The French Lesson

I first saw JM at a Caribbean Club Med.  He was French, in his late twenties; full-lipped, tan, and charming.  He was in charge of entertainment, on stage a lot, and I couldn’t take my eyes off him. 

I was there with my boyfriend. It was our last trip before I would fly to Paris for my final semester of college.  We had been together for almost five years and my father employed him in his store.  I wanted a break from him but wasn’t sure how to disentangle myself without hurting him.

Walking to our room one evening, I spotted JM slow-dancing with someone to a Peter Gabriel song. I tried not to stare; I thought: if only I could be her. 

During a meal one afternoon, JM came to our table to introduce himself.  He said hello and I became mute.  My kind boyfriend said that I was going to study in France: “She is leaving me next week.”  JM crouched down beside me.  Up close his eyes were the color of caramel.  “Do you speak French?” he asked.  I nodded.  He took a napkin from the table and wrote a phone number on it.  “In case you need anything.” It was the number of his family’s home in Bordeaux.  I slid the napkin onto my lap and put my hand on it protectively.

The day came to leave.  I cried when I said goodbye to my boyfriend.  But when I got on the plane, I was surprised at how relieved and unburdened I felt. 

My older brother, Dorian, joined me on my flight.  There was a German au pair he had gotten to know in New York, and he was hoping to meet up with her while in Europe with me. I was glad not to go alone.

A few days later, in Dorian’s hotel room, I unfurled the napkin like a precious parchment and called the number JM had given me.  The person who answered said JM was in Paris and gave me his direct number.  I reached him, and we made plans to meet the following night for dinner. When I hung up, I wanted to scream, but Dorian was a few feet away watching music videos on the tiny TV.

That night I wore heels. I didn’t usually wear heels, but I also didn’t usually go to dinner with sophisticated and glamorous Frenchmen. 

At the restaurant, JM kissed me on both cheeks.  Only when I opened the menu did I realize we were in a Lebanese restaurant. I ordered all my favorites, the foods my mom made at home: humus, lebne and pita, olives, kibbe, babaganoush, and taboule.  We spoke in a mixture of English and French.  The conversation flowed effortlessly.  He made me laugh and feel charming and irresistible.  His hair looked so soft. I shifted my seat closer.  He smelled good. 

JM asked if I was staying in a dorm.  I said that I was living with a family, the Benchetrits. He paused and said, as if to warn me, “You know, they are Jews.”

Everything slowed down. I didn’t know where to look. My throat suddenly felt like sandpaper. Before he could say anything else, I croaked out, “I am Jewish.”

Disappointment and hurt washed over me.  But I didn’t want to derail this evening, this evening that was going so incredibly well, possibly the most exciting night of my life.  Maybe I changed the subject, or maybe he did.  Despite his comment, I still wanted him, and instead of being angry, I felt ashamed. 

We walked to a taxi stand. There seemed to be no one else around; the clacking of my heels made the only sounds. The skin on my second-to-last toe was gone, the toe stuck to the inside of the shoe. We got into separate taxis.  In the semi-privacy of my cab, I took a deep breath and felt so many things, excitement and despair.  I thought that I might never see him again.  On an impulse, I twisted myself around to get one last look.  In that moment, he had done the same.  He was gazing out at me, and he waved.

For the next few days I thought of nothing but JM. Against my will, the comment he made about Jews would find its way in, insinuating itself. I felt like a boxer, ducking and rolling like Dorian had taught me, to avoid the punch.  I had to keep moving, shuffling my feet, bobbing and deflecting.

I loved Edith Wharton back then and declared her my favorite author.  Had I cringed when I read about Simon Rosedale, Lily Bart’s suitor, the pushy Jew who was sloppy and coarse?  Instead of slamming the book shut or throwing it out the window, I had kept reading.  Maybe I thought that it was antiquated, that these feelings about Jews were from another time, not now, in 1986. Maybe Edith was showing how awful everyone in society was, even the Jewish newcomers.  Maybe it wasn’t even her point of view. I’m not sure why I made excuses.  I must have reconciled that good literature trumped blatant antisemitism.  Maybe JM hadn’t meant what I thought. Maybe I’d read him wrong.

While pondering all of this, I went around Paris with Dorian, ate more crepes, and got ready for my classes at Dauphine.  I didn’t mention JM’s comment to Dorian.  We would have hashed it out for hours as we walked.  Maybe my attraction would have been over then and there. 

One day, about a week later, after Dorian had gone, I received a letter from JM.  I unfolded the thin blue stationery.  It was in French.  He said that he couldn’t stop thinking about me, that we had had such a connection, that he felt this could be something.

It wasn’t long before he came to see me, and we finally kissed. We strolled around the city holding hands. I got to touch his hair. He took pictures of me; we got lost; we walked into a movie theater and saw Legal Eagles or maybe Heartburn. And then he was gone again.

He wrote me letters from Tunisia ­– passionate, consuming letters that left me breathless.  As I walked to school and took the Metro, I whispered his words, words I hadn’t learned in school, saying them over and over until I could say them perfectly, like a French lesson.

After several impassioned phone calls imploring me to come visit him, I used my in-case-of-emergency credit card and bought a ticket to Tunisia.  It was a mistake.  I knew it the moment I arrived.  JM had sent an employee to receive me.  Frederic asked if I was “la copine de JM” and brought me to the resort. 

Meals were at communal tables.  I saved him a seat beside me.  I saw myself jumping up and telling people that this seat was taken, even as time passed and my meal was nearly finished.  He never showed.  I felt foolish and pathetic. 

Was I Simon Rosedale, unwanted and repulsive, pushing my way where I didn’t belong?  He finally joined me. He must have eaten elsewhere.  We went to his room.  On his bed was a movie magazine opened to a page with a photo of the beautiful Emmanuelle Beart, who starred in Jean de Florette.  I said casually that the starlet had been in my house.  “In Queens?” he asked.  I knew he didn’t believe me.  I wonder if he knew that this movie star had a Jewish father who had gone to school with my father in Beirut.  I wanted to go home, all the way home to New York.  The balance was off; I left feeling much more than he did.

Back in my rented room a few days later, I was convinced that I had contracted AIDS from him.  Le SIDA, as the French called it, was graffitied all over Paris, red spray paint on grey buildings, reminding me at every corner that I was in danger.  In a panic, I called my older sister, Debi, from a pay phone.  I told her everything, but I didn’t tell her about the comment.  She calmed me, and a layer of embarrassment formed over my shame. 

During my stay in Paris, I completed my classes and went to lots of movies.  I finally got to see Jean de Florette. The actress who had been in my living room in Queens was blond and perfect, not Jewish-seeming in the least. 

It was time to go home.  My suitcase open on my bed, Les Rita Mitsouko playing on my boombox radio, my eyes fell on the pile of letters on my desk.  I tied them together with string, the only evidence of this connection that had loomed so large, and put them in my suitcase.

After I returned to New York, I got a few more letters from JM, this time from Senegal, and then none. I was relieved.  The grip he had on me loosened and finally dissipated in the face of his five spiteful words and the shame I felt for still wanting him.

I told my boyfriend what happened.  I was sure that he would want nothing to do with me, but I was wrong.  Still, this time I was certain that I wanted us to break up.  I was sorry to hurt him.

A few months later, Dorian married the German au pair.

with a snap of the fingers
 

the muse wonders if i miss her

 

sitting alone, looking at a blank

ceiling thinking about all the

years pissed away with a snap

of the fingers

 

of course, i miss her

 

the bigger question is

does she miss me

 

do i linger on her mind as

she struggles to sleep

 

do i flash in her mind as

she begins to touch

 

i learned a long time ago

to never ask a question

if you weren't prepared for

an answer you didn't like

 

but the joy of becoming

an old bitter soul

 

hearing a no isn't going

to disappoint me more

than i already am

 

i never wanted to die alone

 

two in the morning on a friday

 

i don't think i have much of a choice
---------------------------------------------------------------
just seems more intense these days
 

paradise is on fire

 

the oceans are rising

 

the bombs keep falling

on the innocent

 

hero after hero is finding

death around that corner

 

i'm sure all the years

have been crazy

 

yet as the years go on

the crazy just seems

more intense these days

 

i am comfortable sitting

back and watching the

flames devour a world

i never got to visit

 

i have friends around

the world and i say a

little something for

them every night

before i fade out

 

i'm pretty sure they

all happen to live

on one-way streets
------------------------------------------------------------
the prettiest girl in the world
 

shooting stars

in the quiet

of the night

 

wishes never

seem to come

true

 

my mother

told me to

have patience

and one day

the prettiest

girl in the

world would

be mine

 

what a

fucking

lie
---------------------------------------------------------------------
a confession of sorts
 

whispers in the rain

 

a confession of sorts

 

never quite understanding

that everyone hates their

life

 

you are not special

 

it's a beautiful woman

telling you to fuck off

 

children that know

you're not the good

parent

 

another fucking dreamer

in a country that crushes

any dream that doesn't

involve loads of money

 

trace the lines of her

curves from memory

 

thirty some years ago

when a simple man

got as lucky as one

could get

 

she happened to die

on your birthday

 

life has never been

the same since
------------------------------------------------------------------
forever out of reach
 

neon nightmares of lost

lovers stranded in the

back of your dreams

 

close enough to picture

but forever out of reach

 

letter after letter returned

 

unopened

 

it's one thing to move on

it's another to be forgotten

 

i'm sure we'd all like to

go back and rewrite a few

chapters of our lives

 

turn all that childhood

misfortune into the story

of a dark knight that

becomes a hero

 

remember the late mornings

when the love of your life

would come over for coffee

and cigarettes

 

you'd end up naked, holding

each other on the couch for

hours

 

no clue about how steep the

upcoming hill would be

J.J. Campbell (1976 – ?) is old enough to know better. He’s been widely published over the years, most recently at Cajun Mutt Press, Horror Sleaze Trash, Mad Swirl, Disturb the Universe Magazine and The Rye Whiskey Review. You can find him most days on his mildly entertaining blog, evil delights. (https://evildelights.blogspot.com)

We are to shape our state in a world of uncertain seasons, sudden catastrophes, antagonistic diseases, inimical beasts and vermin, out of men and women of the like passions, the like uncertainties of mood and desire to our own.”. Examine the Time Machine as a static utopian fiction contrasting critical perspectives of kinetic utopia highlighted in the commentary.

H.G. Wells' time traveler surmounts to venture upon his adventuresome journey in aftermath of the narrator’s dialect to ‘consider I have been speculating upon the destinies of our race”, the epilogue of the novel where the narrator suggests, “He [ …] thought but less cheeringly of the Advancement of Mankind, and saw in the growing pile of the civilization, only a  foolish heaping that must inevitably fall back upon and destroy its makers in the end.” The time traveller’s futuristic analyses of the society of Victorian England are extrapolations of close surface similarities of male and female Eloi community between adults and children alike, where forth the author concludes, “the strength of the man, the softness of the woman, the institution of the family, the differentiation of the occupations are merely militant necessities of an age of physical force. 

The science fantasies are offered as so many cautionary fables, so many dreadful warnings to humanity to look to itself, to take stockings from its current sick condition and remedy it before it is too late. Population control, childbearing and childrearing decline of motherhood, falling stoicism of menial chores or physical labour in males, will show less differentiation and consequent immaturity into adulthood, such leisure brings, leads the Time Traveller to observe that, “children seemed to my eyes to be but the miniatures of their parents.” 

Morlockian cannibalism satirizes the burgeoning working class proletarian revolution in the tumultuous turmoil wrecked by the upsurge of militant trade unionism particularly left wing labour party political organization. Earlier the Eloi had rose to ascendancy but subsequently dethroned by Morlockians, since the latter possessed initiative in the face of adversity. Industry and working-class accommodation were removed from the surface of the earth and buried underground, since all the surface of the earth was bequeathed to be conferred upon the ruling class of aristocracy. In this sense, all the surface of the earth came to be dominated and owned by the enterprises proprietors of Victorian bourgeoisie, “artificial undergrounds that such work as was necessary to the comfort of the daylight, race was done”. The Time Traveller maintains that for his audience, envisioning a society that does not require a great leap of imagination, “even now there [/////] is a tendency to utilize underground as the space for less ornamental purposes, there is the Metropolitan Railway in London, for instance, there are new electric railways and subways, there are underground stations and restaurants, and they increase and multiply.” 

It is worth analyzing how the Elois degenerated and eventually were eliminated by the surge of extinction, since they were diminished of their intelligence and their strength in contrast to their subterranean habitats dwelling neighbours subalterns Morlocks; Morlocks possessed the intuitive spirits of resiliency by engagement in productive labor and physical prowess in order to savage damnable starvation and malicious suffocation. Post Darwinian evolutionary adaptations, thus, overthrew the Eloi to their downfall and the Morlocks to their triumphalism in the extremes of individualistic collectivism. The Time Traveller discovers that the Elois privileged aristocracy as the automatic rulers of the earth unearthed the fatal flaw: “that perfect state had lacked one thing even for mechanical perfection-----absolute permanency.”

The Time Traveller believes that middle-class inbreeding was fundamental and crucial to the slit in the humanity produced by the Eloi and the Morlocks, with the widening gulf between classes, being the result of the promotion by intermarriage, which at present, retards the splitting of our species along the lines of social stratification, becoming lesser and lesser frequent.” An animal in harmony with its environment is a perfect mechanism. Nature never appeals to intelligence unless habit and instinct are useless. There is no intelligence when there is no change or no need for change….” Eloi over the centuries have adapted so well to their environment that life had become instinctual once again. 

However, when considering the Morlocks the opposite must be the case: “It is a law of nature to overlook, that intellectual versatility is the compensation for change, danger and trouble….Only those animals partake intelligence that have to meet a huge variety of needs and dangers.”  Food crises reinforced these minion ant like creatures to prey and preserve their cattled like creatures upperworlder masters Eloi. Event the writer prolifically exclaims in astonishment, “I was surprised to find it had been carefully oiled and cleaned. I had suspected that the Morlocks, had even partially taken it to pieces while trying in their dim way to grasp its purpose.” 

Robert M Philmus points out that, “by 802/701 no species has the intelligence anymore to set limits on the struggles for existence, in where the defenseless Eloi fall victim to the carnivorous Morlocks. Furthermore, the Morlocks are unable to walk upon the surface of the earth due to their blindness in daylight and their new role as exploiters of the upperworld Eloi simply reverses the old equation rather than changes its nature. Thus the story ends with the general biological devolution and the destruction of the planet as witnessed by the Time Traveller in his “Future Vision”. 

In valedictory argument, Mc Connell’s critical interpretation is a justifiable approach to vindicate the Time Machine as a static utopian fiction, “The environment will inevitably change upon the course of geological, cosmological time. And the species that has been too close at home with one phase of climate and ecology will probably lose the resiliency to change and meet the demands of another phase.”

Further Reading and References

John S Partington’s The Time Machine and A Modern Utopia: The Static and Kinetic Utopias of the Early H.G. Well’s, Utopian Studies, 2002, Vol. 13, No. 1, pages: 57-68.
HG Wells’ The Time Machine Reviewed –archive, 1895 The Guardian 

In the Evening

In the evening the sun sets in the west
The breath of the day
Left in the horizontal blue sky
Then the nature takes its new shape
The birds' chirping as it were
Bids the sun calling--- 
"Good bye", "Good bye", "Good bye" -----.

07 August, 2023

Monira Mahbub is a student of grade 6 in Nawabganj Government Girls' High School, Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh.

Think fast; who’s the Pope?                   

They walked on just like in the old days where windows and doors slid by bounded all over with bright sills and thick frames on the one side flat hard ‘men down the bottom and off’n that udder size the chainlink just flew egg yip the chainlink just flew so much and damned faster if ya pushed your hand in it it’d pop it clear off—left right left right booted-down solidly flowing, they flowed to the very Jai alai court’s entrance as every day lately but stopped up short again by the fact of a brand new shiny red super stock coinslot-drop machine on a post by the door and again this’ so new’s so worth saying through them about itself, What the hell is that?

A place to drop a coin. Like when buying something from a machine. You know. A coin-slot half zipper. Like that it is. And like that and like that.

But there’s nothing to buy there.

Oh well {ho hum} there is it anyway. Who cares? Go in, all clocks are ticking and, so; they passed by that mystery and went dear Jesus thank God and our into fling fly pop whizz catch slide big lucky stars we found Jai run look squeak, again alai fling fly pop whizz alai, Jai catch slide Jai alai isn’t it great, great run look squeak, again fun? { whizz alai w } Yes God fling fly pop damn it to whizz catch slide run hell, it’s great look squeak, again fun yes it’s fun—then then several slides in succession slid away all previous slides each slide’s a day seven slides are a week and about ten or less smaller tense intervals in the vast central in-between passed until one day on approaching the door of the Ja’a ‘lai center { whizz alai w } [ and more praise the son more timely and earlier even no sass ass be-frore, you didn’t know from before but you been told right now WHOOP ] there stood by the coin box a yellow-clad worker slash (/////) like that, attendant { whizz alai w whizz alai w } pushed out a hand.

Hold it and stop. Hold it. Stop.

Uh. Uh. What? Why?

Here, said the attendant, palming straight at them one single coin.

What’s that?

A coin. Take it.

Why? they said, as they took it.

Push it in the coin slot there.

Why?

Just push it.

And the coin got manipulated to the necessary angle ‘tween the necessary two fingers held totally correctly to get dropped smooth’d n’gone into the dark slot, and the attendant said, before even being looked at and asked, Okay there now, what Okay thanks, go on in. You can go right in now, have a nice day, a nice day, what the hell was that all about? Have a day, a hell of a nice day—and they did, but still, on in over’n, What the hell was that all about, hoo hoo, what the hell was that all about, anyway. But.

hoo hoo

But.

hoo hoo

hoo hoo

hoo hoo

And all, but; so that melted into the frame of every day after that the walk to the center the stop for the coin game the tip t’ th’ hen-tendant became an expected part of the frame of every day, until, now again. What the hell is this, again what the hell is this sᴉɥʇ sᴉ ןןǝɥ ǝɥʇ ʇɐɥM Mɥɐ ɥǝןן ᴉs what the ʇɥᴉs siht hell is this now si lleh anyway what eht tahW the hell is this?

Slow down slow down slower and slower and : what the hell’s this anyway : ?? stop.

The attendant still stood and the coin box also but to the side got tacked up by s’buedy a type of vertical narrow control panel with three buttons | approx. | Kevin Seltzer? Who the hell is Kevin Seltzer? arranged one’s top’d the other and as usual the attendant held out the coin but bu-they did say {which one’s say’d matteh? No which ones say’d matteh} Grovel Conical (wow what a corporately appropriate t’ – never mind that + my name is Kevin Seltzer and I’m happy to speak to you today about your brand new career with Grovel Conical * biggest single superior supplier of conicals to the military industrial quite complex community half the world wide already and growing beat ya to it beat ya did beat ya * uh oh + as the took the coin from them, What is this here? These buttons here? What is? What is it we are to do with these buttons here, or-r-r-r- are we to do nothing at all? Think ‘cause you’re telling us nothing it’s do nothing at all and the coin, slipping home, told ‘th its tinkly-tink the attendant to say that the new procedure is to press one of the buttons after depositing the coin’s teensy tinkly-tink and then the wide double doors will swing open and you may enter and be seated.

Huh?

Enter and be seated? This is a Jai alai court no no no show?

The attendant replied, This is the script I must follow to tell you I was told to do so and so do so I will here you go = the new procedure is to press one of the buttons : which button doesn’t matter any button why’s there three buttons my my aren’t you the busy brained little one aren’t you ha ha : ^ scratch the “cute child” up top o’ th’ a’ad ^ after depositing the coin and then the wide double doors will swing open and you may enter and be seated.

They stood blank, not just them, but that, also—this attendant’s ‘gun acting more like a that than an a t’ them—to be nice is always fine fallback when in doubt—being nice, say fine parents world-wide—being nice you cannot go wrong with a career at Grovel Conical always pays you will never get in trouble being nice—being nice, say fine parents world-wide—Kevin Seltzer? Who the hell is Kevin Seltzer? being nice always pays you will never get in trouble being nice—{I am sorry I am so sorry but this is the way the management says we must push out into for a while “please be seated”} No. you cannot go wrong with a career at Grovel Conical the new procedure No—to be nice is always new procedure is to fine fallback when in doubt—being is {wrapped all in towels} to press one of the buttons nice, say fine Kevin Seltzer? Who the hell is Kevin Seltzer? parents the buttons after depositing the coin world-wide—being nice always pays the coin and then the wide double doors will swing open you will never get in trouble being nice—will swing open and you may enter being nice, say fine parents world-wide—being nice you may enter and be seated you cannot go wrong with a career at Grovel Conical always pays you may enter and be seated will never get in trouble being nice—{I am sorry I am so sorry but this is the way you may enter and be seated and the show will start the management says we must push Kevin Seltzer? Who the hell is Kevin Seltzer? out into for a while “please be seated”} on time because No. on time because it is No. mandated that the show should start on time and you cannot go wrong with a career at Grovel Conical therefore—please go in and “be seated” since the show will start on time because the show always has and always will start precisely on time.

Have a nice day.

Have a nice day.

Have a nice—day.

Uh!

Hoke!

Think fast; who’s the Pope?

Innocence


Two families lived peacefully in a suburb of Jacmel, capital of the southeastern department of the Republic of Haiti. They are herders. Both families were well respected in the neighborhood.

 

One day, the Jean family was furious to see that their goat was killed by a member of the Joseph family under the famous pretext that the animal ate a few plants of corn in their garden. This unfortunate situation caused a fierce argument to the point of seeking to kill each other.

That same day, in the afternoon, the two families would face off in a fight with daggers drawn. This is when they noticed from afar two children who were flying a kite together. They were very happy, and they were playing like two wild children.

 

Suddenly, the two families were reconciled because one child belonged to the Jean family and the other to the Joseph family.

 

~Roodly Laurore

_________________________________________________

L’ innocence

 

 

Deux familles vivaient paisiblement dans un banlieue de Jacmel, chef lieu du département du Sud-est de la république d'Haïti. Elles faisaient de l'élevage. Les deux familles étaient très respectées dans le quartier.

 

Un jour, la famille Jean était furieuse de voir que son cabrit a été tué par un membre de la famille Joseph sous le fameux prétexte que l'animal a mangé quelques pieds de maïs dans son jardin. Cette malheureuse situation a provoqué une dispute farouche au point qu'elles cherchaient à s'entretuer. 

 

Le même jour, dans l'après-midi, les deux familles allaient s'affronter dans un combat à couteaux tirés. C'est ainsi qu'elles ont remarqué de loin deux enfants qui montaient ensemble un cerf-volant. Ils étaient très heureux, ils jouaient comme deux fous. 

 

Tout à coup, les deux familles se sont réconciliées parce que les deux enfants appartenaient l'un à la famille Jean et l'autre à la famille Joseph. 

 

Roodly Laurore

________________________________________________

 

Roodly Laurore was born and raised in Haiti. He is an engineer and poet. His poems are published & forthcoming in Spirit Fire Review, Taos Journal of Poetry, Kosmos Journal, Autism Parenting Magazine; Solstice Literary Magazine, The New Verse News, Synchronized Chaos, Jerry Jazz Musician and others.  His writing & spiritual life touches the lives of everyone who knows him.  He's a role model in his community!

When The Heart Becomes An Artifact


For few it begins with the first kiss,
While for most it is a game of hit and miss.
Hoping for the one solid contact bringing them home;
Landing in the yard with picket fence and garden gnome.
Holding out for love's holy grail,
Losing more of their selves the more they fail.
Always on the lookout, hoping to find
That one arti.....WAIT....STOP....rewind.
When the heart aches and the earth quakes
Just hope it doesn't open to a pit of snakes.
I've fallen so often it's hard to tell
Just how often and deep I fell.
In a long forgotten hell I was sure I found the one
That would forever shine like the Sun.
Just a dream that toyed with my heart,
And I watched the Moirai take that future apart.
Sorrow fell upon me like raiders of a lost heart.
The darkness deep within picked me apart.
In this love I was alone
Searching for the philosopher's stone.
Trying to make love out of pain.
Trying to make sense of a stain
But that dream did in fact
only make my heart an artifact.
Burning blood became cold
Until I finally found my gold.
And this love is in fact
The only true artifact.




The Code Says I am a Number


Minority Report should have been a warning not a template
And yet we have judicial A.I. we will soon regret.
Emotionless computers judging the human factor
Non empathetic hardware trying to correct human error.
A.I. : Artificial Intelligence; Algorythmic Inqisitor
Tomorrow's dark future is here today;
More and more human purpose being taken away.
Facial recognition assessing job applicants; qualifications exempt.
A false interpreted expression can block the best attempt.
Bots deciding what we can and can not say;
Taking human rights to express away.
Do we still have control or causing a butterfly effect?
What more do we have to expect?
Humans are becoming the minority
Code is taking up the majority.


Author Biography 

From South-Western, Michigan, Jerry Langdon lives in Germany since the early 90's. He is an Artist and Poet. His works bathe in a darker side of emotion and fantasy. He has released five books of Poetry titled "Temperate Darkness an Behind the Twilight Veil", “Death and other cold things” “Rollercoaster Heart” and “Frosted Dreams” Jerry is also the editor and publisher of the literary magazine Raven Cage Zine poetry and prose. His poetic inspirations are derived from poets such as Edgar Allen Poe, Robert Frost and Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. As well as from various Rock Bands. His apparently twisted mind, twists and intertwines fantasy with reality.