And when the banana peel turned black, God was no longer able to fix anything.
3
man rested his head
against the wooden sky
and there is nothing
higher than the sky
4
My hand has dried up and my stomach has rusted. I have become an empty iron can of cola that will cut your tongue in half. My home is now a cesspool of industrial history, because no one needs me either. (As well as world history and culture.) The doctors will try to help you, but sepsis. There is a commercial break on the surgical screen and then shit again. The freckles have disappeared. Someone will have to pay back the loan for all this.
5
Kill me with a clay name oh chitinous god
But others are dying again
Someone is watering the lilacs that grew instead of a cemetery
Writing a good story is something authors pray to be able to do every time we set out to craft a work of fiction. A clear voice and a zesty Imagination typically make for a satisfying fictional read.
When I picked up Nikki Erlick’s contemporary novel titled THE MEASURE, of course, I was hopeful it would be a read well worth the time I would invest. But I had no idea that within the first few pages I’d have my mind turned upside down and inside out; the disturbing tumble unfolding quickly.
The scenario presented involves a date in time when all human beings, 22 yrs or older, across the planet, receive a small wood box on their door step. These boxes appear out of the blue and from who knows where. Inside each box is a single piece of string, which serves to inform each person how long they will live, almost exactly how much time they have left. I scrambled to wrap my brain around the provocative scenario.
I must confess that on that night, after reading the first 75 or so pages, trying to get to sleep proved almost impossible. I tossed-and-turned in my bed. A sense of dread coursed through my body. What I had taken for granted in terms of being unknown had been thrown out the window by this author. I’m not quite sure why I had such a visceral reaction. I believe it was the combination of personal fear and the sheer intrigue I had, which was generated by Erlick’s inventive premise. Of course, I knew the book was pure fiction but I kept thinking to myself, what if this ever really happened?
Each of the eight lead characters in this novel is deliciously vivid and authentically layered. These individuals come together in a support group held at a school after hours which is located on the upper east side of Manhattan. The purpose of the group’s formation is to help “short stringers” come to terms with the fact that they won’t have the privilege of living a long life. Sean, a therapist and the group’s facilitator, hopes to provide a safe and supportive space for each person to explore and navigate the slippery slope of knowing the difficult truth.
What was so fascinating to me about this read is how each character finds their own unique and personal way of dealing with the harsh reality. My immediate thought: would it be freeing or completely traumatizing to suddenly learn how long you will live and that no matter what you do, there is nothing that will alter your prescribed and timed ending. Your time left is fixed! Period.
Although an extreme theme is presented in this book, there are a number of parallels made relevant to today’s America, brilliantly yet subtly highlighted by the author. At least a few philosophical questions jammed my brain immediately after turning the last page.
So, get ready for a scary and provocative journey that may take you outside your comfort zone. Don’t pass up this opportunity to consider the potential key take-away from this story. It may simply be “live for today.”
If this book is a “pick” for your book club like it was for mine, I predict that your discussion about these colorful characters and the spell-binding plot will be extra rich. And perhaps the depth of the usual sharing of perspectives may go even deeper than your group’s ever been before. The one question that may come up is this:
If such a tiny wood box holding a single string which indicated the exact amount of time you have left to live, landed on your doorstep, would you open the box to find out or would you put the box away in the very back of your closet, and maybe never open it?
THE MEASURE by Nikki Erlick. I invite all readers, young and old, to enjoy the ride.
Linda S. Gunther is the author of six published suspense novels: Ten Steps from the Hotel Inglaterra, Endangered Witness, Lost in the Wake, Finding Sandy Stonemeyer, Dream Beach, and Death is a Great Disguiser. Most recently, her memoir titled A Bronx Girl (growing up in the Bronx in the 1960’s) was released in late 2023. Ms. Gunther’s short stories, poetry, book reviews and essays have been published in a variety of literary journals across the world. Website: www.lindasgunther.com
We had seen the bold and blue horse in my dream; its strong body, like a horse on the prairie, like a cowboy’s horse. It could fight, it could run.
In our hearts, we once rode a blue horse in our dreams, galloping in the land of freedom.
Some pain was like a lean horse, running fast for a moment before collapsing.
Because my sister and I—
our memories didn’t fade. There was some joy in them, fresh as the blue horse.
Sometimes we lacked the courage to carry ourselves far enough to escape our family— a home filled with liquor bottles. Father’s face was red, quarreling and fighting.
Illness took you away; you never broke free from the cage. The funeral flowers mirrored your snow-white skin— it was your grand festival.
In death, you become weightless. Death carries you on a blue horse to a place of freedom.
Minotaur
The Art Institute into Tuesday’s snow.
When my eyes opened, I was trapped in the museum’s labyrinth (Tiny as a shadow). Unknown monsters faced me, horns casting twin shadows. / Hallucination? / /Blood! People! / I want to escape the twisted halls. /
/ Too vast, the museum warped into impossible geometry. / / Blood, blood, blood, the Minotaur drinking museum’s lights like wine. / / I saw the monster devour the soul of a person, and the Minotaur ate the monsters, as if history endlessly repeats itself. /
/ Just like two sides of history’s dark mirror. / / I couldn’t separate myth from memory. The monster becomes real only in relation to trauma; both past and present might be true or false. /
/ b / bl / bla / / b, bla, b, black black black black black sun sun sun sun sun / I exorcise Munich’s beer hall memories, 1923 to1933, darkness envelops Chicago snow. I try to comprehend-histories. Outside the painting, only one museum, Inside the painting, multiple wars, The ghosts of WWII, European ghosts, red and black, bleeding.
As the Minotaur devours monsters, I seek meaning in chaos. Especially beneath the museum’s artificial lights, I remember what Minotaur told me: “The survivors of horror become storytellers, and all stories and human are one.”
In this moment, the endless snow falls silent. The black sun falls silent. Like human of memory. Like history coming to a still. Back to reality, everything is fine. I am enjoying Picasso’s Minotaur with ease.
Yucheng Tao is an international student, who has been studying songwriting at MI College of Contemporary Music in Los Angeles. His work won the Open Them Wingless Dreamer 2024 contest, and Moonstone Art Center published it.
God has given me a wonderful life. Each day is wonderful and I can live a joyous life. Yes, dialysis enables me to focus on my relationship with our Heavenly Father. My joy that started in childhood comes from talking to God all the time.
He has given a life full of riches. I get to take time to thank Him while I’m treated. I continue to pray and give thanks for my life and for that abundance of joy. God’s gift has allowed me to have Heaven here at the present time. I experience the wonders of the All Mighty. Imagine having an experience of God’s grace while still living here on earth.
Joy and joy and joy. Nothing on this earth can now take my heart for God is showing me the purpose of my life. He has allowed the writing of Jeremiah 29:11 to be His gift to me to have and to keep. I experience His unending mercy and grace. I can’t explain my peace in my relationship with God now. 12 hours a week at three hours a season with His healing of me and others. I find myself having compassion for others to teach them to enjoy the gift of life without taking it for granted.
Each moment is a moment to converse with Him and praise Him. Giving glory.
Nothing in this world is greater than His love for us. Now I understand my purpose.
God has given me a chance to fully live having dialysis. I am no longer captured by the world because of God’s Mercy. I’m prospering and have hope and a future with Him in this life and eternally.
I share God’s amazing grace to me. His grace to live in the inner city. His grace to just live a life of abundance of peace and prosperity and a future and hope. Nothing surpasses His grace.
So, in closing, dialysis has shown me God’s love to me which is beyond my comprehension. I leave you all with this thought: wherever you are in life, God is there. In difficult situations or joy, He is with you.
Inspired by a lesson learned in a Language Interpreter class. Miscommunication is not only the speaker’s fault but may be of the listener’s as well. Cultures, Emotions, Knowledge level and Situational Factors have ways of hindering one’s perception and interpretation.
Patience, Trust and Love are important factors in communication.
Lilian Dipasupil Kunimasa was born January 14, 1965, in Manila Philippines. She has worked as a retired Language Instructor, interpreter, caregiver, secretary, product promotion employee, and private therapeutic masseur. Her works have been published as poems and short story anthologies in several language translations for e-magazines, monthly magazines, and books; poems for cause anthologies in a Zimbabwean newspaper; a feature article in a Philippine newspaper; and had her works posted on different poetry web and blog sites. She has been writing poems since childhood but started on Facebook only in 2014. For her, Poetry is life and life is poetry.
Lilian Kunimasa considers herself a student/teacher with the duty to learn, inspire, guide, and motivate others to contribute to changing what is seen as normal into a better world than when she steps into it. She has always considered life as an endless journey, searching for new goals, and challenges and how she can in small ways make a difference in every path she takes. She sees humanity as one family where each one must support the other and considers poets as a voice for Truth in pursuit of Equality and proper Stewardship of nature despite the hindrances of distorted information and traditions.
Karin knew the drill. She got in line behind all the other girls in Mrs. Lowenstein’s fourth grade class and awaited her turn to be observed, measured and judged. At the front of the line, near the blackboard, Mary Ann approached the towel arrayed across the floor, knelt on her knees and allowed Mrs. Lowenstein to gauge the distance between the hem on her skirt and the floor with a wooden yard stick. It was a rather primitive ritual, but this was 1964 and there was little room in the educational system for progressive thought, so-called. “You’re good to go, Mary Ann,” commented the teacher. “Good girl.” Mary Ann, her cheeks red, took her seat among the other students, who were all the boys in the class. “Next!” snapped Lowenstein.
Next up was Kay, the class tomboy, who always dressed in denim jeans. Objections from some school board member mandated that Kay conform to the dress code, however, so she was forced to wear a skirt over her dungarees. This didn’t get her out of the measuring ritual, however, and down on the towel Kay went. “Kay,” said Mrs. Lowenstein reprovingly, “you’re more than an inch too short.” Kay’s mouth opened incredulously, then closed. “You know the rules,” her teacher reminded her. Kay’s mouth opened again but no words came out. Her face perceptively darkened. “Now, get on home and put on a decent skirt so you can fit in with the rest of the girls!” directed Lowenstein. Kay left the classroom without a word. Students had learned from hard experience that there was no negotiating with Mrs. Lowenstein. Kay slammed the door as she left. Mrs. Lowenstein’s mouth formed a hard, straight line, but she said nothing. And so it went, till nearly every girl had been suitably appraised ahd humiliated. There was but one girl left.
“Karin,” said Mrs. Lowenstein with relish. “You’re next.” Karin could almost imagine the sadistic teacher licking her lips, salivating to bring the brunt of her authority to bear on the nine year old student. Karin stood before her teacher. “Well, get down on your knees,” ordered Lowenstein. Karin could hear some of the boys giggling across the room. Karin felt heat on her face, but complied with the directive. Lowenstein stuck her damnable yard stick against Karin’s knee and measured. “Aha!” she yelped gleefully. “You’re fully an inch and a half too short, you naughty girl!” Karin rose to her feet, shrugged. “Get home and get a decent skirt, or maybe a dress–that’s what proper young women should wear!” Lowenstein was ungracious in victory.
“And just how am I going to do that, Mrs. Lowenstein?” asked Karin wearily. “Huh? What?” spluttered the teacher. “What do you mean?” she demanded. “I live two miles from school; I take the bus here,” said Karin, as though explaining a simple arithmetic problem to a slow child. “How do I get there and back? Both my parents work.” she explained. “Your mother…works?” asked the teacher, scandalized. “Well, you work, don’t you?” her student asked. “Don’t be impertinent,” snapped the teacher, frustrated at confronting the truth.
Mrs. Lowenstein thought hard for a moment before snapping her thumb and forefinger and announcing, “I’ve got it: go down to Miss Washburn, the Home Ec teacher and have her let the hem out of that skirt.” Karin rolled her eyes but complied with her teacher’s wishes. A few minutes later, Miss Washburn appeared at the door of the four grade classroom and motioned Mrs. Lowenstein to join her. “Yes, Wanda, is there any problem with Karin?” “I couldn’t let the hem out because there wasn’t but about a half inch left. But I found a quick fix.” “What is it?” the other teacher asked.
“Well, I’ll show you.” Signaling behind the door, Miss Washburn beckoned Karin to join them in the classroom, which she reluctantly did. The rest of the class immediately burst out laughing uproariously. There, appended to the hem of Karin’s skirt, was a four-inch band of gold-colored fabric, stretching all around the circumference of the skirt. Mrs. Lowenstein frowned at first, then perked up, determined not to make a bad situation worse. “There, that’s fine, thank you, Miss Washburn.” She turned to the little girl. “You see, Karin, you’re quite presentable now. Don’t you think your father would see the improvement in your apparel?” “I agree, Mrs. Lowenstein,” said Karin with surprising enthusiasm, her green eyes flashing. “And I believe my father would love it.” “Really?” asked her teacher, skeptical. “Yes! During World War II my father had one just like it, only in a Star of David; I’ve been pictures. He wore it at Auschwitz!”
