you are not welcomed in my church ever again.”

She left and came back ten minutes later. I refused to speak to her, and so she vented for a few minutes and finally left for good.

The funeral for my uncle was a comfort of sorts. Surrounded by what was left of my family, I was able to see a larger meaning in life and that helped. Those duties performed, I got on the plane and came home. Driving in from the airport, I was hoping she had simply taken her things and left. I knew it was seldom that easy, and the possibility of another confrontation was very real. But I was wrong.

There were three messages on the machine. The first was a hang up. The second was Pastor Tom and sounded rather urgent. And the final message was from Bill, asking me to call as “soon as I got in.” I unpacked and as I did I noticed Emily had taken her things. I saw the key on the dining room table with a note that simply said, “I’m sorry.”

“Hello Bill; you wanted me to call?”

“Yes, I was sorry to hear about you and Emily. I thought you made a wonderful couple. She’s very upset it ended.”

“Under the circumstances, Bill,” I said, “I’m afraid that can’t be helped. I’m rather upset myself, but we’ll just have to go on.”

There was a pause.

“Are you there?” I asked.

“Yes, sorry,” he said. “Well, if you’re sure there’s no going back, then I’ll not try to persuade you. But, could we get together for a drink?”

“For what purpose?” I asked.

“As I said,” he began. “I won’t try to persuade you. What’s done is done. However, I would like to explain a few things to you. It might help if you knew the rest of the story, so to speak.”

“Who would it help?” I said. “No, I don’t think I need to know more than I know now in order to get on with my life.”

“For me then,” he said.

I have no idea why I agreed. I barely knew this guy, and my relationship with his wife was over. There was no point to it at all. On my way to the bar, I thought it was at least possible that being gay, if indeed he was, he might want to hit on me. These people seemed like something out of a swinger’s novel. I saw him in a booth, and he waved me over. I ordered a beer and a shot, and we settled in.

“Thank you for coming.”

“Ah, what the hell. I needed a drink anyway.”

He spoke with sincerity. “I was sorry to hear about your uncle; he was quite old?”

I nodded and said, “Yes. He had been in the nursing home for years. I’m glad it’s over for him. What did you want to talk about?”

Just then my beer and shot arrived.

“Have your shot.”

I immediately thought something was wrong. I took the shot and washed it down with a sip of beer. As I did, I’m afraid I was getting ahead of this conversation.

“Something is wrong, isn’t it?” I said. “What’s happened?”

“Emily will be fine,” he began. “She tried to take her life last night with sleeping pills. It wasn’t the first time. She suffers from depression. It overwhelms her sometimes.”

I felt terrible and nothing he was going to say would make me feel better.

“You’re not the cause of this; she went off her medication a while back. We saw this coming in some respects. I’m not her husband, and I’m not gay. I’m her brother and we do live together. She goes off her medication because it lowers her libido to practically nothing, and there are other side effects as well. When she does and her sexual desire returns, she goes a little crazy with it. It’s happened before, and it ended the same way before. Fortunately, she’s going to be all right. She’ll go back on the medication now, and it’ll probably start all over again. But you are not to blame.”

I felt the beginning of a response, but it never quite landed.

I stared at him, trying to absorb what he was telling me. “I wish I had known this earlier.”

“Would you have entered into a relationship with her if you had?” he asked. “Believe me I’ve been down this road before. The next thing you’ll wonder about is trying again with her on the medication. Trust me, it’s not worth it. She will go off it again, and a desire to please you would be her main reason. Without you, she’ll find a reason anyway. I love my sister, and I’ll be there for her.”

“Let me ask you this, Bill. What if she stayed off her medication for a prolonged period? Isn’t it possible she could learn to control those urges and become, well, monogamous?”

He shook his head and paused. “I don’t know, but I do know that the downside of waiting for some crisis to pull her back into suicidal depression is something I wouldn’t wish on anyone. I’m telling you this because I don’t want you to blame yourself in any way. This was coming; if not with you, then with someone else.”

“Yes,” I said, “but it seems to me that managing her depression in some other way hasn’t been tried. Armed with this knowledge going in, there could be a different outcome. What hospital is she at?”

I wanted to go right then, but visiting hours were over. Bill made me promise to at least think overnight about all he had said before going to the hospital. He said he wouldn’t tell her we had talked, and if I decided it was all too much for me, he would understand. I went home and called Tom. He had heard and was calling to tell me when he got my machine. I told him that I was the other guy, what I had learned, and that had I understood any of this, my reaction might have been different. I loved Emily and felt that somehow, not knowing about her situation, I had let her down. Getting over that love would have been hard enough. But abandoning her over something as trivial as sex with my pastor, under these new circumstances, was something I felt I couldn’t do.

The next morning I picked up a dozen roses and went to the hospital. Emily was sitting up looking out the window when I walked in.

“Good morning,” I said. She saw me and began crying. I put down the roses and hugged her from the edge of the bed.

“It’s going to be alright Emily,” I promise. “Thank God you’re okay.”

She continued crying for some time, and I kept trying to comfort her. Her tears were broken with intermittent apologies about this and that. I kept telling her it was all right and that I wanted her to come home with me when she was well enough. That seemed to cheer her and just then her doctor walked in. I introduced and excused myself and went out into the hall while he attended to Emily. When he came out, I asked if I could talk to him for a moment. I presented my “what if” scenario regarding her medication, and he surprised me by saying it was worth a try.

“She will eventually kill herself if she continues to yoyo like this, but I caution you that living with someone who suffers from depression can make you a prisoner. It’s not very pleasant. Let me give you some advice. Everyone feels guilty after something like this. Don’t get caught up in that to the point where you’re willing to do something that may be over your head.”

“I’m a writer,” I said. “I’m home all day, and I can do this. I want to try.”

“And what if you find you can’t?” he asked plainly. “Then Emily, without her medication to get her through it, will face another crisis just like this one. Think about what I’m saying before you commit to too much.”

There was Bill, and Emily’s doctor, and as I recall, Tom chimed in with his two cents as well. But I had made my decision. The next day I picked up Emily and drove her home. We packed her things and headed for my place. I never sat her down and listed any ground rules. When she’d bring it up, I’d simply say that as long as she loved me, I’d love her back. Anything else we could work through. Over time, I’m sure there were a few indiscretions: that first year in particular. But after that, we settled into a life that both of us could live with. If I saw she was feeling low in any way, we’d get away for a while. Her brother Bill, now free from his caretaking duties, finally married and began a family of his own. I never married Emily though I would have if it seemed important to her. I felt that, as my wife, she would look on any slip she might have with some guy as a major betrayal of me. Over time, new drugs were developed that promised few side effects but, after discussing it, we decided to stay our course. Looking back, I was no more a prisoner of Emily’s affliction than I had been in my solitude.

I had always been able to eke out a living as a writer. Some years ago I won a prestigious award, and the adulation and the money that came with it made me more secure than I had ever imagined. Emily was so proud of me, but I sensed that giving into my new celebrity could put her at risk. And so I wisely backed off. As I think of it now, Emily was the great blessing of my life, and I’ve never written about any of this before. Reading back, a strange thing occurred to me. I haven’t identified myself in these pages. I could use another name I suppose, but none of what I described here has been fiction. You’d recognize my name. I don’t want that. I don’t want anyone to think of me as noble or to suggest in any way that our life was a burden to me in any sense. You see, I’ve always been a bit of an odd duck. But long ago I realized that the beginnings I wrote of earlier and my lament at having thought they had passed in my life were, in fact, the beginning of a depression of my own. In Emily I found a salvation of sorts, and I am certain she prolonged and enriched my life beyond measure. She’s gone now, and there’s nothing to be done about it. I feel more alone then I ever have and “winding down” is an insufficient phrase to describe my state. Still, I see that my life has been more interesting then I ever had cause to expect, and I have Emily to thank for that. And yet, knowing for a certainty that my decision never gave me one moment of regret fills me with more sadness then I feel I can bear. And now the gray drizzle of depression that afflicted Emily is visited on me.

I might have seen it coming, I suppose. But I simply wouldn’t allow any option but getting through a crisis. Her brother Bill was tragically killed in an accident, and through it all, I was diligent in my support and absolutely steadfast in my assertion that we would, indeed, get through it. I thought we had. But Emily left one day and never came back. She never called, and she never wrote; the police and the private detective I hired couldn’t find her. Nearly six months had passed when Joyce, Bill’s widow, called and said Emily had sent a birthday card to her nephew Billy. There was no return address though it was postmarked “Toronto.” It was strange. I began worrying about the climate up there and those long, cold and cloudy winters and how she was getting on. The slide into my present state began that day.

We had fifteen wonderful years together, Emily and I. It ended as strangely as it began I suppose. But while I know she’s still alive, I’ll never allow this state to end in my taking my life. My celebrity status would be cause for a news account of it. I allow myself to think that whatever went wrong, news of my death would bring her to a crisis. I can’t bring myself to take that chance.

 

Poetry from Mitchell Grabois

 

Black Tooth Rapids on the River Ardeche

I’m a skilled kayaker

but I approach this easy, class 2 passage

with trepidation

On this trip to France

our teeth

fight us

first me with a toothache

that takes a root canal to put to rest

then Concetta, a shattered molar

We are climbing Dr. Montrose’s marble stairs

as if we are priests

performing regular

penance

Then Valerie gets drunk and falls on her face

knocks out a tooth

Blood runs from her mouth

scaring the Arab children

Is there a vampire mythology

among Algerian Arabs?

Who is their Dracula?

Maybe a Jew

who wandered the desert for a hundred years

in inexorable progress

toward their blood

The children run to their mothers

who come out of cluttered apartments

their faces inked

and tight with maternal care,

ready to rush headlong

into rage and battle

Valerie

and these mothers

terrify each other

Something horrible, devastating is going to happen here

I step over Valerie’s mangled bike

and reassure the mothers

in my bad Arabic

It is only Valerie, drunk

She fell on her face

The mothers spit

Whore they accuse

Valerie doesn’t understand Arabic

All she has is her pearly French

and her big, manipulative boobs

that the Arab husbands have been

coveting for months

I help her back to her apartment

She’s still very drunk

She wants her bike

She wants me to take her clothes off

pour soapy water down her thighs

Concetta agrees with the Arab women

Valerie is a Jezebel

and she’s not getting me alone with her

Where’s John, her husband?

Why isn’t he here

taking care of her?

Then John arrives

and he and Valerie get into a screaming fight

We leave

go back to our adjoining apartment building

the smell of garbage in the halls

These Arabs don’t care enough to close the door

to the garbage room

so it stinks day and night

Concetta starts to complain about it

She complains about it every day

but I don’t want to hear any more

I go out on the balcony

and smoke a cigarette

I remember our passage down the river

early that day

knocking the edge of my paddle blade

against the rock that gives

Black Tooth Rapids its name

The river swirls around me

None of my teeth hurt

I paddle on

Tile

We stop for lunch

We climb some rocks above the river

and find a

flat sandy place

Concetta’s made sandwiches for everyone

Salami, camembert, fresh goat cheese

hot French moutarde on cereal bread

2 huge chocolate bars for desert

The sun shines and Valerie takes off her top

lies in the sand

eyes closed

maybe she’s fallen asleep

I pretend not to notice her breasts

but I watch her nipples harden as

wind blows in dark clouds

the sun disappears

the temperature drops twenty degrees in minutes

My Tilly Endurable blows off my head

and is restrained by its neck cord

which threatens to strangle me

The distant thunder comes

close in the river canyon

the wind pulls Valerie’s blouse from

her hand

Above, a lightning bolt hits the sheer rock wall of the gorge

Valerie and John, like crazed horses

run to the river with their paddles

I have to stop them

I have to knock John down

He remembers this two weeks later

when we carry a load of tile

up three flights of stairs

a job we’re doing for an Englishman

Twenty years younger

John feels he has to reestablish his position

He hauls two boxes of tile

for every one of mine

I am so happy about this I could shit

I’m sweating, breathing hard

I stop to take a break

John brushes by me with two more boxes

Haul those boxes, sucker

I silently tell him

God bless you

and your machismo

Strong Cheese

We’re leaving Provence

Louis the goat man has given us strong cheese

wrapped in plastic

but the smell still comes through on the train

and a couple of Frenchmen in suits

give us dirty looks

as if we were the ones who invented stinky cheese

We’re too hung over to care

We’re headed for Paris

to stay in an apartment

belonging to a drug dealer now in jail

We don’t stay long

The building adjoins the train station

All day and night the ground rumbles

like a Los Angeles earthquake

Anyway

we’ve eaten all the stinky cheese

 Mitchell Grabois may be reached at grabmitch@hotmail.com and is a newly recurring contributor to Synchronized Chaos Magazine. 

 

Poetry from Emma Bernstein

 

Dawn

the stars spread themselves thin, long-bodied,

stitching the sun into the sky,

crisp fold of linen on the window sill,

like the roll of coffee from a pot,

lulling the darkness to sleep,

beckoning the grass to shiver and grow into the sky,

blue melted into green,

all of us humming birds,

all of us fluttering,

leaves drift gently to earth, softly brushing

my eyelashes and fingertips,

the branches tune violins fashioned of wind

Emma Bernstein can be reached at emmabernstein1@gmail.com and is a repeat contributor to Synchronized Chaos Magazine. 

Travel essay from Jeff Rasley

 

My Second Home, Basa Village

 

The first time I went to Nepal it was 1995 and I was amazed and bewildered by the cultural potpourri of Katmandu. The drive from Tribhuvan International Airport to the Mustang Hotel was a moving feast of color, sounds, and smells. Dark women in bright yellow and red saris mixed with street vendors shouting out their wares. Tuk tuks bleated and puffed out moist carbon monoxide fumes zipping around bicycle-powered rickshaws. Dogs lolled in the sidewalks, cows ambled through the traffic, while beggars and lepers with watery eyes in ragged loincloths held out their hands and mouthed words I did not understand.

And then I saw the white caps of the majestic Himalayas. I fell in love trekking to Mt. Everest. It wasn’t just the phantasms of the high Himalayas; it was the people who lived up there. Sir Edmund Hillary described the Himalayan villagers who befriended him the strongest and kindest people in the world. He was right. And I had found a second home.

 

In 1995, my house and family were in Indianapolis, where I lived with my wife Alicia and our two boys. But, mid-life alienation had disrupted the warmth and equilibrium of our home and family life.

I had come to feel trapped by the responsibilities of marriage, children, mortgage, and law practice. The American dream had become Poe’s nightmare of enclosing walls of financial and family pressures.

Work and responsibilities beat and fashion the adult American into a tool of production and consumption. At the systemic level our society and economy value the acquisition of material wealth over all other values. In succumbing to this cultural imperative we are conditioned to believe that our meaning and purpose are determined by job and profession rather than by love, family, and enjoyment of life. To press the point, in our culture when one is introduced the first question is, “What do you do?” Our selves are reduced to a name and a job. It is not that way everywhere.

My high school history teacher, Mr. Slavens, liked to say, “The average American male, dead at thirty, buried at sixty.” I don’t remember who he was quoting, but it haunted me. At forty I was definitely feeling lost, if not dead. I did not want to lose my humanity, but I felt life being sucked out of me as I measured out my days in six-minute billing-units at the law office.

So, Alicia wisely and firmly told me to go traveling, to do what I loved but had been denying myself. Not just a weekend or week-long road trip; she told me I should go take a hike on the other side of the planet. I should go trekking in the Nepal Himalayas.

 

Fifteen years later, Ganesh Rai, Buddiraj Rai and I sat by a campfire on the Ratnagi Danda, a 10,000 foot high ridge in the eastern Nepal Himalayas.  Our trekking group had successfully delivered the equipment to build a little hydroelectric power station for Basa village.

 

I had gone back to Nepal almost every year during that fifteen year period. In addition to developing the skills and experience of a mountaineer I became involved with various development projects in remote Himalayan villages. The first was a water project in the Dolpo region of western Nepal. In the last few years my efforts focused in the eastern region of Solu, mostly on Basa village. Villagers and climbing friends had formed a foundation to work with Basa to improve its standard of living in ways the local people decided they wanted. A village school with five grades, smokeless stoves for all the homes in the village, a hydroelectric plant, and a water delivery project were the fruits of our efforts. Because of my relationship with the people of Basa, I was called Jeff Dhai, “big brother” to the village.

 

Ganesh and Buddi had agreed to enlighten me about the ancestral legends of the Rai people of Basa.  They told me their people “in the old days” had a written language and sacred texts, but the written language and the ancient texts were lost in the mists of time.  Their local language was spoken only by the native villagers of their valley.  As far as they knew, no other “white man” had been told the stories that had been handed down from generation to generation in Basa.

Our camp was a clearing within a rhododendron forest on the high ridge above the village.  The porters and kitchen crew were finishing their simple meals of rice, lentils, and tea.  The crew had already cleaned up our communal dining tent.  As soon as the guys finished eating they would pile into the dining tent sharing body heat for warmth while they slept.

Before we sat down by the campfire, Ganesh and Buddi had spoken with our senior porter Kumar Rai about my request to be told the old stories of their village.  Kumar is a descendent of shamans (called “purkets” in the local Rai dialect) in Basa. He was also the eldest member of our expedition staff.  Kumar does not speak English. Kumar assented that the stories of their gods and rituals should be revealed to me. He reminded the younger men of some of the details he wanted me to learn. 

Buddi is the son of the caretaker of the Kali Devi shrine outside of Basa. Buddi will succeed his father after the old man’s death.  Buddi was the assistant sirdar (guide) for the trekking group to Basa I had organized in November-December 2010.  Ganesh was our sirdar (chief guide).

Buddi sat on the other side of the fire from me. Buddi’s voice was low and resonant. He was chanting trance-like in his Rai language.  It was a little unsettling, because Buddi is in his mid-twenties and full of life. On the trek he was always smiling and joking while he bounded down the trail on springy legs.  Now, he was solemn and serious.  His chanting voice on the other side of the crackling fire under the moonlit Himalayan sky created an eerie ambiance.

Ganesh sat between us translating Buddi’s words into English. Ganesh and I have hiked many rugged miles together on trails on Himalayan climbing and trekking expeditions.  He was the sirdar for several expeditions we organized to introduce American friends to the alien and wondrous culture of Nepal and the highest mountains on Earth. Our conversations were normally playful, enlivened with jokes and laughter.  But Ganesh wasn’t laughing or joking beside the fire pit on the lip of the Ratnagi Danda. 

The flames of the campfire flashed and licked at the stack of sticks in the fire pit.  Kumar and the guys had placed three stones around the edge of the fire pit as required by Rai taboo.  Red sparks wafted up into the great open sky above the Ratnagi Danda.  The stars were so bright I could see the Milky Way and the constellations I’d learned as a child.  I listened in rapt attention as Buddi chanted and Ganesh told me the ancient stories of the Rai people.

Jeff Rasley is a returning contributor to Synchronized Chaos Magazine, with a prior story about visiting Wounded Knee. He may be reached at jrasley@juno.com

 

Fran Laniado’s review of Adam R. Brown’s Astral Dawn

astral dawn cover

Review: Astral Dawn: The End of Paradise

by Fran Laniado

If anyone were to ask Caspian Knoll what he was doing with his life, he’d probably have tough time coming up with an answer. At twenty-two he works a low paying dead end job, and lives with his parents. His idea of an exciting weekend involves something good on TV, and he’s never had a real girlfriend. That’s not to say Caspian is “a loser”. Quite the contrary. He’s basically a decent guy.

He is intelligent and inquisitive. He wants more out of life. But he isn’t quite sure how to get beyond “wanting” it. He’s held back by a general sense of fear and anxiety. Of course he doesn’t seem like the type of person to save a heavenly realm from invasion. But are the people who save other worlds ever, really, the people that you would expect?

One Friday evening, Caspian picks up an interesting looking Ankh necklace when he stops into an antique store on his way home from work. Other than that nothing else remotely atypical happens, and Caspian goes home, has some dinner with his family, watches some television and falls asleep. He awakens in a strange Heavenly realm. He’s taken to places with names like the Clear Path, Inspiration’s Light and the Way of Ascension before his arrival in the Celestial City.

Here he finds a guide who tells him that a) he is dreaming (he kind of figured that one out on his own) b) This is somehow different from a normal dream c) He’s in what humans traditionally think of as Heaven and d) He’s not actually dead- just visiting. All seems well in the Celestial City, as you might expect. But Caspian begins to notice some folks around that look like they don’t belong in Heaven. In fact, they look like they belong somewhere a bit further south… But for some reason, Caspian is the only one who can see them. It comes to pass that Caspian might be the only thing stranding between Paradise, and an invasion.

Like any other book, Astral Dawn: The End of Paradise has its share of strengths and weaknesses. Impatient readers be warned that some of the weaknesses appear first. We get a preface and a prologue that are set in realms that we can assume are Heaven and Hell, but without really having an idea of who these beings really are, or the stakes, it’s hard for the reader to engage, or even understand. Push though this.

Once we meet Caspian things start to look up. He has found himself in a similar situation to a lot of other “new adults”. He’s been told that he may have to pay his dues but eventually if he tows the line he’ll have a good job, a family, and a happy fulfilling life. But he’s not sure how to get from point A to point B. He sends out resumes, but not much seems to come of them.

When he sees a girl who catches his interest, he can’t think of anything to say to her. A lot of readers may sympathize with Caspian in this, because it’s a point in life that’s very similar to where a lot of readers either are of have been once: the point where we once assumed that everything would come together, only to learn that it’s not that easy. As a sympathetic and realistic character, he gives the reader a firm foundation in the familiar. Therefore when he starts to encounter realms that are more fantastical, he needs the same explanations that the reader does, in order to understand what is happening. He also gives the reader something firm and familiar to hold onto, in spite of some of the more bizarre goings on.

Things do get weird. We are essentially taken on a guided tour of Heaven here. We learn a lot of “rules” for travel, fighting, and communicating in this new realm. There is are hints along the way, that Caspian’s journey is not yet through by the end of this book, and will be continued in a sequel. There are plenty of loose ends at the finish of this book, but that’s alright as long as they are tied up in later installments.

Author, Adam R. Brown, also deserves credit for setting his novel in a multicultural world. Well, technically two multicultural worlds. He rarely dwells on a character’s race unless it has some relevance to the plot or characterization- which occasionally it does. In his character descriptions he’ll mention that a beautiful woman appears to be of Hispanic descent. We learn that Caspian is African American early on via a few off hand comments, but his race doesn’t define him. There’s a sense of balance in Brown’s depiction of race and culture. It is a part of who his characters are, and sometimes why they act a certain way, but it is never their defining characteristic. This balance is refreshing in fiction, where often all characters are given the same cultural background as the author and/or the intended audience.

Overall, Paradise as seen in Brown’s novel is a vividly created world that is not always what you’d expect of Heaven. No angels playing harps on clouds here! It is the way that the novel subverts our expectations and ideas about Heaven and Hell that make this an interesting read.

Fran Laniado is a recurring writer for Synchronized Chaos, from New York, NY. She may be reached at fl827@hotmail.com 

 

Poetry from John Grey

 

THE GIRL AT THE BAR IN THE DREAM

 

Sure I wanted her.

But wanting isn’t everything.

There’s also fumbling and mumbling.

In the end, I turned away.

My wants and I moved on.

 

There was the dream of course.

No compromise there.

Everything desired became immediately accessible.

My words…her surrender.

But then I awoke.

 

There’s a world in my brain

where the most amazing things happen.

But there’s this other world,

composed of one part frozen tongue,

one part trembling knees,

and one part okay but nothing special looks.

Can’t expect much from it.

It’s a raw deal long since dealt.

 

And sure I wanted her.

But, most of all, I wanted an excuse.

She was waiting for someone.

She wasn’t really so hot.

It’s the lights. It’s the cleavage.

And she was probably dumb as three twigs.

Is that what I want for a lover?

 

But in my dream, she looked no different.

And she was sure no Einstein.

And she was waiting for someone.

She just didn’t know it.

She was waiting for me.

So my dream was a compromise after all.

Nobody’s perfect.

They just look that way.

 

And sure I wanted her.

Why not want what you can never have.

And even if you did have it,

it would just leave you wanting more.

And there’s always my dreams.

My wants like it there.

 

THE BETTER OFF

 

A man walks past a poor woman,

under a gray sky borne

beyond themselves

but for now each step

carrying iron down a rocky path

flanked by a flight of birds

which they cannot follow.

 

He’s ignores her,

his head in hands, her mind alight,

her vision immeasurably far

in a shabby sort of way,

in flame, in silence,

burdened by this path to truth.

 

It’s too quiet,

no alarm to raise, no message,

just a bare tree, a bare-footed woman,

and he recently returned

from every other place,

rests in front of her, on a stick.

 

She’s only just awakened,

Soon she must find food, shelter.

But now, she tells him,

that all straight lines sear away

the streams, winds, bear us,

the yearning’s tunneled down, turned aside.

gives gossamer to the eyes

that match day’s narrow prism,

that see only fake horizons

as up ahead we travel weathered

 

What could she say,

What survives the dead?

What does it mean

to ask whose heart is fire,

with a fiery knowledge,

with one absurd center,

with one unwitting voice?

 

RHONDA RECOUNTS

 

I walk down to the mailbox in the shivering cold.

I would not do this if it weren’t duty.

I slip, slide, in the snow.

Ice cracks under my slippers.

Birds, whiter-thin, nibble at the feeder.

Is that a rabbit? And is it frozen, dead?

 

Inside, Amelia won’t get out of her sick bed,

prefers the flakes on the window

to the letters in my shivering hands.

No two alike, she says.

But every day like the one before.

 

I hear mice scrambling between the walls,

Good luck to them

if they can live in such uninviting, dark places,

They hate the cold as much as I do.

 

More orders from Amelia’s bed.

She’d like a cup of a coffee.

Is there a magazine in the house?

Could I bring the small black and white TV

up from the kitchen and place it on the dresser.

 

I vacuum. I rinse dishes.

I throw clothes in the washing machine,

turn on its cycle,

listen to the burps, the grinds,

the rough and tumble, of cleansing.

 

Later, I sit in the chair beside her.

I still haven’t dressed, still haven’t showered.

I’m still subject to time

but the demands of a single day elude me.

Amelia is my hours, minutes, seconds now.

 

She recounts a dream of her husband pushing a cow up a hill.

And then one of her father sinking into a swamp.

She says, at the end, all she can see is hands reaching up.

She laughs though it hurts her insides.

 

A voice inside me whispers, “You have no life of your own.”

It’s simply Amelia, in her bed, somewhere behind my rib-cage,

some place so near the heart.

 

DEAD MEN POSING

 

I’m staring at a picture in a magazine,

two guys in their seventies probably,

in a Maine General Store,

circa 1976.

They’re dead now,

I keep repeating over and over and over.

They’re dead as door knobs,

as door frames, as donuts,

even the ones made on the premises.

They’re dead as the racks of Maple Syrup

on the shelves behind them

or the shovels, hardy and deep,

for that wicked Nor’easter snow.

Some cameraman figured he was snapping

a picture of life as it used to be

but it’s really death as it can’t help but being.

Those wise eyes, that skin worn down by

too many mud seasons, that leathery mouth…

all gone, now nothing but the skull

that almost penetrates where cheek meets bone.

The flannel shirts are dust.

The overalls likewise.

And those shoes, resoled more times

than they’ve had hot pancakes,

are all soul now, all spirit.

They’re captured at a moment

when one dead man is telling the other man

a long dead joke.

One’s about to grab a newspaper out of the rack.

Nothing deader than a newspaper in this day and age.

And a rack too for that matter.

The other slips his hands into his pockets.

Neither hand survived.

 

INTRUDER

 

Cougar snarls,

what am I doing in its Eden.

All of the heathen

in a lone intruder

is broached in one long

defiant coyote howl.

Junipers shake

to my trample of a twig.

Wind shifts

at the impediment of my flesh.

I sit on a rock

to clear my head.

But suddenly the rock’s head

is as cloudy as the upper sky.

A man is on its throne.

Water falls from high ledge in disbelief.

A creek cannot understand

why it trickles that first step

toward the river and the towns downstream

when civilization is already here,

a pebble toss from its novitiate current.

Send the man away, whispers the canopy.

Who needs his junk, his anxieties,

his hypocritical pieties.

Every forest creature hurtles away

from any place my foot may fall.

The trees would if they could.

Yet I am only here

to wallow in their peace, their loveliness.

How war-like, how ugly that must be.

 

John Grey is an Australian born poet. Recently published in The Lyric, Vallum and the science fiction anthology, “The Kennedy Curse” with work upcoming in Bryant Literary Magazine, Natural Bridge, Southern California Review and the Pedestal.

 

Elizabeth Hughes’ Book Periscope

 

 

 

The Eyes of Abel by Daniel Jacobs

The Eyes of Abel by Daniel Jacobs

Daniel Jacobs’ The Eyes of Abel

The Eyes of Abel is a very good novel with surprising twists and turns. It is the story of Roger Charlin, a journalist, and Maya Cohen, a security agent for El Al Airlines…or is she? Charlin poses undercover, and tries to go through the security check point at El Al.

However, Maya figures out who he is quickly. She agrees to an interview with Charlin and they develop an unlikely relationship. They are both working on a fusion energy project that would lead to less reliance on oil from the Middle East. Their goal is to prevent a war in Israel, when other countries have missiles pointed at the country.

The Eyes of Abel is an extremely good novel and keeps the reader riveted to every page all the way through. It is full of nonstop suspense. Mr. Jacobs, I rate The Eyes of Abel 5 stars and very highly recommend this book. The Eyes of Abel is most definitely ‘my cup of tea’!!!

Elizabeth Hughes is a reader, dog lover and book reviewer from San Jose, California. She welcomes paying writing and review gigs and may be reached at hugheselizabeth@rocketmail.com