The Pussy Whip

Once upon a time, in the very heart of the Village of Greenwich, there lived a performance artist, known for her vision, manifested in striking stage pictures and bold feminist statements. She would tell you that her art was not just her work; it was a calling, emerging out of her journey from small-town midwestern girl to tour de force, with periods of victim and survivor somewhere in between.

Having lucked into a rent-controlled apartment in the ‘90s, she kept her needs modest so that she might enjoy every bit of serendipity that came her way. And, oh, did it ever. Learning early on that she could give herself a fuller life than “a good man” might, she relished in her freedom to travel the globe, staging performances, be they sanctioned or rogue, speaking her truth in a manner so memorable as to land her on the cover of many a magazine.

Then, there came a time that she found herself sidelined with mysterious symptoms that no doctor could diagnose. Thus, the hours that were once spent beneath the Washington Square Park arch, advocating for the visibility of women, the neurodivergent and the gender non-binary were whiled away in her double bed, reading and dreaming up pieces that she began to wonder if she’d ever have the opportunity to perform.

Ever the resilient one, she buoyed herself with fresh flowers, dinners of Instacarted supermarket sushi and Netflix Originals; yet, as time passed, the phone seldom rang, for her friends and colleagues quickly tired of asking after her health. Once a handful of invitations had been declined, they stopped coming. The magazines and theatres, of course, simply had no interest in her beyond the impact of her work.

On a visit to one of the doctors who found himself at a loss as to how to help her, she merely shrugged when he asked how she was doing.

“I feel like I’m disappearing,” she said.

“Perhaps an antidepressant would help,” he suggested. “I’m happy to write you a prescription.”

“I appreciate that, Doctor. I really do. Of course, I was happier when I was living a full life. But, the facts are what they are. I have an undiagnosed illness, and, well, I’m not as young as I once was.”

“That’s nonsense. You’re the same woman who’s always taken the world by storm,” he assured her.

“Maybe so, but that doesn’t equate to feeling seen.”

Over the next few months, she put on a few pounds and her complexion grew quite pale as it became more difficult to make her way from her third-floor walkup down to the concrete stairs that overlooked the street. And, not but a breath after her fiftieth birthday, which she celebrated with her old-lady cat, Marina Abramović, by lighting a candle atop their tuna salad, her periods stopped.

Done. Fini. Once and for all.

The next morning, when she rose to brew herself a cup of gingered black tea, Marina Abramović began to weave her way through the woman’s legs, only to find that they were less than solid. Taken aback, the woman’s treasured feline brought her paw to her heart, then dashed off, mewling as she took shelter in the cubby of her carpeted tree.

“Well, okay, then,” the woman scoffed with a roll of her eyes. “Be that way.”

Once the tea had steeped, the woman tossed the spent leaves into the sink, and after an invigorating first sip, made her way to the shower.

Setting the teacup next to the tap, she fingered the yellow stains in the porcelain, where more than a few cigarettes had burned down while applying her makeup for any one of those old nights on the town.

Then, she turned the shower on to warm, whipped off her nightie and tossed it into the hamper. An expert shot.

Taking another sip of her tea, she glanced toward the mirror, hesitantly, of course, for she refused to accept the lack of fullness within her breasts, only to find that she was . . . well, ever so slightly transparent.

And made a mental note to talk to the doctor about the Ambien.

The heat of the shower worked wonders on her muscles; and, as she stepped out onto the bath mat, she found Marina Abramović waiting on the toilet seat, eager to nuzzle her knees as if in apology.

“No worries, Girlfriend,” she said, mussing the loose skin on her scruff.

It all happened, in the grand scheme of things, gradually. Relativity being relative, after all. And, not a week later, the woman found herself to be as invisible as a princess’s pantyline.

Yet, Marina Abramović, fortunately, seemed to have worked through her issues. Though she wasn’t quite sure where to rub, she managed to hold vigil over the woman’s form, regardless.

“I’m not dying, for Goddess’s sake,” the woman protested as the cat remained glued to her undelineated side. “We just need to play the circumstances to our advantage.”

And that’s when performance art became more than performance. It became magic.

Over the next couple of months, the woman and Marina Abramović crafted a piece that made all of her earlier works look like child’s play.

And, when it was ready, the woman placed a call to Désirée la Bombacere at the Fiefdom of MoMA, advising her of what they had to offer.

“I thought you’d retired,” Ms. la Bombacere said upon her return call.

“Who told you that?”

“Well, we just assumed–.”

“Yeah, that’s never a good idea.”

Thus, on April 7th of 2024, the woman and Marina Abramović presented “The Pussy Whip,” a work that would go down as the most influential one-cat show in history. Those courageous enough to take a seat within the audience departed with their greatest fears and desires exposed, as well as their judgments and dismissals, for in a very short span of time, they witnessed the grains of their own depravity, which they worked so hard to deny; and, as they exited the space with their panties either wet or soiled, one couldn’t help but to notice distinct feline bite marks gracing each ankle.

And, from that moment forward, no one dared to disregard a pussy, no matter what her age, her physical limitations or her lived experience, ever again ‘til the very end of time.

TO AZERBAIJAN THE ONE WHICH IS MY LONGING...

Once upon a time, that was when I was going to primary school, I used to listen to my grandmother with all my heart while she was talking about Azerbaijan, and while I was listening, there were movements and excitements that I couldn't understand, I was experiencing emotional moments. Years later, I realized that this was called longing for Azerbaijan, and I still feel the pain of suffering this longing for years in my heart. It is an unforgettable and indescribable feeling for me. I was daydreaming and wondering if one day my longing for the homeland called Azerbaijan would end. 

As I reached Kemal's age and read books on the subject, this incredible longing, this circle of passionate longing was getting bigger and bigger. I kept thinking about Azerbaijan. I was reading whatever I could and adding to my knowledge, I think it was the early eighties, I came across a Turkish literature magazine, the poems of the great Azerbaijani poet Nebi Hezri were published in the magazine. I read his poems with pleasure and wrote a detailed letter to Mr. Nebi Hezri. While writing the letter, I wondered if this great poet would reply to me. ?  I was asking questions to myself. Finally, after two months of hopeless waiting, the answer to my letter came from Nebi Hezri. I was very, very excited. The following was written at the beginning of the letter, which I opened with my hands shaking.

 Calling out and rejoicing in the earth,
 How many times have I seen a flood in my life?
 Even if you don't see me once,
 I have always seen you in my heart.

 This beautiful poem, written especially for me by that great poet, touched me very much and literally made me cry. From that moment on, my longing for Azerbaijan continued to increase unlimitedly. When the date came to 20-01-1992, imperialist Russian tanks brutally attacked the elderly, women and children in Azerbaijan. It was committing the bloodiest massacre in history without any attention, the Western world was turning a deaf ear to what was happening and was shamelessly watching the events. On this occasion, Azerbaijan became my wounded heart, my heart was about to stop. We were trying to keep the events on the agenda by protesting the terrible massacre committed by the imperialists by holding meetings condemning the terrible massacre committed by the imperialists every day, but the longing was still continuing at full speed. 

Time passed quickly and Azerbaijan became independent by paying a bloody price. I went to Azerbaijan and hugged and longed for them. They welcomed my humble person with great magnificence. In the eighties, I was trying to satisfy my longing for years by corresponding with friends I knew in absentia, but my longing did not end, it still continued to increase. I couldn't control my tears of happiness. My friends who saw my tears also started to cry. Tears of longing and joy were flowing like a flood. They were competing with each other to take my humble person as a guest. My dear friend Edalet Guliyev immediately arranged a television program. We made a one and a half hour chat program. In the program, questions about Turkey were asked and I answered. When we finished the program and went to the market, people who knew me from the television screen approached me to meet my humble person and asked me if I was a Turk, I replied that we were all Turks, so the sincerity between us continued to increase. They visited a few newspaper offices and interviewed me, asking questions about Turkey. They immortalized our pictures and gifted them to life. 

The next day, I see my pictures and interviews with me in the newspapers, I get emotional, and I almost cry, I think to myself that this is what it is like to quench my longing, and we go to the martyrs' paradise, we recite fatihas to the souls of the martyrs, thus the road to Azerbaijan has been opened, and these visits continue from time to time. I was very happy to have my poems published in the Anthology titled "VOLUMES OPENING TO TURANA" published by Aybeniz Gafarlı and Gabil Adalet, and considering the point we have reached, I cannot help but say, FROM WHERE TO WHERE?...

Queen of the Never Was

Below the high moon
in a clearing of lost lands,

she slow walks
to the center of the moment,

a lasting dream
for those surrounding her,

her presence
enlarging heartbeats,

her eyes
never blinking,

her tears forming a path
between her breasts,

a glistening river
to the waiting sea,

her island
no one ever leaves.



Not From Around Here

A flower growing on
her left ear,
roots to her heart.

Her voice whispery,
words born in the moment
capturing all.

A small group,
recent escapees from war
on a newborn river's edge.

On our sore knees,
sipping cool water,
praying for purity...

We made camp.
She sat in the middle,
all eyes watching her.

We fell asleep,
so close we touched
in dreams.

In the morning lift,
she was gone as the wind.
A vision to come?



Islands

Not enough islands
for all of us
wanting,

a safe home
getaway,

surrounded
by a calm sea
and sky of heaven.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
the right to die
 

there's this woman

complaining about

pain and all these

broken bones

 

she thinks she

needs therapy

of some kind

 

the therapist is

telling her what

they could do

for her

 

part of me wishes

the therapist would

offer her the right

to die
------------------------------------------------------------
it was better to be realistic
 

i remember

when i was

younger

 

i dreamed

of marrying

a beautiful

black woman

 

and making

our dysfunction

a superpower

that was going

to destroy the

world

 

i'll never forgive

my parents for

telling me it

was better to

be realistic

 

no wonder my

imagination

carries a strong

sword of revenge
--------------------------------------------------------
that likes to play with knives
 

another night thinking about death

 

following the wrinkles on your face

and trying to remember which ones

are scars

 

your left big toe always hurts

in the rain

 

last time you ever went drinking

with a marine that likes to

play with knives

 

and all the memories of the pool

halls

 

all the free drinks

as no one could touch you

when you got going on any

of the tables

 

driving home like a dumbass

 

feeling great but always sleepy

 

nothing quite like waking up

right before that exit sign gets

too fucking close

 

some think you are lucky

 

others tend to think you are due

 

we're all going to die sometime

 

might as well have a few fucking

stories along the way
-----------------------------------------------------
trying to be civilized
 

a couple inches

of snow on the

ground

 

a few days ago

i was in the store

in shorts and a t-shirt

 

wait ten minutes and...

 

it's a town of rednecks

trying to be civilized

 

hard for them to imagine

anything but white people

around here

 

i always laugh when i see

the few asians or the couple

of blacks that do live here

 

hoping it becomes more

and more

 

having grown up in a very

diverse situation in this state

 

i understand how diversity

can expand your brain and

teach tolerance and

understanding

 

of course, why would these

white fucks ever want that

 

they have what they believe

is utopia

 

of course, you have to explain

to them why the schools need

money

 

and why the roads don't get

paved just because
------------------------------------------------------
drive a mercedes
 

wake up in the middle of a nightmare

and realize you have never felt better

 

death is as natural as a sunset

 

as a flower drying up in a desert

 

but your controlled existence in

the suburbs taught you were special

and special people never die with

jesus on their side

 

hang out with the lost souls long

enough and you'll come to

understand

 

that jesus died on the cross so

your pastor can drive a mercedes

 

it isn't so much about heaven and

hell as much as it is about getting

every last cent into the collection

plate

 

trust me

 

they will warn you

that you always need to be

on the path

 

greatness never followed someone

else's footprints



J.J. Campbell (1976 - ?) is old enough to know better. He's been widely published over the years, most recently at The Beatnik Cowboy, The Rye Whiskey Review, Horror Sleaze Trash, The Asylum Floor and Misfit Magazine. You can find him most days on his mildly entertaining blog, evil delights. 

THE INTERPRETATION OF TIME AND PERIOD IN THE WORKS OF GHAFUR GHULAM

Ibrokhimov Saidakbar
Faculty of Criminal Justice
3rd grade student

Abstract: Gafur Ghulam is a famous writer of Uzbekistan. The history of the Uzbek people found its artistic expression in the poetry and prose of Gafur Ghulam. The writer’s creativity is diverse – poems, songs, epics, odes, stories, short stories. Gafur Ghulam’s work
took an incomparable place in the development of Uzbek literature in the post-war period.
Key words: work, era, interpretation, literature, poetry, poet, work, folk, prose, writer, literature, stories, creator, examples of creativity.

“… When we talk about the personality, memory and legacy of Gafur Ghulam, we compare this great man first of all as a broad, literal poet of the people, in front of his immortal name and unfading work our boss”

Islam Karimov.

Gafur Ghulam is a unique talent who left a golden name in Uzbek literature of the 20th century. People’s poet of the Republic of Uzbekistan, an academician of the Academy of Sciences of the Republic of Uzbekistan, this great artist greatly contributed to the
development of national literature, culture and science of the Uzbek people with his unique creativity and activity. That is why his work is constantly studied and researched. While reading the works of the writer, we can understand the philosophy of that time and come to primary thoughts about the era. The works of contemporaries greatly influenced the formation of Gafur Ghulam’s world view and artistic taste. Gafur Ghulam writes in one of his articles: “I know and love Russian classical artists and have translated many of their works into my native language. But I want to say that I am a student of Mayakovsky, who “opened up the most exciting and unlimited possibilities for me in the fields of weight, vocabulary, symbols, and the melodic structure of poetry.”

In addition to anger in Mayakovsky’s satire, critical sarcasm, and the enormous power of feeling in his lyrics, I tried to gather in myself… the bold eloquence of his methods, the courage of metaphors, the expressiveness of exaggerations. I even had to use the methodical, melodious and meaningful construction of the poem in the structure of Uzbek poetry.” These are reflected in many poems of Gafur Ghulam, for example: “On the roads of Turksib”, “Motherland”, “Long live peace!”.

In one of the poetic passages written by Gafur Ghulam in 1962, we can come across such a sentence:
Time and mother
Rhyme is coming

Through this verse, as much as the poet was a son for his mother, he was as much a child of the times as a person. It is impossible to understand the creator, whose entire creative period and life path are closely connected with his time. If the period is studied in a strong
connection, both its successes and its shortcomings will be shown accordingly. Almost every poem of Gafur Ghulam, written in the spirit of belonging to the 20th century, requires special attention. The works that cover all the foundations of society and include
people’s dreams and hopes, thoughts about the past and the future, evoke a feeling in the heart of the fan. There are other works of the poet (for example, the poem “Sharaf Manuscript”, stories such as “Hasan Kaifi” and “Aliqul’s Debt”), through which it is possible to read the author’s hidden pains and deeply artistically expressed ideas of
independence. we can understand.

Gafur Ghulom’s prose skill is clearly visible in the short stories “Netay” (1930), “Resurrected Corpse” (1934), “Yodgor” (1936), “Shum Bola” (1936-1962). In particular, in the story “Netay”, the social era causes the fate of the main character to become tragic. In the short story, the writer covers the issue of relations between man and society. He strongly condemns any kind of unrest and draws attention to the fact that even in the “Troublesome days when fathers do not know their sons and mothers do not know their daughters”, true human qualities are preserved and the dear and delicious feelings of fatherhood do not choose a beautiful nation. Ghafur Ghulam writes about one of the great evils of society. The writer angrily exposes “the tyranny of the evil khan”, the violence of
the thousand chiefs, city judges, and governors, and protects women whose “hearts are crying, their faces are smiling, and their hearts are bleeding from insults”.

Today, Gafur Ghulam’s pedagogical views have become a component of our national pedagogic heritage. In the 20s of the last century, ideas about eliminating harmful habits in children’s behavior were discussed. Looking at the work of the writer, he suffers from the
growing number of harmful habits among children. He looks for the causes of harmful habits in the environment in which children live. In his opinion, “thousands of children are not involved in general education due to the fault of officials sitting at the top of the
educational system.”

It is known that during the last century, hundreds of thousands of children were left homeless in the former Soviet state due to national conflicts, war, and drought. As a result, child neglect has reached its peak in the country. Thousands of children who were left out
of school and family control learned harmful habits from street schools. The state and the general public are worried about the increase in child delinquency. Therefore, the poet was
worried about the fate of such orphaned children and said in the poem “I offer”:

Look at this young teenager:
“He lived from the beginning
What a shame, what a shame
He is proud like his grandfather,
You eat a lot!” – you say
…Not yet
School, study is up to him…

In a number of works of the writer, human qualities are recognized. That is, education shows a sense of respect. Respecting one’s parents, elders, and everyone else was considered a high recognition for this person. Respect and value are harmonious concepts, and a person who appreciates the country, parents, and all the circumstances in general is the owner of high education. In this way, the so-called human being becomes the possessor of high virtue. As an example, we can show the poem “Hello” by the writer on page 1.58:

Respect for a person is self-recognition.
The land where the holy term lived.
Na qulu na xo‘ja, na minnat, na zulm,
Dear Sanamak, the sweat on his forehead

Now let’s think a little about the story “Shum Bola”, the most famous example of the author’s work. We all know that the period in which this work was written, that is, the 30s of the 20th century, is a difficult period for our country. In this situation, the emergence of
a work with fundamentally opposing concepts to the politics of the time is an unprecedented event. The events of the 10th years are written in the well-known work. If we pay attention, there is no trace of class conflict, struggle, revolutionary spirit in this story. However, the events in the work are reflected in the ordinary life of the people, who are busy with their work in the market, on the streets. When you read the story, it seems that the work consists of adventures, but it creates a special mood for the people of this era, who are in a state of politics. Shum Boy, the main character in the play, is a character
who does not fit into the mold. However, the attention to the life, time, and people who left the children of the nation to fend for themselves in the events of the story is expressed through the character of a simple child. Page 2.8

In conclusion, in Gafur Ghulam’s works, we can see not only creativity, but also the harmony of time and space. Today, if we look at the past, we can see that some of the works written by a number of our writers have fallen from the history. In general, there is
no creator, writer or poet whose works cannot take place on the stage of folk and literature. Because time is sorting out their works. But there are such creators whose works created at the level of their talent still remain in the language of the people, and their name is a
symbol of pride and honor for the people and the era. Therefore, Gafur Ghulam is considered to be such a talented and great creator of the 20th century. A rare talent, an academician of the Academy of Sciences of Uzbekistan, a philosopher-poet, a poet Gafur
Ghulam will remain a scientist, poet and writer who listens to the hearts of our people and all well-intentioned humanity, and can feel the pain of fans from the heart.

Why can’t I be happy, we are finally with perfection,
With knowledge, with love, with beauty,
Our hearts are full of all humanity,
We are sitting on the road in the heart.
Excerpt from the poem “The power of one greeting”.
Gafur Ghulam

References:

1. Naim Karimov, publishing house named after Gafur G’ulam, Tashkent-2003.

2. The spiritual and educational significance of Gafur Ghulam’s work. Scientific conference. Tashkent-2003.
3. www.ziyo.net

Previously published in Children, Churches and Daddies 

Kitten
 

"Cream of Wheat," said the young woman with a sigh, closing the menu and addressing her waitress.  It was 6 a.m. and Georgia had bustled into the Corner Diner, simply ravenous from a hard night's work.   She could have chosen to eat anything. but no, she still had a few pounds to lose, so she would be good.  It was very hard, however, and Georgia was in a constant struggle to contain her appetite; she loved to eat. 

 

As if scenting blood, the waitress asked, leaning in, "You want anything to go with that, Hon'?" 

 

Georgia thought hard for a moment, scowled, then said, "Yes!  Three eggs, over-easy, bacon, sausage, a breakfast steak and toast."  The more she thought of food the more she was compelled to order.  Okay, so she wasn't being so good.  "And a glass of orange juice, coffee, and a short stack," she added hastily.  Then she said, "do you have biscuits and gravy?"  The waitress just stared at her.  "Half order," said Georgia determinedly.

 

"Will there be anything else?" asked the waitress sardonically.

 

"Yes," said Georgia.  "Don't forget the hot sauce!"

 

"Wouldn't wanna do that, Hon'," the other woman assured her, then smiled and

flipped closed her order pad.

 

Georgia looked past the counter at which she sat and into the kitchen, in the rear

of the restaurant. There she spied what she supposed was the cook, a really tiny

woman with freckles and a red bandana wrapped round her dark hair.  She

appeared to be smoking a blunt.  Georgia was rather intrigued.

 

"Order up," snapped the waitress, ringing a bell and slipping order receipts under little spring-loaded hooks in front of he kitchen window.  "B & G, hamburger, chiliburger, three over-easy, breakfast steak, short stack, full stack and another

B & G..." 

 

Georgia could see the little cook roll her eyes as the waitress rattled on, then take the reefer from her mouth and next tackle preparing the food. The waitress returned, filling Georgia's coffee cup, said,

 

"Wanna donut?  They're free.  These are the old ones. They were fried last night, and we don't charge for them after 6 a.m."

 

"Sure," replied Georgia, still voraciously hungry.  She glanced at the waitress's

name tag, saw "Marj"  emblazoned on the plastic.  The ageless waitress ducked

her head into a display case and turned up a blueberry donut, served it on a

small plate.  "I could get you a fresh one, but then I'd hafta charge you a buck."

 

"Thanks...Marj."  The other woman smiled. 

 

"I'll just check on your order," she said, and then swept back to the kitchen.   She returned.  "Comin' right up, Hon'."

 

Georgia had a sudden idea.  "Say, Marj," she said, would it be alright if I go back to the kitchen and talk with the cook?"

 

"Help yourself, Baby, she could probably use the company.  Her name's Andrea."  Georgia smiled her thanks and slipped off her stool and headed back to the rear.  Stealing down a corridor marked by really terrible paintings of children with big eyes, Georgia edged up to a half wall separating the preparation area from the dishwashing area, laid her elbows upon the barrier. 

 

"Hi, Andrea," she said.

 

"Hey," replied the cook, scarcely looking up.  And Georgia could see why:  upon

the grill were arrayed sausages, eggs of every type, hash browns, American fries, French toast and her own breakfast steak.  Underneath a bacon press were six slices of sizzling, snapping bacon.  Georgia licked her lips.

 

"I'm Georgia," she volunteered.

 

"Good for you."  Andrea continued with the frenzied cooking.

 

"So...you're the cook, huh?"  Turning, the little cook regarded Georgia.  Looking steadily at her, she said,

 

"No, I'm the astrophysicist working this sector of the universe."  Georgia blinked, but then Andrea smiled, robbing her words of any offense.  She snatched slices of toast from an array of toasters and slathered melted butter across them.

 

"How can you work so hard when you're stoned?" Georgia asked suddenly.  

Andrea lifted the bacon press, flipped the slices of bacon, wiped her spatula

on a wet towel; then she flipped the eggs, rolled up an omelet, plated biscuits and drizzled them with white gravy.  Finally she transferred all the cooked meat to a bed of folded paper towels, plated the meat and turned again to face her visitor.

 

"The real question," she said, "should be: 'how could I not be stoned and still

work in this shit hole?' "  She crossed her skinny arms and smacked the bell with

the blade of her spatula.   "Order up!" she snapped out. Marj appeared at the window, retrieved the food, said,

 

"It's slow right now; take a few minutes if you want, Hon'," she gestured with her head to Georgia, "with your new friend."  Food in hand, Marj withdrew.  Georgia furrowed her brow. 

 

"What'd she mean?" Andrea laughed raucously. 

 

"Marj thinks I'm a crazy lesbian and eager to take down any fresh meat that comes within trolling distance."

 

"Are you, a lesbian, I mean?"

 

"Why, you interested?"  Georgia shook her self, said,

 

"No.  No, of course not!"

 

"Why of course not?" Andrea came back.  "You ever been with a woman?"

 

"No."

 

"Ever been with a man?"

 

"Yes.  Of course."

 

"How many?" asked Andrea.

 

"Five!" said Georgia defiantly.  This gave Andrea pause.

 

"Five.  Well, you been around some.  Five men, huh?" Georgia blushed. 

 

"Well, no.  Two, actually.  I did it once with my prom date and then four times with another bo...man."

 

"How old are you, Kitten?"

 

"My next birthday, I'll be nineteen," said the girl, smiling a little.  "Why, how

old are you?"

 

"Aww, that would be telling," Andrea replied.  Georgia sulked a bit.  Andrea laid the blade of the spatula on the grill, said, "C'mon, let's get high."

 

"You're already high," the other girl pointed out.  Andrea waved that off and led the way to a storeroom, piled high with stacks of flour, sugar, potatoes, onions and all  the rest. 

 

Georgia examined her new friend:  she was small, even pixieish, and swarthy of complexion, like she might have some Hispanic blood, she thought.  Her work clothes weren't much:  overalls and a white thermal shirt underneath and the tiniest shoes that Georgia had ever seen.  She wore rectangular spectacles upon the bridge of her nose.  Her hair was pretty, cut short.  The two girls found a spot on which to perch, on an enormous bag of oatmeal.  Andrea busied herself rolling a new joint.  She was quite an expert at it, thought Georgia.  Her fingers moved so fast.  Completing her task, she handed the cigarette to her companion.  Georgia examined it as if uncertain what to do with it. 

 

"Light it, Kitten," said the little cook.  "You got fire?"

 

"Uh...no, I don't smoke, usually."

 

"Here, come here."  Andrea scooted close till their legs were touching and flicked her lighter.  Lighting the joint, she flicked the lighter shut with a loud snap.  Georgia took an enormous toke, instantly began coughing spasmotically.  Andrea pounded her on the back.  "Jeez, lightweight!"  Georgia, still coughing, nodded.

 

"I am.  I'm sorry."

 

"You ever been high?" Andrea asked.  Georgia nodded. 

 

"Just once.  That was here, tonight."  Andrea twisted her lips wryly and shook her head.  She took the joint, inhaled with gusto, held the smoke inside, then released it contentedly.

 

"Doesn't your boss care if you smoke grass on-the-clock?" asked Georgia.  Andrea shook her head. 

 

"Marj?  Nothin' she can do about it."  replied the little cook.

 

"How come?"

 

"My step-dad owns this joint and, since he's balling the manager, neither of them have anything to say about it.  So long as I keep my mouth shut, things are copasetic."

 

"What about your mom?"

 

"What about her?"

 

"Don't you feel guilty, her not knowing?"

 

"Hell, she's screwing at least two other guys herself," she exclaimed with a frown.

 

"You have a weird family." offered Georgia.

 

"Tell me about it."  She waited a beat.  "Say, Georgia, do you date anyone now?"  Georgia shook her head. 

 

“No, I was seeing this guy, Devon, but..."  Andrea interjected, 

 

"You mean, 'Mr. four-times?' "  Georgia nodded..

 

"Yes.  He told me he wanted to  'see other people' and that I was ‘smothering him.' "

 

"What a turd!  Gets you in the sack and then he dumps you."  She huffed.

 

"Do you...think you might be interested in....a girl?"  Georgia’s head snapped up.

 

"You mean you?  Is that a proposition?" she asked, dumfounded.  Andrea said nothing.  They passed the joint back and forth several times.

 

"Why, Andrea, are you lonely?" asked Georgia with genuine concern.

 

"Well, yeah, sometimes."  She paused a moment.  "I just don’t meet many guys that you know, you can trust, you know what I mean?"  Andrea seemed subdued now.

 

"Have you had bad experiences with boys?"  Andrea nodded.  "What happened?" asked Georgia.

 

"Give me another hit off that reefer," said Andrea, then,  "It was a member of my own freakin’ family, Georgia."  The other girl’s eyes opened wide. 

 

"Who?   You mean your brother, or your uncle, or..."

 

"My father," she cut her off.  "My own freakin’ father."

 

"What happened?"

 

"When he lived with us he used to drink, at night.   My mom would get pissed and go off and leave him.  And he would...come into my bedroom and...”"

 

"No!  Your own father!  I’m so sorry, Andrea."  Georgia put her arm around the other girl’s neck, pulled her close.  Andrea began to quietly weep.  "What happened?" Georgia wanted to know.

 

"He hurt me.  He really hurt me, then said if I told, he would kill my little sister.  I was afraid."

 

"How long did this go on?"

 

"Almost a year."  Tears leaked out of Andrea's eyes and disappeared into the fabric of her blue overalls.

 

"How did it end?" asked Georgia.

 

"I told my mom and she didn’t believe me at first, and then she actually caught him in the act"   She threw up her hands, blew out a breath.  "Nuclear explosion."

 

"And they got a divorce?"  Andrea nodded. "Then your mom met your step-dad?"  Georgia prompted.

 

"Uh-huh.  He was my mother’s divorce attorney and they ‘fell in love,' whatever that's supposed to mean."

 

"How long ago did all this happen?  How old were you?" Andrea took a shuddering breath. 

 

"tt happened nearly five years ago; I was fourteen," she said.

 

"You’ve had a lot to deal with," observed Georgia and hugged her again.  She glanced back toward the kitchen.  "Don’t you have to get back to work?"

 

"No," said the little cook.  “"I just prep and the a.m. cook comes on; he was a little late this morning.  And then this afternoon I'll help clean up and prep for the evening cook; leaves most of my day free."

 

"So what do you do all day, when you're not setting up for the cooks?"

 

"Hang around and get high."

 

"Do you see any boys?" Georgia asked.  Andrea shook her head. 

 

"No, I guess I have a problem trusting after what happened with my dad."  She stared at her hands in her lap.   “Sometimes it gets hard, Georgia, not having anyone to...touch you.”

 

"Do you really...like girls," asked Georgia.  Andrea frowned, shook her head no.

 

"I don't like them, that way," she explained.  "It's just that girls are a whole lot less scary than boys, you know?  I mean, I've got a cousin who's gay and hey, he's my cousin, I love him.  I'm not against gays or lesbians.  But, it's just not who I am."  Georgia nodded her understanding. 

 

"That's how I feel, too.  Not all males are human garbage, Andrea."  The little cook sniffed.

 

"They’re not?" she asked uncertainly.

 

"No.  The men...boys, I’ve known haven’t been all that bad.  Not monsters, not like your dad.  The really bad ones are somewhat rare, I think.  You’ll find someone."

 

"I will?”"

"Certainly.  You’re cute!”"  The other girl grinned shyly. 

 

"Have you made any girlfriends?" Georgia asked.

 

"Just one.  That was here, tonight..."  Both girls smiled.

 

"I won't be your lover, Andrea, but I'll be your girlfriend; your BFF!  Deal?"

 

"Deal."  They sat in companionable silence for a few moments.

 

"Does your step-father hate you because you’re blackmailing him over Marj and everything?" Andres smiled bashfully. 

 

"No, I made up all that stuff about Mom and Dad cheating on each other."

 

"Why?" asked Georgia, baffled. Andrea shrugged. 

 

"I don’t know; to make myself seem more interesting?"  She smiled some more.  She asked, "are you going to keep your arm around me for the rest of the morning?"

Georgia arched her brows. 

 

"For just as long as you want.”"  Andrea leaned in and kissed Georgia almost impossibly softly on the lips.

 

"Thank you, Kitten."

History Guide

Sometimes history becomes a burden,

a block, a block in the road we can bump

over or go around. It never gets out of

the way on its own, especially here in

Europe where tour guides feel compelled

to place the churches and buildings we pass,

place them in the context of time. Sometimes

they can stretch it, shape it to fit the moment

and group riding along on their every word.

There were fires and bombings, assassinations

and dynasties that disappeared. There were

religious wars that are hard to explain, explain

how whole cathedrals changed, switched sides

a few centuries back. But the old stuff seems

tame compared to things tourists might recall:

WWI and WWII and who was neutral and who

fell victim, and there’s the Berlin wall and all

the things connected to it, countries freed and

never wanting to return to the walls of various

sorts. It’s their history, so their take on it varies

place to place, personality to personality, with

the guilty being charged or found not guilty.

Most tourists belong to the half listen and nod

off club. Most of what the guide struggles with is

lost on them – lost in this strange place and time.

                   Climate Change

This is not the climate we were born into,

It’s the climate we brought on ourselves.

They even warned us, but we continued

Until we arrived here, surprised for some

Reason. As if all this wasn’t predicted. Just

Watch tremendous downpours and floods.

Then feel the heat rising and harvest these

Empty fields. Swim out in water as warm as

Bathtub water, even hotter. Watch weather

Programs trying to explain what’s happening

As if we can take it in stride – microbursts to

Macro, cyclones to hurricanes, fronts and

Storms of every sort. We get more of them

To name, as if they were our children acting

Out, beyond our control. We love “climate

Change” and “global warming.” We’ve come

To love getting our words to fit what’s going

On around us – like Adam and Eve naming all

The animals they came across. Our version of

This naming may be about the end and not

Some beginning that will play out as we watch.

                                                    In Line

We’re in line

This time

To check

Our legitimacy –

Passport Immigration Inspection.

In line

This time

We know how it goes

Step up

Get a nod

Or sent off to the side.

It’s like a moment

From a movie

About Hitler and Nazis.

Imagine the fright

The worry

As if we were

Jews and gypsies

Hoping to pass

To get the nod

And not the other.

Yes, we’re in line

This time

But history has saved us

At least for now.