Writers Block

I turned the corner

and there it was!

a row of houses

each filled with imagination

I scribbled down the street

held by a free-hand –

a life of permanence

unable to erase memories

I skipped up the steps

only to discover a locked door –

a repeated occurrence

even at the last attempted point

I exclaimed at the threshold

of a lost original thought

to be formed somewhere inside

the living spaces of tomorrow

yes – there I was! on Writers Block –

a neighborhood of experiences

marked by errors and flowing ideas

if only I had the courage to knock

Dave Douglas © 2011

Smoke and Mirrors

Time is slow here and reality evades me quickly. Surrounded by angels to sinister for God’s grace, they conjugate here. Intentions to get back from where they have fallen, this place is just a stepping stone. I meet them here. Have a seat if it is affordable or stand where you can see the show is about to start. A smoke screen floods the building, dim lights cast a luster upon the stage and my eyes are immediately drawn to it. Cylindrical poles grow from the stage and make their ascension towards the heavens. A voice comes over the microphone, I never see him because he is stationed behind the audience, but he is just as vital to the show as the talent is.

“Ladies and Gentlemen we have a magical show case prepared for you all today” says the voice over the microphone.

I didn’t come here for David Blaine, but there are Doves and Rabbits. It is never quiet here music plays as people chatter over drinks in anticipation of the show. Waitresses dressed in black pants, white button downs, and little black vests with bowties fill the floor all at once in an effort to serve bottles of alcohol to the guests. Some prevail and others fall by the wayside in an effort to make their tips before the main attractions start to attract. I see this place in its entirety.

It is too late for the waitresses now, that the talent has been summoned to the floor. Four at a time they occupy the stage. They approach from the right and one by one they start their summit up stairs that lead them to the Promised Land. Six inch heels tap the floor as they find their place on stage. The voice over the microphone introduces them by their stage names and drops a song for them to become lucrative to. They dance, but it’s not for the audience. They dance for themselves. They dance for M3 Beamers. They dance for Christian Louboutins and designer bags. Mascots in their own sense they dance for Georgia State, Clark Atlanta, and Spellman. Tuition isn’t cheap and this money is tax free, so I never judge them. Dollars are thrown high and they plummet from the air like snow flurries from the sky. They break sweats and necks with their acrobatic antics. Ascending towards the heavens I wonder where they fell from. Were their fathers ever there to guide them and give them their first glimpse at affection? Probably not if they were there to catch them then these girls would probably have too much self-worth for this place. As beautiful as this place is, it fails in comparison to them. They dance to multiples songs, their hair swings and legs suspend. Who taught them that? They could have joined the Dance team for the Atlanta Hawks, but this money is better. As the first group of girls’ time on stage comes to an end, a man in janitorial attire hands them a trash bag for the dollars that they just acquired. Money is hand racked into large piles and stuffed into white standard sized garbage bags. Every spectator in the room happily watches their money leave them behind, never to return.

The next group takes the stage built like they are ready to compete in an Olympic 4 x 400 meter race. With tight calf muscles and manicured toes they own the ground that they walk on. I can’t help but wonder what landed them here. It’s probably the same thing that landed me here. An avid admirer of the craft I’m here because I lack something. The spectators and the dancers are synonymous in that we all lack. They long for dollars like I long for attention. We all have dreams that we are in constant pursuit of, be it dreams of a Ferrari or just real love. I cannot get mad at them and they are not mad at me. When I’m here I know exactly what to expect, nothing more and nothing less. I can’t remove myself from this place they stand up on a pedestal and work hard for my residuals. Light bill, phone bill, stripper bill; I could have paid back a loan, but instead I spend it here. Young and dumb I have an obsession with good times. My eyes never leave the ladies the graceful, flawless, effortless, flexible, and extremely talented ladies. I wonder if they know that they are appreciated. Too many camp town ladies singing their songs solo, their baby’s fathers have probably never been in a family photo. I commend the ones that take the stage for their beautiful daughters and respectable sons. The hour glass dwindles and times up. This group’s show is complete, the money is hand racked and bagged and moseyed off to the place where the goddesses submerge from.

I go to the bar to get a drink and its Hennessy of course. It’s always Hennessey. The voice comes over the microphone and I hear her name. Kitty she’s who I’ve come to see. She is who I always come to see. I go back and take my place. She has already made her way up the stairs. I didn’t even get to watch her walk. She cut her hair and it looks perfect, I wish I was the first to let her know. Her confidence fills a glass and overflows; this is what attracts me to her. Always talking with her body I let my eyes listen. I can empathize with Paris. I would have taken Helen too. How does she manage to stand out? She clouds my vision and she is all that I see. Infatuated with her perfection I wish I could save her from this place, but she belongs here. A fish out of water if I were to ever bring her around my mother this is her natural habitat. Money motivated, she is an avid exhibitionist. Tattoos on her lower arm and upper left thigh, I wonder if she sleeps alone. What could I offer her? Love and affection maybe, but that doesn’t pay the bills. Nothing more than a broke college student showering her with dollars that I can’t afford to lose. I lose, but I love to watch her dance, so I continue to watch her dance. I notice every inch of her. I have trouble distinguishing if this masterpiece is mom-given or doctor-made, but I don’t care art is art. The smart money is on her, she just made what I make in a week in thirty minutes. We are both twenty two, but she is about to purchase a house and I’m about to take out another loan. That is crazy, yet I’m still here tipping her. She won’t stop until I hand it all over. She pretends to care and I know this, but she pretends so well that I fall for it every time. She asks questions and I answer. I wouldn’t dare ask her to regurgitate my answers because I would be ashamed of the response so I go with the flow and she inevitably breaks me with a grin. Who knows which part of heaven she fell from, I don’t. I just wish I wasn’t addicted to her company.

Their innocence gets pummeled in traffic so where along the way. Then the pretty girls that they are, they are transformed into temptresses and they prey on the feeble minded. Addicted to the plethora of dollars that come in every night, they do what has to be done in order to make ends meet. If they want for anything, there are no worries because they can afford it on their own. Who’s to blame for tainting them? Not me, but I must admit I do contribute to their excessive desires. I don’t make the mistake of taking it personally. They use me, but they use everyone. Who am I to judge they satisfy my lust, so in a way I use them as well. Neither of us is any more wrong than the other. I just ask that the Lord has mercy on our souls.

 Piece by Darion Wilson of Georgia Southern University, author may be reached here: wilsondarion11@yahoo.com 

Growing up in Kansas, Charles Ayres dealt with substance abuse, financial problems and sexuality issues. He found refuge in learning Japanese and learning everything related to Japan. His journey, as a Japanophile, started with a phone call to the Japanese Consulate and took him to New York, Kyoto and finally Tokyo. Once in Tokyo his quest for fashion and glamour culminated with him becoming a media personality.

The book is a window to Japanese culture. It describes customs and habits that at first glance are strange to westerners. A few such examples are “the social pressure to perform in school and work”, “to be on time, to be slim, to work like a maniac, to go drinking with your boss till 4 a.m. and somehow to make it into work by 7.30 a.m. the next day”. Charles describes his difficulties in adapting to this new culture and trying to make it as an entertainment personality. In my opinion this take on how to adapt to a new culture, even if you know a thing or two about it, is one of the main reasons that this book must be read. It offers an good insight into the thoughts of a foreigner and his struggle to adapt to a new environment and integrate into society.

Another major part of the book is about Charles’ quest for love. This quest doesn’t have a happy end, since Charles ends up with a “Kentastrophe,” as he likes to call it. He devotes a few chapters to this catastrophe, since it left him with a huge hole in his heart and in his pocket. This relationship made Charles hit rock bottom, but in the end he managed to rise up using his trusted friend, a blue fur coat.

The book is nicely written and it captivates you with strange events and a familiar language. When reading the book, you feel as if you are enjoying a cup of coffee with an old friend as he tells you his latest adventures. So I recommend reading the book.

Teseleanu George is a Romanian artist and playwright. He can be reached at blana_de_maimutza@yahoo.com

Batman and Robin

By Katie Farris

Anyone who has an older brother has experienced the turmoil of random punches, noogies when he wants to show his love, and the rush of adrenaline when Mom and Dad aren’t looking so you can settle things man to man. The relationship my brother and I share isn’t that much different from any typical brother and sister. Today as adults, we enjoy studying together, playing Ultimate Frisbee, working out, and going to the movies every once and a while. If you looked at us today and the way we act towards one another, you would never suspect that we used to beat the ever living crap out of each other, but something in us changed when we moved to Florida as children.

Before Florida, Joe and I were somewhat close. Growing up in the boondocks with only each other as playmates, we had no choice but to be friends. We spent countless summers in the backyard chasing after each other and playing Batman and Robin.

The days of Batman and Robin will forever take precedence in my heart over anything else. We would run through the brush of the backyard solving riddles the Riddler had left behind while simultaneously trying to find who had the cure for the fearsome Man-Bat. We’d barely escape the clutches of Bane, work together to defeat Clayface, and come up with a special serum to keep The Scarecrow’s fear gas from warping our minds. Nothing could stop us! Criminals would tremble in fear when they heard our names, mob bosses could never out smart us, and when a citizen needed help, we were there, fighting for justice that had been forgotten and lost.

One day while perched in the old Dogwood tree in our backyard, Joe looked to me. “Good job today, Robin. We had those guys on the run from the start.”

“Thanks, Batman,” I’d say with a serious face as I looked up into the sky. I’d point. “Look, Batman!”

“The signal,” he’d say.

“It’s already on the news. Poison Ivy has escaped from Arkham Asylum.”

My brother balanced himself on one of the branches of the tree and stood in a hero-like pose. “Quick, Robin! Let’s race to the Batmobile!” And we were off to defeat Poison Ivy before she tainted Gotham City’s water supply and the whole game would eventually be celebrated with us running back to the Batcave (our house) and stuffing our faces with pizza lunchables and gallon jugs of Kool-Aid.

Hey, even superheroes need a lunch break.

We would pretend to be other things too, like secret agents protecting the president and Indiana Jones, but this would also lead to the usual fight because Joe would always be Indiana and he’d make me a Nazi. I admit I was young at the time, but our Grandpa fought in WWII and I knew just by listening to his stories that being a Nazi was an insult.

“I’m not going to be a Nazi!” I shouted.

“You can’t be anything else!” he said flatly.

“I can be Dr. Henry Jones,” I offered.

“No, you’d have to be older than me. There’s no possible way you could be my dad when you’re younger,” he said.

“Well then you be Dr. Henry Jones and I’ll be Indiana,” I said.

“Nice try, but that’s not happening.”

“You’re not being fair!” I shouted.

“Look, there’s no way you’re going to be Indiana Jones! So, just suck it up and be the Nazi I get to beat up on!”

Not without a fight you won’t!

And we’d have at it. We were nothing but flying fists and swinging feet, landing a hopeful knock out punch anywhere we could.

We’d come in after a brawl and, as usual, my mom would pitch a fit at how we looked and behaved. Joe’s t-shirt would be torn from where I grabbed him by the collar and he’d sport a bruise and gash on his arm from where I bit him while I had a busted lip from where he clocked me with my hair disheveled from rolling around in the grass. Dirt would cling to our faces making us look like we’d just come in off the street from begging.

“You two will be the death of me!” my mom would shout. “Why can’t you two just get along? I just don’t understand. This is not how a brother and sister are supposed to act! Me and my siblings never fought each other!”

And then there was that one terrible thing she made us do after a fight and we both hated it. “Now, you two apologize and hug each other,” she’d say.

Ugh!The dreaded make up hug. Not cool.

We’d both slump our shoulders, say a non-heartfelt “sorry,” and hug one another, patting each other on the back a little too hard.

“I’m taking you down. Same time tomorrow you little snot,” he’d whisper.

“Fat chance, butthead,” I’d shoot back.

God, I miss those days.

That was the normal life between us, but unfortunately there was a time when my brother and I were our only companions in life. When Joe was eleven and I was seven, my parents had gone through the necessary procedures to get a divorce which led to my mom moving us to Florida, living on the same property as my aunt, uncle, and cousins which Joe and I formally called: “Enemy Territory.” From the moment we set foot on that turf it was The Farris’s vs. The Kurtright’s. There was no safe haven, no place of solace, and never a moment of peace when the cousins were together – whether it was us arguing over whose turn it was to choose a movie to watch, what after church snack we were going to have, what order we were going to be served in for dinner, or who would sit where in the van. It was hell on earth. Joe and I were all we had.

One summer night, I sat in my room staring out of the window wishing I was back in Georgia reflecting on an argument I had with my older cousin, Sarah, when Joe walked into my bedroom and gently nudged me with an elbow.

“You okay?” he asked.

I looked to him. Joe was tall and scrawny as a boy. A light dusting of freckles covered the bridge of his nose and only darkened when he caught the sun. His scruffy brown hair had a mind of its own, laying however it wanted while his light brown eyes glowed, even when he was down or cross. He looked directly into my eyes and somehow I felt like he could see what I was feeling at the moment, but I didn’t say anything. I just sniffed and shook my head.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, sitting on my bed.

That was a strange moment to me. I wasn’t used to his generosity. My brother was the boy I fought for sport my entire life and this was the first time he had ever shown any concern toward me. I looked into his eyes and in them, there was a melancholy presence. There was sincerity that I’d never seen before and even though we’d fought in the past, it occurred to me that as long as we were in Florida and living on our cousin’s property, on enemy turf, he was my best bud. My companion. My battle buddy. He was there for me and I was there for him.

“Sarah called me Frog-Lips,” I finally whimpered.

“Why’d she call you that?” he asked.

“Because of my birthmark,” I said with a sniffle, pointing to the white line going down the middle of my bottom lip.

Joe snorted. “She’s stupid, Katie,” he said. “You can’t let her do that to you.”

“She always gets away with everything, Joe. It just makes me so mad!”

“I know,” he said. “The next time she says it to you, punch her in the face.”

I shot him a look. “Mom told me to turn the other cheek. She said that’s what the Bible said to do,” I told him.

Joe gave me a wicked smile. “True, it says to turn the other cheek, but it doesn’t tell you what to do after that.”

A revelation! I’d never thought of that!

I smiled at him. “That’s a good point,” I said to him.

“This is why I’m your big brother. It’s my way of looking after you,” he said with a smile.

The next day while Joe and I were in the yard arguing whether we wanted to play Star Wars or The Power Rangers, Sarah and her little sister, Brittany, walked up on us.

Sarah’s dirty blonde hair fell around her shoulders, her banes darkening and clinging to her forehead from the sticky Florida humidity. She was thin with no figure while Brittany was a short, chubby child with dark brown hair.

“What are y’all playing?” Sarah inquired.

“Why?” I asked, annoyed at her presence and hoping she’d go away.

“We just want to play with you,” she said with a sinister smile.

Uh oh, I thought. I know that smile.

“We’re playing Batman and Robin,” Joe said quickly. “So, unless you want to be the bad guys, you can’t join in. Sorry.”

Brittany began to cry. After all, she was only four at the time, but Sarah, even at the age of nine, was a devious monster that could manipulate anyone into getting what she wanted. Up until that point, I’ve never wanted to hurt someone as much as I wanted to hurt Sarah.

“Well,” Sarah began in a diplomatic voice, “I think Katie and Brittany should be the bad guys.”

Brittany let out a loud obnoxious sob after hearing her sisters betraying words and I rolled my eyes at my baby cousin.

“Why do you say that?” my brother asked coolly.

“They’re the youngest. They should be the bad guys while you’re Batman and I’m Robin,” she said while that sadistic grin of hers grew.

But I’m always Robin, I thought as hot tears filled my eyes. If there was a time in Georgia where Joe and I got along, it was when we played Batman and Robin. We were the Dynamic Duo. She couldn’t be Robin. I wasRobin! I always have been.

I glance at my brother with a hurtful look, but his eyes didn’t leave Sarah. His nostrils flared as his jaw twitched, his face gradually turned red and his breath grew into rapid short bursts. He clinched his fists at his side. “Katie is my Robin,” he said through gritted teeth.

“I’d be a better Robin,” she said. Her words triggered my tears and they steadily flowed down my cheeks.

“You don’t even know who Robin is!” Joe screamed at her. “I’d choose Katie over you any day!”

“What?” she asked pointing to me, “You mean you’d choose Frog-Lips over me? You’re more stupid than you look, Joe.”

I stepped closer to Sarah and got in her face. “My brother is not stupid,” I said out of anger, “If you want to join us, why don’t you be Two-Face? You’re really good at that!”

“Watch what you say, Frog-Lips,” she whispered.

“If you call me that one more time, I’m taking you down,” I huffed.

“I’ll scream bloody murder and my dad will come out here and whip your butt,” she said in a quiet, threatening tone.

“It’d be worth it,” I snapped.

Very gently, I felt the collar of my shirt being tugged from behind. I turned and saw my brother mouth the words, “The other cheek.” Angry and disappointed, I turned my back to Sarah and Brittany and began to walk away from the whole situation when I heard, “Froggie can’t jump!”

Oh, Froggie’s about to jump alright!

All at once, a surge of anger built up inside of me and was near its breaking point. The recent memories of name calling, purposely lying about us to get us in trouble, and the manipulation all fueled my animosity towards her until it boiled over. I felt my breath quicken and my face inflame as I looked to my brother. In his eyes, I saw his resentment as well.

“Go get that turd,” he whispered.

Without any warning, I turned and charged towards Sarah. She tried to run, but by the time her back was to me, she was already eating dirt. I began swinging, landing punches wherever I could. Sarah had somehow turned on her back and tried to block my attacks, but the great thing about having a big brother to fight with, is that I know every possible gap that you’re going to leave open, especially when you haven’t fought a day in your life. I continued to swing, tearing through every barricade she put up.

“Get off of me, you crazy mutant!” she wailed, “Brittany, get her!”

I felt a slap on my back that tickled more than it hurt and out of the corner of my eye, I saw Joe dragging Brittany away from us. “Get her, Katie! Knock the crap out of her!” Joe egged on and a burst of energy rang through me as I continued my assault on her.

“Don’t. You. Ever. Call. Me. Frog. Lips. Again!” I said between every punch, emphasizing each word.

“That’s it, Katie! Break that scum sucking snake’s nose!” I heard Joe shout.

Then, Sarah rolled and I somehow ended up underneath her. She slapped me across the face and stood up, straddling me, towering over me with blood dripping from her nose and that’s when I saw it coming. It was like slow motion. I saw her foot come down and marry my face while a stinging sensation swept through my bottom lip. The taste of dirt and sand tarnished my mouth which was quickly joined by a salty flavor. Hot tears stung my eyes as I put my hand to the lower part of my face and that’s when I felt it. One of my canines had made a clear passage through my bottom lip. I carefully pulled my lip free from my tooth. What a cheap shot! I thought to myself as a few tears escaped to my face.

Suddenly, I heard Sarah scream and I looked up to see Joe running after her with a shovel in his hands. “No one hits my little sister but me!” he shouted.

“Get her, Joe!” I screamed as I winced from the pain radiating from my lip. “Knock the daylights out of her!”

I stood up and I ran after him, passing a hysterical Brittany and cheered him on, but we were stopped when our uncle came out and tried to defuse the situation.

“What do you think you’re doing?” my uncle asked as he snatched the shovel from Joe’s hands.

“Look what she did to Katie!” Joe shouted as he pointed to me.

Sarah ran behind her dad and began to weep. “Daddy, they started it! We wanted to play with them, but they said we had to be the bad guys and when we agreed they started to beat us up!”

“You’re lying!” I screamed.

My uncle bounded towards me and I knew clearly what his intentions were. I was about to get the whipping of a lifetime for something that she had coming to her. I turned to run, but I felt a strong hand grab my arm, his calluses and fingers digging into my elbow.

“Look what you did to my daughter!” he yelled at me, gesturing towards Sarah who had the same evil grin on her face from only a few minutes before.

I pointed to my lip. “Look what she did to me!” I yelled back.

He spun me around and I felt him rear his hand back. Brace yourself, Katie, I warned myself. This is going to be bad.

Suddenly, a familiar voice came from behind us, bringing the world as I knew it to a halt.

“What are you doing?” I heard the voice say. We both turned and saw my mom, who is a good foot shorter than her brother, marching towards us in her maroon scrubs with a look that could scare Hulk Hogan, but at the same time I felt a wave of relief sweep through me. She’d gotten home from work just in time to save me.

“And just what do you think you’re doing with my daughter?” she asked in a low voice, her eyes narrowing in on my uncle.

“Look what she did to Sarah,” he said to her.

“Did you ask Katie and Joe what happened?” she asked.

“Sarah told me what happened,” he snapped.

“I’ll ask again. Did you ask Katie and Joe?”

“No,” he simply said.

“You need to hear both sides of the story before you carry out a punishment. Now, let go of my child,” she said.

“She gave Sarah a black eye!” he screamed.

“Yeah, but look at Katie! I think she’s going to need stitches!” she bellowed back. “Now, let my child go or so help me, I’ll give you a black eye to match your daughter’s!”

He quickly let go of my arm and ushered Sarah and Brittany into their house while Mom made Joe and me get in the car. She drove us to the hospital while we explained to her what happened, the air growing thicker and thicker with anxiety.

“What were you two thinking? Katie, what did I tell you about turning the other cheek?” she asked out of frustration.

“It doesn’t tell you what to do after that, Mama,” I said quietly, using Joe’s line he’d taught me earlier.

Mama gaped at me before she turned her head to look at Joe. “You told her that, didn’t you?”

Joe beamed at Mom in the rearview mirror, not saying a word.

And then something surprising happened. Mama laughed and the tension that brewed in the air evaporated immediately.

“You know,” she began, “I prayed to God asking Him to find a way for you two to work together and stop fighting one another. It wasn’t exactly what I was thinking, but I think my prayer was answered.” Mom, of course, punished us by giving us extra chores to do for the next few days, but I didn’t care. My brother and I had given Sarah a beat down she’d never forget.

By the end of it all, Sarah had several bruises, a busted (not broken) nose, and a black eye that she couldn’t see out of for several days while I only had that busted lip and, thank God, I didn’t need stitches.

Before going to sleep that night, I sat on my bed and read a little as I’ve always done when I heard a knock at my door.

“Come in,” I called out and Joe’s face appeared.

“Is your lip okay?” he asked.

I nodded. “It hurts a little, but I’m going to be okay.”

He smiled. “You really gave it to her today.”

“Yeah,” I said. “It felt good. Is that bad of me?”

He shrugged his shoulders. “It might be, but I can understand how you feel.”

I breathed out a shaky breath. “Joe,” I said while looking down. “Thank you for sticking up for me. I know I get on your nerves a lot, but it felt good that you did that for me.”

I looked to him and he smiled. “You’re welcome, Katie.”

“Why did you do it?” I asked.

“You’re the only little sister I have. I’m the only one who can hit you and get away with it,” he said with a chuckle.

I closed my X-Men comic book, placed it on my night stand, and turned my bedside lamp off. “I’m kind of tired. I’m going to go to sleep,” I said to my brother.

Joe nodded. He began to close the door, but stopped when I called his name. He stuck his head back in my room, gazing in my direction.

I stared at him through the shadows, the memories of us working together earlier that day flashing in my mind, how we were like Batman and Robin, vigilantes acting outside of the law, enforcing justice when no one else would, how he stuck up for me, and how he said I was his Robin. Would he always choose me? Would he one day push me away? Would we always be the Dynamic Duo? I peered through the darkness of my room and took a deep breath. “Will you always choose me as Robin over Sarah?” I asked in a timid voice.

Joe smiled and before he answered me, I knew what his answer would be.

“Katie,” he said, “You’ll always be my Robin.” And with that, he closed the door as the darkness settled in my room.

And you’ll always be my Batman, I thought.

I closed my eyes and slipped into a dream of us jumping buildings in Atlanta, he as Batman and I as Robin, protecting our homeland, fighting Two-Face and The Joker, taking on crime and bringing criminals to justice. Joe and Katie. Batman and Robin. The Dynamic Duo until the very end.

Piece by Katie Farris of Georgia Southern University. You may reach the author here: sf01525@georgiasouthern.edu