I Thought I Heard

I remember a whisper I heard when I
was seven; a uniformed policeman was
addressing my aunt, with whom I lived.
“Your brother, Mrs. Allen, was killed in
an automobile accident last night.”
Aunt Livy’s only brother was my dad, Tom
Lewis, Jr.  I was named after him, which
made me Tom Lewis, III.

I heard a sharp intake of breath and then
screaming.  I remember worrying about
how Aunt Livy was taking the news, but
then I realized that the heavy breathing
and screaming was coming not from my
aunt but from me.  But nobody else could
hear it.  They paid me no mind.

“His body was taken directly to the mor-
gue, Ma’am,” said the cop.  “There was
just no hope.  I’m sorry.”  She said some-
thing like, “Yes, that’s probably for the best;
I’ll phone the funeral home this afternoon.”
What I thought I heard was:  “Yes, indeed,
Tom should bring around $1.49 per pound
at the butcher’s; and I’ll see to it that Mr.
Lindsey doesn’t put his thumb on the
scale this time!”  

I startled, stared disbelievingly at Aunt
Livy but her face was the same as always.
The conversation between the policeman
and my aunt continued for several more
minutes with no further surprises.  I took a
deep breath.

“I’ll get out of your hair now, Mrs. Allen; I
know you must have just skads of people to
contact.”  What my aunt then said was,
“That’s correct, Officer:  his ex-wife, our
parents, his work, there’s just a hundred
things to do!”  

But, what I thought I heard was:   “That’s
correct, Officer, I have calls to make, invi-
tations to send out, caterers to call, for the
huge party we’re giving in celebration of my
brother’s passing.  You and the misses
should come, too.”  I didn’t hear his re-
sponse but she added, “Don’t bring a thing;
we’ll have noise-makers, balloons.  I think
we’ll even have fireworks.”  

As he turned to leave, the policeman
swiveled round to me and said, “Take care,
Young Man, things are going to be alright.”  
Then he smiled and left.  But, what I thought
I heard him say was, “You little shit!  If I catch
you out after curfew, for any reason, I’ll tear
your heart out!”  Then he grinned grotesquely
and left.

When the cop had gone, Aunt Livy, who had
been my guardian all my life, since even
before my mom and dad split up, said, “Well, I
guess you heard most of that, Tommy.  I know
it’s not easy to lose a parent–or a brother–but
we’ll manage somehow.”  She smiled sweetly
at me.

But, what I thought I heard her say was, “Now
I’m stuck with you, you little parasite!” She drew
her finger to her chin, thinking.  “But it might
not be all bad:  I could get his house!”  And she
smiled sweetly.  It was at about that time that I
began in earnest my life-long love affair with
Lithium and Quaaludes.

A Road Trip To The Distant South

Beneath the watchful

gaze of the ivory moon,

amidst the natural

air conditioning of the

very quiet breeze.

I boarded a rickety

Suzuki of vintage 

Japanese technology.

I had my ear drums

nearly punctured by

the piercing sounds from

revving engines at the 

chaotic bus terminus.

The yelling from uncouth passengers

and bus drivers did very little 

to cheer me up.

But when we left the frenzied

motor park, I delightfully hummed

my first hymn, as we drove

into the ambience of the 

serene highway, to begin

our long but silent journey 

to the distant Nigerian south.

From our take off point,

I suddenly felt the warm

reception of the cool night’s breeze.

And the hushed discussions

of fellow passengers, some of whom

had been involved in altercations with

insolent transporters at the rowdy

terminus.

They verbally re-enacted the 

unpleasant events at the terminus,

as they cursed in absentia, the transport 

agents and drivers they had bitter feuds

with. But as we ventured further,

everything seemed to be forgotten.

With a fixed gaze across my window,

I watched the placid landscapes of 

the arid Nigerian north-east.

The nocturnal monkeys flitting from

branch to branch, revealed slightly

by the full moon in October.

Our exciting but somewhat strenuous 

journey ended with the refreshing dew

of the distant Nigerian south before

sunrise.

We enjoyed discussions about politics,

current affairs, relationships, fashion, 

spirituality and entertainment.

All of which strengthened new bonds

for a night’s odyssey.

The exhaustion and attendant sleep 

that characterized our lengthy discussions,

all equally contributed to making our road

trip, a real vacation on wheels.

This

This ain’t no magic realism allegory

This ain’t no difference of opinion

This ain’t no nothing to see here

This ain’t no bump in the road

This ain’t no passing cycle

This ain’t no experiment

This ain’t no rehearsal

This ain’t no hiccup

This ain’t no joke

This is here

This is now

This is

This

Is

Peter Cherches’ episodic novel Everything Happens to Me is winner of the 2025 Next Generation Indie Book Awards for humor/comedy.

The Virtue of Crowds

Left alone I would

run out of excuses.

It’s a by-product of

staying too long in

the one place. That’s

the virtue of crowds.

Swept along with no

idea of where I’m go-

ing, not really caring,

too busy sharing other

people’s destinations.

So pick any arbitrary

point to turn even if

still surrounded.

Finally apologizing

if really necessary.

The First Position

Caught by an aberration

in the parameters of the

Library he paused. Stopped

for a moment by a book-

case. Noticed that the titles

were different, were now

written in a language that

was foreign to him. Became

perplexed. Uncertain if it was

a diminuition of his psyche or

simply his eyes playing tricks.

smalltown weekend

The shopping center is

Sunday empty. A State

regulation — remember the

sabbath or some such re-

fried beans. Only the bakery

& the newsagent open. Bread

rolls & Lotto, one certain

one wishful.  But I’m a

believer in musical omens,

so the fact that the left-on-

all-the-time soundsystem is

piping country music into

the passageways as I enter

signs no luck for me today.

Seasonal

Broad brushstrokes

of smoke across

the landscape. Point-

illist pain in my

head, just behind

the ear. Everything

closes in, is

focused. Nothing

I can do but

cut myself another

slice of watermelon,

lie back, &

think of England.

The Dichotomous Key

If it has these attributes

then it is this.  

Otherwise it is not this.

& if it is not this, but has

these other attributes

then it is that.  

Otherwise it is not that.

If it is neither this nor

that, but possesses another

set of characteristics

then…..

& so on

down the line, eliminating

the alternatives by

counting in turn the

wings, legs, body

segments, etc.

so that you

might start off

with the spider

& end up

with the fly.

For HDC

Grief is a stupid thing.

I grieve that you’re not here to grieve

all the corpses in the water.

All the corpses we’ve built out of laws

that say you don’t belong.

The sea and your memory

At dusk,

I saw a figure

I’m sure

it was your sign

telling me: “I’m here

just a glance away.”

The sea reminds me of you

The waves crash on the shore.

The smell of salt reminds me of you.

We were happy, here, in this place.

And today, I know you’re waiting for me.

Wherever you are…

Mirta Liliana Ramírez has been a poet and writer since she was 12 years old. She has been a Cultural Manager for more than 35 years. Creator and Director of the Groups of Writers and Artists: Together for the Letters, Artescritores, MultiArt, JPL world youth, Together for the letters Uzbekistan 1 and 2. She firmly defends that culture is the key to unite all the countries of the world. She works only with his own, free and integrating projects at a world cultural level. She has created the Cultural Movement with Rastrillaje Cultural and Forming the New Cultural Belts at the local level and also from Argentina to the world.