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

Ballet queen

Every morning, when I took my little girl to the ballet palace, her eyes would shine and she would be very happy. She liked the elegance and charm of ballet movements. One day my little princess cried:

– Father, I can’t do it.

– My little princess, don’t cry, you can do anything. One day my little princess will definitely become a ballet princess.

– Really? When?

– If you keep moving forward.

«Ok» she said, walking away from me.

One day I came home and called my little girl:

– My daughter, your teacher gave you a gift.

– Really? What kind

– See for yourself.

– Wow, that’s great – her eyes were shining. In the big picture, a beautiful ballet princess in a blue dress, with roses in her hands, kneeling at the horse’s feet, and the silver roads, transparent canals and rivers of the paradise garden were depicted.

– Your teacher praised you. If you keep trying, this beautiful ballet queen said that you too can be.

– Thank you, father. I will definitely be a ballet queen as my teacher said.

Years have passed. Looking at this picture for a long time, today I was one of the ballet masters who embodied all the beauty and grace. But today my father was not with me. When I took the picture and hugged it tightly, I noticed the inscription on the back: «A gift from father to my little princess.»

Nosirova Gavhar was born on August 16, 2000 in the city of Shahrisabz, Kashkadarya region of Uzbekistan. Today, she is a third-year student of the Faculty of Philology of the Samarkand State University of Uzbekistan. Being a lover of literature, she is engaged in writing stories and poems. Her creative works have been published in Uzbek and English. In addition, she is a member of «All India Council for Development of Technical Skills», «Juntosporlasletras» of Argentina, «2DSA Global Community». Winner of the «Korablznaniy» and «TalentyRossii» contests, holder of the international C1 level in the Russian language, Global Education ambassador of Wisdom University and global coordinator of the Iqra Foundation in Uzbekistan. «Magic pen holders» talented young group of Uzbekistan, «KayvaKishor», «Friendship of people», «Raven Cage», «The Daily Global Nation», Argentina;s «Multi Art-6», Kenya’s «Serenity: A compilation of art and literature by women» contains creative works in the magazine and anthology of poets and writers.

Village of Navos

During my three month vacation,
I went to my village.
Sweet - sweet apple,
I ate my fill.

A heart-warming song,
The air is burning.
Apricots, cherries, apples,
A sweet moan.

And the chirping of birds,
There are few bad people.
Many good intentions,
Children always say "hope".

Ilhomova Mohichehra is a student of the 7th grade of the 9th general secondary school of Zarafshan city, Navoi region.

THE WALL

On one side, evil
on one side, good.
But I could not always tell
which side was which of the wall
On one side, Devil.
On one side, God.
Sometimes I couldn’t distinguish
and sometimes not even wish to.
On one side, David,
one side, Ahab;
in their misuse of royal might
didn’t they both behave alike?
On one side Ahab,
on one side David,
putting their passion over prayer
didn’t they take what wasn’t theirs?
On one side God,
on one side Devil.
That wall less wall than saddle
when both sides I did straddle.
On both sides, good.
On both sides, evil.
Since no differences at all
I just demolish the wall.


NIGHT SHIFT

Last night I studied the sky from my porch,
Suddenly an ignited cosmic torch
burned and slashed through Cancer.
Even though I know my constellations
I continue to have doubts and questions,
but I doubt stars have the answers,

You, modeler of phases of my moon,
did you watch that spectacle from your room?
Our sections of the sky don’t quite rhyme,
our eternities look like different
patterns of buckshot in a canvas tent.
Whose Heaven’s bigger, yours or mine?


BARABBAS AND JESUS

Barabbas and Jesus
out walking in the sands
and along comes Pilate
wishing to wash his hands.

“Hey, Boss, why you so cross?”
the good Barabbas said.
And Pilate said “Herod!
John Baptist gave him head!”

“That’s mean!” said Magdalene
“Intruding on my job!”
Pilate: “Please understand”
(rehearsing for the mob)

“Someone must take the brunt,
it’s me or one of you.”
Barabbas thought and said
“Will nailing two thieves do?”

And Pilate said “My guy!
Indeed, that may suffice.”
But then they heard Peter’s
cock. It crowed only twice.

And Jesus wept. “The jig
is up. I’ll see you soon.
But first I’ll meet Judas
at the Last Chance Saloon.”

 
HIGH COUP

O moon, so distant….
I’m not smokin’ in Tokyo,
my poem will not fire.

“Revolution bursts
sunlight on stained stainless steel:
your yolkcolored hair.”

Night’s vaunted Shakespeare:
just flaccid Little Willie,
cold to geisha stars.

“Nestraw hair – egg’s eye
blue – honeyed limbs; trunkhugging
bearcubMe:     climbing.”

Sake enflames verse
(you say), arouses rhythm,
kindles rhymes sublime –

mine (old drunken whore) 
fires up unsuccessfully,
sucks relentlessly,

till we fall asleep.
And Basho a monk remains,
red raw poem limp, still.


LOVES I BEAR TO YOU

Addressing my allgirls class in Seoul 
(a sea of knees and eyes) – 
just whom do I cast my verbal net unto?


Miss J in her vast lostness of late adolescence


The mirthlessness of Miss O’s mercenary matrimonialism


The practiced spontaneity of Miss U’s blushes


Miss E’s patient burden of passionate virtue


The ancient futures of grown middleschool dreams



And then,
in midOthello,
the lights go




out




and in the sudden night
all that I can make out
are the pale fluorescent coral
of fingertips,



lips….

DEWING FLOWERS

Flowers are symbols of joy?
Do not think so
Flowers are embers of decay that accompanies the remnant of one cherished to the hugs of that grave
Tears are parodies of dews on blooms
Flowers are casings for a bride with no adoration for the partner down the aisle
Corollas of sadness past
Carpels of pains present
Calyxes of despair to come
Do not mind the petals beauty
Doom is spelled either way

The Moonlight Night
 
The moon shines bright in the dark, 
Stars twinkle, tiny sparks.
Night is quiet, calm, and cool, 
Moonlight's mystery, a glowing pool. 
Shadows embraces across the ground, 
Peaceful silence all around. 
In the night, dreams softly rise, 
Beneath the moon in quiet skies.

Wazed Abdullah is a student of grade nine in Harimohan Government High School, Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh.

My lovely dear
I love you every moment 
I have with you and your lovely 
The only time you can do 

The right way to get to me 
I’m not going anywhere 
The left one I don’t want 
The left one I’m going somewhere 

The right one I don’t know 
What is it about the one 
Where the right is the left
The only one that how to get 

Akmalova Zebokhan  Akobirkhan
Kimyo International University in Tashkent 
Primary education 1st stage student