BIRTHDAY PIE

Three decades had passed since David last entered the Empress Diner. During those years, when David returned to Brooklyn, it was to see his parents and they always preferred to eat at home.

David preferred diners and the Empress had been a favorite growing up. Restaurants were for occasions. Weddings, anniversaries, divorces, birthdays, deaths, engagements, breakups, graduations, promotions. Diners were the everyday. Everyone from everywhere eating together. They were for people with places to go and those with nowhere to be. Diners were a respite from the harsh world. Even if you sat alone.

Which was what David was doing in a booth, by himself, with two plates of pie, one apple, one blueberry, and a cup of coffee. He removed a tiny candle from his jacket pocket and pushed it into the slice of blueberry pie.

“That’s just sad,” a woman said, taking of her sunglasses.

David looked up as his memory searched for a name to match a vaguely familiar face.

“Hi, David,” she said.

“Michelle?”

“You got there.” Michelle said.

“It’s been a long time,” David said. “And I don’t get back here often.”

“Back from where?” Michelle asked. In high school, David sat next to Michelle in trig and calculus.

“Santa Monica.”

“And you made the trip to celebrate your birthday alone at the Empress with not one but two slices of pie?” Michelle said. “Pie? Not cake?”

“I don’t like cake.”

“Okay.”

“And it’s not my birthday,” David said.

“So you always light a candle when you eat pie?”

“I haven’t lit it yet.”

“Don’t let me stop you,” Michelle said as she sat down across from David.

David lit the candle. 

“Do we blow it out?” she asked.

“We leave it alone,” David said. “We don’t eat the pie.”

The waitress came over and Michele ordered a grilled cheese and fries. “We sat next to each other for two years and you barely talked to me.” 

“High school was not fun for everyone,” David said.

“You and your friends seemed to have a lot of fun. You were always laughing and joking about something. What was your thing back then? You were always carrying around a book.”

“I was into Jack Kerouac,” David said. “On the Road was my Bible.”

“I was a Deadhead,” Michelle said.

“Let’s not do that whole reminiscing, glory days thing,” David said. “It’s like looking for ghosts.”

“Ghosts are real,” Michelle said. “What brings you back home?”

“My mom died.”

“I’m so sorry.”

David took a bite of apple pie.

“How’s your dad?” Michelle asked.

“He died three years ago.”

“Are you having a service for your mom?” The waitress brought Michelle’s food and refilled their coffee. 

“Two days ago,” David said. “I’m in the sorting and tossing phase so I can sell the house.”

“Is that hard? Both my parents are still living.”

“It’s quite weird. There’s a lot of stuff,” David said.

“And a lot of memories?”

“Memories are always there. I don’t get attached to things. Things don’t care. I just have to find places that will take the stuff.”

“So, you’ll be around for a while?”

“There’s a LOT of stuff.”

“Is the candle for your mom?” The candle had burned its way down to the crust where the flame went out.

“You ask a lot of questions,” David said. 

“It’s really not your birthday?”

“My sister’s.”

“Really?”

“Yes,” David said.

“Didn’t your sister die when we were in high school?”

“If you remember that, then you remember Emma killed herself,” David said.

“I do. I remember trying to get you to talk to me about it and you became even more distant. Which I had not thought possible.”

“I was told I did not take her death well.”

“Why would you?” Michelle said. “Why should you?”

“There were those who insisted I should.”

“Who?”

“School psychologist for one,” David said. “She talked my parents into sending me to shrink. I didn’t want to add to my parents’ grief, so I agreed. But I insisted on seeing someone in Manhattan. I wanted to be sure I wouldn’t run into them here in Brooklyn.”

“Did it help? Did the therapy help?”

“It did not,” David said.

“Do you do this thing with the candle every year?”

“Is this an interview?”

“It’s how people get to know each other,” Michelle said.

“Is that what we’re doing?”

“Why didn’t it go well?” Michelle asked.

“Because he just sat there listening to me lie and never said a word.”

“Did you stop lying?”

“I stopped going,” David said.

“Were your parents upset?”

“I didn’t tell them,” David said. “They had enough to deal with. I took the cash they gave me every week and put it in the bank,” David said. “Your turn. What’s your story?” David said as he speared a piece of the apple pie.

“I don’t have one.”

“Everyone has one,” David said.

“I went to school in the city. Hunter College. Then NYU law. I’m a partner at a firm that does criminal law. I still live in Brooklyn. I’ve been divorced for six years. And I’ve been sober for five years and eleven months,” Michelle said.

“That last part. With the dates. There’s a story there.”

“Not an original one. More of a cliché,” she said.

“The pre sober part. I guess it didn’t stop you from making partner.”

“I hid it well,” Michelle said. “What did you do with the money?

“I used it to move to LA after high school,” David said.

“What did you do when you got there?”

“I was always using video cameras and making movies with my friends.  Not a lot of people knew about video back then, so it was easy to get a job operating cameras.”

“Did you work in movies?” Michelle asked.

“At first. Then television and later sports. I worked for ABC Sports and traveled all over the world. I loved it. I worked nonstop for a long time and saved a lot of money and quit.”

“So, you’re happy,” Michelle said.

“That’s not something I worry about or think about.”

“You don’t?” Michelle said.

“I’d rather focus on things that interest me,” David said. “We’ve become so obsessed with happiness that we turned unhappiness into a fatal flaw, a character deficiency.”

“That’s crap,” Michelle said. “But you’ll tell me more tonight. And I’ll tell you why ghosts are real. And you’ll tell me about those things that interest you.”

“Tonight?” David said.

“Tonight.” Michelle stood. “I need to run but you should come out with me tonight. I have to go to a party for a colleague who just made partner at my firm. We’ll pass by and if you hate it and I’m sure you will hate it, I’ll take you to dinner.”

“I don’t see that happening.”

“You’ll have fun.” Michelle put ten dollars on the table. “I’ll meet you by the subway on Continental at 7:30. I think that after I leave, you’ll realize that I’m something that might interest you.” Michelle turned and left the diner.

Elan Barnehama is the author of two novels, Escape Route, and Finding Bluefield. Barnehama’s short fiction, personal narratives, and essays have appeared in ParisLitUp,10x10FlashFiction, BoogCity, JewishFiction, DrunkMonkeys, Entropy, RoughCutPress, BostonAccent, JewishWritingProject, RedFez,  HuffPost, public radio, and elsewhere. A recent flash fiction was nominated for BEST OF THE NET 2024. At different times, Barnehama has worked with at-risk youth, was the flash fiction editor for Forth Magazine LA, had a gig as a radio news guy, and did a mediocre job as a short-order cook. More @ https://elanbarnehama.com

To all the antidepressants I’ve ingested before

Lexapro

You were the first and I didn’t know what to expect

My mother had forbade me from SSRI’s

when I needed them the most

We had a good run for a few years

but then you took a turn

Left me a dizzy, dazzled mess

Couldn’t drive my car for more than a mile

without swinging open the door

to empty you and my lunch onto the side of the road

Sorry, but we needed to break up

Our relationship was no longer sustainable

I don’t want to ever see you

or the mess you make

ever again

Wellbutrin

I wish I could call you a fling

Truly I wish I’d never swallowed

My mind had never been in such a state

Let’s leave our memories in the past

and never speak of them again

Buspirone

I need you to know

We may have met at the wrong time

In another world maybe we’d be together still

Our short time that we shared

I can hardly remember it except that

It wasn’t you, it was me

Zoloft

We are still limping along together

but I am hoping to see less of you

We started off small

but swallowing 100mg of you

is simply too much

I can’t be the only one putting in the work between us

You make me feel like a shell of myself

I am stuck in neutral

There are no ups or downs

I can’t keep living like this

It’s taking everything inside me

to not throw you out the window

Boiling water

The thing about human minds

is they can make up things

without your permission

Years of craving control and stability

may look like getting a college degree

In spite of your own family

trying to drag you back to them

and all their codependent habits

Five years after you get that college degree

kicking and screaming

You’re still suffering

Your therapist has told you

your family is happy being miserable

and misery loves company

They have shown you they don’t want to change

Stop asking your mother to come see you

Stop calling your grandmother

if she keeps saying anytime is a bad time

You’re her only granddaughter

and she is angry that she has to turn down her television

to talk to you

That isn’t love

When are you going to learn

it isn’t in your best interest to interact with them

You are sticking your hand

in a boiling pot of water

Even if you pour some cold water into it

it’s still going to be a boiling pot of water

You’re still going to get burned

Diamonds & dust

When I asked

why we never wed

I remember you said

You couldn’t afford a ring

A ring?

Such a worthless thing

So I said to you

What is the difference

between diamonds and dust?

They start

with the same letter

and they

are ground dwellers

What is the difference

between diamonds and dust

when the finger

that wears the diamond

turns to dust?

Marissa LaPorte is a resident of Michigan; she holds a Bachelor of Arts degree in English Literature from Grand Valley State University. Marissa has also been published in Wingless Dreamer, The Fictional Café, Speculative 66, Sick Lit Magazine, The Drabble, The Flash Fiction Press, and more.

Prologue

Little girls are born every day. Some are born into wealth and power, others into poverty and powerlessness. As they grow into women, a few of those born into poverty transcend the financial and social status of their families and better their condition. Others do not change and may even worsen their lot. Some are lucky to be born in a period of history when human enlightenment progresses at an astounding rate. Others are born when humanity seems to bury itself in the darkness of ignorance, violence, and intolerance. And for many, their period of history presents only ambiguities and contradictions. Those born in such times find confusion and pain as they navigate that landscape. They must rely upon their own innate intelligence and wit, the love of their families, true friends, and other people of good will, if such people exist in their lives, in order to find success and meaning.

The second half of the twentieth century was one of those ambiguous periods for African Americans – particularly the women. The civil rights movement promised them the right to vote, equal housing and accommodations, and attempted to improve their education through integration. The women’s movement promised parity with men of all races.

The African American women who believed in those promises and decided to work towards their fulfillment often achieved financial and social success. However, their victories often bore a high emotional price tag, triggered by often overt and even more insidious, subtle racism.

Into this fog of ambiguity and contradiction, in the geographical center of America during the year of 1947, Lauren Sullivan was born.

Chapter One

Participating in the Bold Experiment

Two big, brown eyes peered over the pink chenille spread. Then an entire face, revealing a big smile. After four seconds, the intensity of the smile dimmed and the eyebrows furrowed. For the first time in her eight-year life, Lauren was going to attend her neighborhood school, the one only the white children were allowed to attend – until today.

For a year, it had appeared to Lauren that the only topic the adults in her world discussed was racial integration of the public schools. She remembered hearing about some decision made in the U.S. Supreme Court, Brown vs Board of Education of Topeka, Kansas. Her mother told Lauren that Topeka was only two hours’ drive from their town. Lauren would sit on the floor playing with her dolls while she overheard conversations about how the lives of Negroes would be affected by this event. Every adult said that integration was a very good thing and long overdue. It meant that Lauren could attend a much newer school with more books and supplies than her old school. But Lauren didn’t like the fear and powerlessness she heard in the grownups’ voices when they whispered about what the white teachers and students might do when the Negro teachers and students came to their schools.

“Lauren,” called her mother, “are you dressed yet?”

“Not yet, Mama; I can’t button my dress.”

Helen hurriedly entered Lauren’s bedroom, her facial expression anxious and distant. The school in which Helen taught, deep in the Negro section of town, was not going to be integrated this year. The school district had refused to send white students there. Helen buttoned her daughter’s brand new green and yellow plaid dress with its Peter Pan collar and wide skirt, and gave her a long stare. Lauren’s eyes were riveted on her mother. Her eyes were the first things one noticed about Lauren. They were huge relative to her small face – dark brown and clear – and they seemed to bore a hole through anyone looking at them. They reflected intelligence and wisdom older than her years. Their size was also a stark contrast to Lauren’s thin build. People often teased her by saying that a gust of wind would blow her away. Helen gave Lauren’s left cheek a spit bath. Lauren groaned, but did not dare move.

“You know, Lauren, you have a lot to look forward to this year,” Helen began, slowly and deliberately. “You will have a new school, new teachers, and new friends.”

“I liked my old school and friends, Mama. We didn’t even move, so why do I havta change schools? I finally got a teacher I liked – Mrs. Redding.”

As Lauren spoke, she could smell the scent of Tabu, her mother’s signature fragrance, permeating the air. She loved that scent. Although it was strong, it made her feel secure because as long as she could remember, her mother had worn it. It evoked thoughts of visits to the zoo, birthday parties, and church. Its fragrance also evoked in Lauren a feeling of romantic adventures yet to come because of the magazine ads she had seen. In one, a man with a violin was grabbing his female pianist in a passionate embrace. Lauren needed that sense of security and adventure today.

The adults were attempting to paint a rosy picture of Lauren’s new school. But she had misgivings. She’d overheard too many other whispered conversations.

“Lauren,” Helen said impatiently. “you know there is a new law that requires the schools to integrate. That means you have to attend the school in your neighborhood – in other words, you have to go to Garfield Elementary.” Lauren hated it when her mother didn’t explain the “whys” of things. She felt insulted and trapped.

“I heard you, Uncle Warren, and Aunt Eleanor say that the white teachers wouldn’t care much about us Negro kids and wouldn’t teach us anything. You said the white teachers really weren’t as smart as Negro teachers, Mama.”

“First of all, Lauren,” Helen snapped, “you were not a party to those conversations. Therefore, they are none of your business. Second, that’s not what we said. We just observed that as of today – 1955 – educated Negroes such as your uncle, aunt, and myself, don’t have much of a choice of careers. Most of us teach or end up in the post office. Only those Negroes who came from a little money can attend the professional schools at Negro colleges and become doctors, dentists, and lawyers. Even those with advanced degrees, they are only allowed to serve the Negro community. Educated white people can do anything that they have the ambition to do. They can have careers that pay far more than teaching and working within the Negro community. Many of those whites who end up teaching are those without the ambition or skills to do anything else.”

“Well, if my old teachers were better, why do I havta go to Garfield? Danny doesn’t want to go there either.” Danny, Lauren’s five-year-old brother, was beginning kindergarten at Garfield.

“It’s out of our hands, Lauren. You are going, and that’s that.”

Chapter Two

The Black Swan

The sun was casting its hot rays upon the storefront windows as Lauren stared absent-mindedly out the window of the trolley bus. Her mother’s tan Samsonite cosmetic case lay in her lap, filled with her leotard, tights, ballet slippers, and a change of underwear. Although the temperature had surged to 97 degrees, Lauren felt comfortable in her shorts and halter top. She liked to watch her tan skin become darker on her arms and stomach each Saturday, as she traveled to dancing school during the summer of her tenth year. She would travel alone for an hour, changing buses twice. On the way home, she would also stop at Zesty Creme for a large vanilla ice cream cone dipped in chocolate. The bus drivers also treated her as if she were a grown-up.

The ballet teacher, Devon Martin, was a thirty-nine year old white woman who had studied briefly in Paris and New York. After teaching technique at the Kansas City Conservatory of the Arts, she’d opened her own studio in a fashionable white section of the city. Devon was strict with her students, some of whom had actually gone on to New York for ballet careers.

Lauren took two one-hour classes each Saturday. The first at 11am stressed technique and barre work. The second, which began at 1pm, focused upon excerpts from classical ballets. Between classes, the students ate lunch at the restaurant a half block from the dance studio.

As she entered the studio, Lauren immediately noticed the smells of sweat and powdered resin, the substance that the budding ballerinas placed on the toes and soles of their ballet shoes to prevent slipping on the hardwood floors. These were smells to which Lauren had long become accustomed since beginning ballet lessons four years ago. This sweaty smell was distinguishable from the one Lauren experienced on the playground or in her own home. It was formed by the body chemistry of white people, and had as its elements the diet they enjoyed, mixed with their colognes and talcum powders. Lauren walked into the dressing room. Here, everyone wore the same uniform: black leotards, pink tights, and black ballet slippers. The girls who were older and more advanced wore pink toe shoes. Lauren could hardly wait until she would be able to wear toe shoes, after, as Miss Devon Martin had said, her legs had developed a bit longer.

Devon Martin demanded superlative performances from all her students. She had often told Lauren privately that excellence was “the great equalizer.” Lauren wasn’t sure exactly what that meant, but she knew that when she was in ballet class, she transformed into a beautiful graceful fairy princess. The most slender student in the class, she was also the second youngest. Therefore, in addition to working hard to meet Devon’s high standards, she had to perform as well as girls one to five years older, who had better developed muscles. Lauren did not mind the challenge.

The three hours per week she spent here allowed her to fantasize about worlds much more glamorous than the mundane scene of the Kansas and Missouri flatlands and the lifestyle of her family. She dreamed of going to Paris and New York, becoming a prima ballerina. Why, the dance movements even had French names that flowed gracefully from Miss Martin’s tongue. The rhythmic tapping of Miss Martin’s baton on the hardwood floor was blended with the classical music Mrs. Landon played on the piano.

The teacher stared at her pupil for a few seconds. Then she slowly started speaking.

“You are going to be a remarkable woman, Lauren. I hope you will study ballet diligently because I feel you truly have some talent.”

Lauren was shocked to hear these words from this woman. She loved ballet, but didn’t believe she had any unusual talent.

“You are very thin, which is good for a ballerina. You could have a career in ballet.” Lauren involuntarily started to smile.

“You will, however, always have unique challenges because of your beautiful brown skin, Lauren. That, however, is no reason to shrink away or attempt to be unobtrusive. Wear that skin, as well as your whole being, regally and proudly, my dear. You owe no one any excuses for being who you are. If you run into people who lack character – and you certainly will – look straight into their eyes and show them that you are a woman to be reckoned with. However, to pull it off, you must always be far better at whatever you do than anyone else. Do you understand, my dear?”

“Yes, Miss Martin,” said Lauren. She had never been spoken to this way by a white person. “Thank you very much.”

“You’re welcome, my dear,” smiled Devon. “Now hurry home. You have quite a way to go.”

“G’bye, Miss Martin.” Lauren went to the dressing room, picked up her overnight case, and headed for the bus stop. She felt a heady euphoria that she had never before experienced. Her mind raced into the future. Lauren suddenly saw herself in Paris, dancing on the stage of the Paris Opera, a place that Devon had described to the class several times. For the first time, Lauren saw herself as the beautiful, graceful adult that Devon had described.

Lauren’s daydream continued without limit until the loud bellow of the bus’ exhaust awakened her. As she ascended the steps into the vehicle, she recognized the bus driver as the same bald, little white man who always drove this bus every Saturday. He had been solicitous of her in the past because, as he told her several times, he thought she was young to be on a bus so far from the Negro section of town. Sometimes, he allowed Lauren to ride for free.

“Hi, little lady,” the driver said again for the hundredth time. Lauren dropped her dime into the slot and took a seat behind the drive. “Little lady, where do you go every Saturday? Do they make you clean the whole house?” Lauren was puzzled at first by his question. But then she realized that the driver thought she was a miniature version of the day workers, who climbed on his bus at the end of the day, heading back toward the Negro section of town.

“Oh, I don’t work in anybody’s house, sir,” stated Lauren, innocently. “I go to dancing school. I’m going to become a great ballerina someday,” she said, proudly. The bus advanced a few blocks before the driver said anything else. Then, seemingly out of the blue, he began talking.

“So you go to ballet school, do you? In this white neighborhood? That’s real highfalutin’. Well, didn’t you know that ballerinas have to pay thirty rather than ten cents to ride a bus?”

“No, sir,” said Lauren, with genuine surprise.

“You bet, little ballerina girl. So from now on, when you get on the bus, make sure you have your thirty cents ready.” Although the driver wasn’t speaking in a threatening tone, Lauren recognized his hostility. She didn’t understand exactly what she had done to offend him; but she calmly rose and dropped the additional two dimes in the meter – dimes she had planned to spend on her weekly ice cream cone. As Miss Martin had instructed her, she walked regally to the meter and back to her seat without uttering a word. The driver had a look of vindication on his face; Lauren didn’t even notice. She felt graceful, intelligent, and beautiful, in spite of that mean old driver.

You may purchase An American Daughter of Brown through Ms. Robinson’s website at www.barirobinsonauthor.com/purchase or www.amazon.com

Merge Within

With no ground of distrust,  
No agony within,  
Without worry of separation,  
Like autumn leaves  
Falling with no care,  
Meeting the earth  
And merging with it.  

In the same way,  
Come with deep desire.  
Sometimes, you bury your face in my arms,  
Seeking comfort and solace.  
Sometimes, I nestle my face in yours,  
Finding serenity in your embrace.  
At times, you somersault  
Like a playful dolphin on my lap,  
Seeking joy and laughter.  
And sometimes, I too somersault,  
Offering you happiness and delight  
From dawn until night.

[Sushant Kumar B.K. is a Nepali poet, translator, educator, and freelance writer from Gulariya, Bardiya, Nepal. He holds two degrees: an MA in English Literature and Political Science. He primarily writes poems in English and Nepali. His poems have been featured in national and international anthologies, magazines, newspapers, and online portals. He can be reached at sushantacademia@gmail.com.".]

The Unloved

She gave up her desire to be perfect-

in exchange for the sweetness of play.

To befriend-instead the kind creatures of

childhood.

And the mythical world of the forest.

To give away her self made world of idols.

To stop trying and let the world of fantasy 

come to her.

To be replaced by summer storms, and 

winter pleasures.

To let icicles form where there had been 

tears of regret.

To let love enter and kindness guide her.

Life is so easy now-

It overwhelms what she had missed.

The gloves that no longer fit.

The stories that she told herself over and over.

That no longer needs to be justified.

The sweetness that was always there.

The love that was waiting for her.

The healer in the lake.

REFLECTION OF LIFE

life is a tranquil pond; a reflection 

of the world around us.

just as the surface mirrors the skies 

and trees, our past ///and present are

reflected in its calm water (s) each ripple

on the surface carries a story of victories 

and defeats & happiness & heartache. 

everyday, like a silver ; the pond hold (s)

our truths and reveals our grace. moments 

pass by like waves, fleeting and into the songs

while memories linger like echoes.

thus, life imprinted- on our fragile hearts in 

the mirrored depths of existence.

Salihu Muhammad Ebba known by his poetic name as Wordwhisperer is a bright and ambitious individual, currently studying At Legend International School Minna with a strong foundation from Guided Medal Model School, Minna. He was driven into the world to succeed and make a meaningful impact on the society. Salihu Muhammad Ebba is a promised Nigerian poet, short stories writer and spoken word artist from the heart of Minna.

THE NATURE OF POLITICS

In politics, beware, for interests collide

Nobody’s got your back, everyone’s on their own side

Dealing with politicians, a treacherous game

Sleep with tigers, eyes wide open, or you’ll feel the flames

Someone’s always being used, don’t be blind

If you can’t find the pawn, it’s you they’ll leave behind

Serving politicians, a temporary fix

Once the wound heals, your usefulness mixes

With dust and ashes, your value unseen

Politicians recognize needs, not loyalty or sheen

Don’t wail more than the bereaved, they’ll get the gain

While you inherit enemies, and endless pain

Choose your interests, when conflicts arise

Don’t sacrifice your own, for politicians’ compromise

Never cross oceans, for those who won’t cross the street

They’ll speak at your funeral, but won’t lift a finger to meet

Family and health, sacred and true

Don’t use them as pawns, in politics’ cruel game anew

It’s not that serious, don’t sacrifice your soul

For temporary rewards, that will eventually grow old

Youth, beware, don’t risk it all

Career, health, character, integrity, for politicians’ thrall

Unless you’re in control, with a long-term plan

Don’t sacrifice your future, for a fleeting politician’s hand.