Final installment of Chimezie Ihekuna’s drama The Success Story

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Chimezie Ihekuna

 

Please feel welcome to read the six previous installments of The Success Story here, here, here.  here.

And most recently, here. and here. 

At Greg’s Residence…

[Six months after publication]

Copies of the book, ‘The Success Story’ are showcased in the living room. There are the first ordered one thousand copies, courtesy of the advanced payment money. Sales of copies of the book are ongoing. Dwellers from the same Gat Street are trooping into the house to purchase copies of the book.

At home, Andrew, Jane and the author himself, Greg, are on hand to monitor sales as neighbours come into their residence to order copies of the book. Mr and Mrs Smith are not left out. They are assisting in the sales of the work by ensuring the gate and the entrance to the Living Room is opened between the hours of 8:30AM to 8: 30PM from Mondays through Fridays. Copies of the books are rested on two wooden tables located just steps away from the gate, where Andrew is supervising and the one positioned at the door side of the Living Room, supervised by Jane. They are arranged in such a way that movements of book buyers, in and out of the apartment, will not be hindered. Each table has five hundred copies. The hundred free copies rests on the Center Table and it is only given out to family members, close friends, associates and well-wishers.

Andrew and Jane are to earn a commission of ten percent off the total sales for the week and have for free three copies of the book each, for a start. Greg reserves for himself ten copies, gives his mom and dad a total of eight copies, four each. Greg is left with eighty six copies of the book lying on the Center Table.  Greg is moving around to ensure no interruption in flow of movement of people by his book and Jane and Andrew are doing what they are told. Mr and Mrs Smith, each having a copy of the book, are reading it.

Though there is the influx of interested book buyers coming in, three people, Mrs Smith is typically gazing at, entering the Living Room through the gate,appear familiar. One, a male, is the youngest and tallest. The other two appears to be his parents. The young man is at the middle. Mrs Smith drops the book she is reading on the Center Table to approach them closely. Mr Smith is concentrated in the reading of the book and does not have any faintest idea of what is going on. Greg holds a copy of The Success Story book in admiration and keeps it alongside the resting-on-the-Center-Table copies. His gaze is not in the same direction as his mom’s.

Mrs Smith realizes they are the duo of Mr and Mrs Daniels. The older female leave the older and the youngest males to charge towards Mrs Smith. They hug each other passionately.

Mrs Smith (looks at her properly): Mrs Daniels, is this you?

Mrs Daniels (identifies): Yes, I am. Full flesh and blood

She showcases her feminine physique to Mrs Smith.

Mrs Smith (comments): You never change from your old girlish ways

Mrs Daniels: I’m the girl about town, anytime!

Mrs Smith wants to confirm they are—whom she came with. The older one is taking his time to stylishly walk towards them. The youngest sights Greg and smiles, as he walks about the same pace with the older

Mrs Smith: Is that old man not your husband? Mr Daniels?

Mrs Daniels: Yes

Mrs Smith: Long Time, no see long time no hear

Mrs Daniels (laughs): It’s been donkey years. It’s been ages!

Mrs Smith yells the name of her husband, tells them—-the identified older one, Mr Daniels and the youngest to hasten up. She creates attention as every Tom, Dick and Harry in the building, including Greg, Jane and Andrew stand still to find out what’s going on. Greg has not seen his long-time-no-see friend, the young man, Harp. Harp has seen him but takes his time to suspiciously tip-toe his way from the door’s entrance to where Greg is.

Mr Smith (screams in excitement): Mr Smith, come and see our august visitor!!! Mr Daniels, why not hasten up and join us?

Mr Daniels hasten up and meets them at the Living Room few steps away from where the second wooden table is positioned. Mr Smith does same. Harp makes it to where Greg is sited—the long sofa, now reading his book. Harp watches his ‘’long time, no see’’ read his written book. He takes a copy and begins the reading, in hopes that Greg call his attention in surprise.

Mr Smith shakes hands with Mr Daniels. They hug each other. The women, Mrs Smith and Mrs Daniels accompany each other to the dining table to talk their talk—The Women Talk

Mr Smith (notices changes in Mr Daniels): How time flies! You used to be very chubby, young and sweet. But now, you’re ageing gracefully

Mr Daniels (admits): You man, how it is…Stress. Why won’t I age when I have chains of business to run and all that… And you know, women

Mr Smith: You need not to tell me

Mr Daniels: It’s really been a while, Smith. How is life?

Mr Smith: Trying to make ends meet

Mr Daniels (looks at his casual dress): Hmmm… I see

Mr Smith: I thought I wouldn’t hear from you again.

Mr Daniels: It’s not what it is, Smith. It’s just that the time for, you know, all that…

Mr Smith: All that what? I’m listening…

Mr Daniels: Never mind

Mr Smith: I guess something brought you here…

Mr Daniels: Yes, in a way

Mr Smith: No wonder they say ‘Success has many fathers, and draws family from afar but failure is an orphan’’. Now I see

Mr Daniels: You said it!

Mr Smith: Let’s make ourselves comfortable! We can talk more on this and other stuff.

Mr Daniels: Ok

They both head to take seats on the sofas, facing Greg and Harp who are sitting on the longest sofa. Sales are ongoing. Mr Smith and Mr Daniels are discussing issues but quietly to avoid by heard by Greg and Harp.Greg is about to stand up to stretch is body a bit when he sees a surprise, just staring at him but holding a copy of his book In his hand…Harp

Greg (shouts in utter disbelief): Who am I seeing? Is this Harp?

Harp (dressed in all black suit): Yes…This is Harp!

They shake and hug each other

Greg: Why didn’t you pay me a visit for once in the past three years?

Harp: I’m sorry. School issues and other things—like dad’s businesses

Greg: And you didn’t take a time-out to see me for three good years…You’re funny!

Harp: I told you I’m sorry

Greg (accepts his apology): You’re still my very good friend, no matter what!

Harp: You name is everywhere in school, libraries, media houses…Been to places and I’ve heard your name mentioned.

Greg: Thanks to the publicity and media coverage by my publisher, Creative Publishing Press

Harp: That’s good to know!

Greg: It’s been a three-year journey. Wished you were coming to visit me all these while…

Harp (feeling guilty): I know, Greg. I ought. However, I will make it all up to you.

Greg: Okay. By now, you should be done with school…I, for now, haven’t kept in touch with Dr Tim Yale

Harp (corrects): Prof Tim Yale

Greg: I see. Like I mentioned, I haven’t kept in touch with him except for the recent book signing at the school’s Main Library. It was an impromptu call from my publisher to do it there. Though Dr, oh sorry, Prof Tim was there, I didn’t even get to contact you. Look at me! Students from other departments bought copies of my book and I had some autographed.

Harp: You see… you were at fault. In fact, the last time you communicated with me was over the phone. But you didn’t give me details on what went down behind the letter of release…

Greg (admits): Yes, that’s another flaw. I agree with you. I felt it was a long story…What was important to me was the fact that I’ve been granted a release letter.

Harp: Hmmm…

Greg (Ponders): That reminds me…I’ve been thinking on the inside of me and I’m voicing it out: ‘’how did Harp locate this place? Without his locating this place, his parents wouldn’t know’’

Harp (Laughs): You’re funny man. Do remember when you scribbled your address at the ME Lecture Room?

Greg (closes his eyes as he remembers): Ahhh….Yes!

Harp: You get it now, Right?

Greg: I see

Harp: I need not to be explained to because your success is self-explanatory. My parents are here because I had to force them to come. They are one set of business people I’ve ever seen! Workaholics!

Greg: With the chains of businesses you dad has, uneasy lies the head that wears the crown. That’s all I have to say.

Harp: In the next fifteen minutes or so, we’ll be out of here. Dad wants us to move to Burke County for a business deal. He’s using me as s front because I finally finished as the overall best graduating student. And based on my qualification as a trained mechanical engineer, he wants to secure the deal.

Greg: I understand. But I wished you stayed a bit longer. Business has to be attended to.

Harp: Thanks for your understanding!

Greg: Alright. Let’s read. I know you weren’t concentrating on the book you held in your hand. You wanted catch me unawares. You did. But let’s read…

Harp: You said it! I agree, let me read…More seriously

Greg chuckles as Harp takes the copy from the table to read. Mr Smith and Mr Daniel are seen exchanging contacts and business cards as they discuss. Their audibility is below the hearing reach of Greg and Harp, Mrs Smith and Mrs Daniels.This is ongoing for the next sixteen minutes. Books are being sold in twos, threes, fours, to neighbours and other buyers by Jane and Andrew. Mr Danielsstands up, shakes Mr Smith, alerts his observant wife and son, ‘’it’s time to leave for the deal’’. He checks his gold-coated Rolex wrist-watch. Harp takes his standing position and is being joined by Mrs Daniels. They meet at the Center Table area. Mrs Smith is still sited, as is her husband. But Greg is upstanding, side by side Harp.

Mr Daniels makes an informal closing speech to the hearing of the trooping-in book buyers. Majority of them are listening to what he is saying, though purchasing, but Andrew and Jane are in the business of sales of the book’s copies.

Mr Daniels (audible): It’s a great time being here. I’m happy that we’re all together again after a long time of absence.Success, they say, draws many family members from far and wide but failure keeps them at armslenght. It is with great joy to see Greg attaining this height of success. He’s a specially gifted young man. But the show of maturity this young man exhibited, in terms of giving up what he was excellent at to face his dream in a time as ours is something worth applauding. Now, I know success isn’t cheap…It comes with a price! Greg, congratulations on this great feat of yours. More powers, more grease to your elbows of aspirations in the future! I wish I had the time in the world to stay all day with you—this is a great family. Unfortunately, time is not our friend. My very good friend, since our schooling days at the University of Berth, is aware of this—or at least—-I told him how very pressing my schedules have been. I want to believe my wife has told his the same thing. Harp, I believe, would have told Greg the same. We have discussed at length—Mr Smith and me. The old memories are rekindled once again!

Of course, by we have discussed, I know better his current family as does he mine. Andrew, Jane and the big man himself, Greg…You’re making dad and mom proud!

As we take our leave, we want to support this celebrated young man, Greg, with a cheque of 80, 000 Talars

Mr Daniels hands over the cheque from his wife to Greg. Everyone under the sound of his voice clap hands. The ‘wow’ reaction is expressed obviously on the faces of Andrew and Jane as they take a look at the presentation of the cheque to their brother.

Mr Daniels (concludes):Twenty friends can be together in the same place for twenty years. But their coming together after over twenty years is indeed The Success Story.

Thanks for listening.

The trio of Mr and Mrs Daniels and Harp are leaving the Living Room. Applauses from people present at the time of his informal closing-speech presentation trail them. Greg accompanies them. He presents 18 copies of the book to them for free—-seven copies each to Mr and Mrs Daniels and four to Harp. Mr and Mrs Smith wave their hands to Jane and Andrew. They responded the same way.

Mr and Mrs Smith finally wave the ‘bye, bye’ sign at Mr and Mrs Daniels, together with Harp, at the gate. They wave back in a heartfelt way, and left…

THE END.

*Barrister Frank is not able to make it because he informed Mr Smith of an impending case he has to handle prior to the day of Greg’s ‘’at-home’’ book event.

 

EPILOGUE

The Publishing Company is making huge profits off the sales of Greg’s book, just a month after publication. People are massively ordering copies of the book. Young, middle aged and elderly people, organizations, mega bookstores, all ministries within Perth and outside the city are all ordering en masse copies of the 105-page book. Greg’s royalty promises to be very colossal. The company is currently scheduling various speaking arrangements, book signings, and TV and radio interviews for Greg outside Perth. The book has sold in the last four months over 300,000 copies. And still counting!

The University of Perth is currently strategizing on working out for the first time in its history the College of Creative Writing for students who intends to make writing as their career. Greg has just en conferred an honorary Doctorate Degree by the university with the intention of making him the first Creative Writing lecturer

Creative Publishing Press is working on publishing the other nine works by Greg, considering the success of The Success Story. Never Too Late and Dare to Come Back are the first two works of his undergoing production.

Barrister Frank is currently dating Pamela Jong, secretary, Creative Publishing Press, in secret.

Greg is currently in a serious relationship with Sandra Brooks, the younger sister to the publisher

The running of Mr Daniels chains of businesses falls is Harp’s responsibility.

The Smiths are regular visitors to the Daniels (vice versa)

Greg makes Jane his personal assistant. She’s through with her studies.

Andrew is working with Pearl Management Services, a company situated in the heart of Perth. The Daniels are looking at incorporating him in their business network.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Poetry from Chris Nold

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REVERSE COMMUTER
(ballad of a traveling salesman)

Hello..

 

E.Saunders<maxb57@alice.it>  
Reply-To: e.saunders07@outlook.com

Good Day,

Life is a succession of lessons which must be lived to be understood, our greatest weakness lies in giving up, but the most certain way to succeed is always to try just one more time.
Don’t stop trying, the future might be brighter.

Have a great day and a blessed week
E. Saunders
 


“after a few laps
we find ourselves wondering
why we race at all”
– anonymous, for Chris


#1 (Mother’s Day)
god, what was the name of that girl
I brought back to the office last night
I guess these sunglasses are mine to keep then
useless today but essential nonetheless
a traveling salesman artificially awake
a town I’ve never seen the rain an added effect
futile attempt supermarket bouquet in disarray
umbrella gone awry shivering & seated
in a church where they served me
good black decaf from the rectory
and the music they played upstairs
was loud and fast
a kind stranger said he’d wake me before
the train arrived and I believed him
a luxury though sleep
sandwiched between two
one singing Spanish hymns
the other spitting cherry pits into her palm
almost rhythmically
the elements delay commuters
distressing headlines serve as my protector
politically ambient yet I feel
lost in the weeds so to speak
instead sketching out the failed itineraries
of the vaguest days & editing irrational loves
for my submission to be the writer-in-residence
of the fast food district where
here at Wendy’s the chili
is still warm and benevolent
and when did they get hip to the stylings of Nick Lowe and New Order
while everyone I know is busy resisting themselves
to dust on feeds for all to see
ambivalent apparatus I still hate to even have
my picture taken I get that from my mother
among other things
her life lived offline
she may never see this
but she should know that
I do miss her cooking
when the rains fall hardest

#2 (Despicable me)
“You are now listening to Whole Foods Radio.”

“I can’t dance. I can’t talk.”
Would you like to try?
To live & die by the organic olive bar,
distributing all-natural sugar-free release.
We sample & sample, but are reluctant to buy.
Mindless motions & scripted answers,
Yes, you can really taste the apples.
free to craft sinister thoughts targeting nameless cashiers, soundtracked by the hits of late nite infomercials.
-Huh? Who said that?-

Rattled & rattling, the train towards home,
fixated on a small child speaking more
of I guess Chinese(?)
at the age of 4 than I will ever know.
Little fucker.
-What is going on here?-

Resentful, I want to punch the Hasidic man
seated across from me.
WAIT! Hear me out.
Let’s not jump to conclusions here.
You really should’ve seen this guy’s wife.
-Stop it, whoever you are!-

Stumbling through to my transfer, the angle of
my trajectory shows what looks to be
a set of conjoined twins singing R&B.
Some strange excitement envelops me.
Imagine the disappointment
washing over me to see
that they merely bought  the same
ill colored sweater for this stupid act. Bitches.
-Please. I’m asking nicely.-

Home at last,
a bedsheet hung shoddily on the wall.
Workshopping pseudonyms,
scribbled Sharpie crossed-out, circled, starred.
The karaoke host calls for me by tonight’s name.
Sleepwalk through Margaritaville
(or something like that),
better to focus on the task at hand:
What is the most effective way
to throw myself through
that window and walk away
a transformed man,
the exorcism complete.

#3 ($1 Long Island Iced Teas, all month long at Applebees!)
“While performing the duties of this job, the associate is regularly required to use hands to finger, handle, or feel; reach with hands and arms; stoop, kneel, crouch, or crawl; and talk or hear.”

the rain waited up for me,
& knew my train schedule home.
Shelter found in hell’s half acre.
Cash in your passion for the irony
of suburban discount cocktails
& reading closed captioning.

Failing at policing myself,
leave a 20 unknowingly
if only to catch my train,
demonstration gear in hand.

Only after my ticket punched
did I notice, my lazy nervous
sideways glances,
each gaze surrounding me set to screens.
I knew then, it to be, I wasn’t alone
on that sinking ship.
Naked, save our devices.

(supplemental readings upon request)
Binging on the grisly details
of small town murders and Top Chef.
Freshly posted baby pics in blur,
career opportunities.
Proximity-based dating apps
on speeding trains,
all the more reason
to revisit towns passed by.

Jessica, 32
3.5 miles away
“I wish to be the cornerstone for a cowboy and guard love from harm with him.
Must love curves.”

 

Distance is seen through rate and time

but never forget to account for

the variable: who’s doing the measuring.

Judging profiles, it struck me, looking around,

that I simply cannot comprehend

the magnitude of complexities

in the human form.

More of you there where here I have less.

How do you do that with your tongue,

that “r” thing?

And so on,

reductio ad absurdum.
Set down your romance novel and ask yourself:

have you ever entertained the idea of

the Pope donning Levi’s,

or, say, Bob Dylan taking a shower?
Give it a shot, if only to distract yourself.

Sunset cuts through the manhattan mountains

Swipe right or left?
I looked again at a binary question

I hadn’t considered in so long.

Don’t you know, babe,
I’ve got a special notification set up
for you.

#4 (5′ 1″)
it’s not her fault really
throwing out the toothbrush left behind
she speaks I think it’s russian
comes by once a month
how could she have known
unsteady weightless
i need to get some air
sidewalk closed use pedestrian walkway
feeling stuck like birds in grand central
overslept if at all
waking up in shoes I didn’t leave wearing
front door ajar keys tbd
suburban bound new haven line
dim the screen swiping through
forensics they’ve estimated
the height of christ and I’m sure we all
look at ourselves how does one
process something like that
it appears i tried to pay someone last night
via venmo for tHe waay we uss ed to be
transaction denied
trash
weekly scan google my name + obituary
no relevant results
try it for yourself
curious there were four for hers
that’s a new way of looking at this
none of them were her of course
there’s still a possibility anything could happen
a delusion carried with me like the toothbrush
in my luggage fished from the trash
google search dental practices old judea
next stop mamaroneck.
Fuck.

I Really Hate you Christopher..

 

Jessica <pqa5r@aws.amazonaws.com>  
To me.

Hey…I really hate you Christopher and u know why is that
just Don’t tell me u are the wrong person i know that u are Christopher Nold…
Sent from my iPhone.
 
 

 

Essay from Norman Olson

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From Halifax to Kelmscott and Beyond

by:  Norman J. Olson

 

on May 30, 2016, Mary and I walked to the bus stop on a chilly morning…  we caught the 74 bus to the 46th Street light rail station in Minneapolis and from there it is five minutes on the train to the Airport…  we got on our 9 a.m. flight to LGA with no problem…  Mary ran into a friend on the plane and so we rode the bus together into Manhattan…  it was a hot day and since we got off a few blocks away from our actual stop, we had our first opportunity to haul our carryon suitcases around by hand…

we took the downtown subway to Columbus Circle and walked to our Holiday Inn on 57th Street…  after a rest and a cool down in the hotel, we contacted a friend of mine who lives in Manhattan and he came to the hotel where we met in the lobby…  it was really good to have a chance to talk and so we walked looking for a dinner spot, no shortage of those in Manhattan…  and settled on a little hole in the wall Cuban joint that seemed quiet and like a perfect place to talk…  so we had no sooner made our orders and got down to serious conversation when the Cuban band showed up…  they set up in about five minutes, turned their amps all the way to 10 and since conversation had become impossible, we ate up and left…

when I told him the story, my brother said that musicians seldom see their music as “background to conversation”  and I think he may be on to something there…  lol…  anyway, we finished the evening with a great conversation sitting by an outdoor fountain…  lovely ambiance, good conversation, a warm/cooling breeze and the towers of Manhattan all around…

the next morning, we walked to McDonalds for coffee and soda and then had a great hotdog for breakfast at the Columbus Circle entrance to Central Park…  then with a few stops to sketch passers by, we walked across the park to the Metropolitan Museum of Art…  I went to see my favorite old European paintings and then we spent some time looking at the Egyptian art…  I love those amazingly intricate patterns of wings etc. painted in lovely watercolor touches all those years ago in the desert of Egypt…  of the European paintings, my favorite is Oedipus and the Sphinx by Gustave Moreau…  it is kind of odd and probably not a “great” painting but, it is to me an interesting one and one of the few pieces which that very strange painter actually finished…  I love the red handled spear…  well, I  cannot explain this art stuff very well, I am afraid…

as the afternoon was wearing on, we took a bus downtown from in front of the museum and made it back to our hotel, collected our bags and headed for the pier…  I chose this hotel because it was sort of cheap (for NYC) and only about six blocks from the pier…  at the pier, we boarded the Princess Cruise Lines Pacific Princess…  a smallish cruise ship that holds some 650 passengers…  and of course, headed for the buffet…  at 8 p.m., the ship left the dock and we sailed down along the edge of Manhattan…  it was truly a spectacular sight with the sun setting behind Ellis Island and the Statue of Liberty…  and a cool breeze freshening as we sailed out under the Verrazano Narrows Bridge…

after a cool but pleasant day at sea, we arrived in Halifax…  we walked through the port area of Halifax which is nicely fixed up with restaurants, a local marketplace and even a busker playing fiddle tunes for the tourists…  from the dock area, we walked up the hill maybe half a mile to the lovely public garden…  we walked around the garden and sat enjoying the wonderful fresh air and the warmth of the sun when it came through the clouds and the glorious flower beds…  I know almost nothing about flowers, but agree that they are very pretty to look at and so we feasted out eyes…

then after a stop for sodas and coffee, we made our leisurely way back down the hill to the ship…  it was a lovely day of walking in Halifax with great views out over the harbor… then we were five days at sea heading for Reykjavik, Iceland…  it was chilly outside with high temps in the lower 50s, but we were prepared and so I enjoyed a brisk walk of two miles every morning on the walking track at the top of the ship…  it was really nice seeing the gray ocean spread out to the horizon and buffeted by the wind which was pretty strong considering the ship’s motion added to the actual wind which was blowing a little bit…  the sea was calm and on the way out of Halifax, we saw many humpback whales and dolphins…  once we passed the grand banks, we saw little sea life…  we spent the days mostly bundled up on deck five reading and drawing…  it was great to be out in the ridiculously fresh air, hearing the waves crash on the side of the ship…  we found sheltered spots on deck out of the wind and it was glorious…  then after a day in the fresh air working on a drawing to go in to a lovely dinner with some very cool and interesting people who invited us to join their table…  after dinner we would go to the show in the theater, turn our clocks ahead one hour and sleep like babies “cradled in the arms of the sea…”

in Reykjavik, we paid $30 each for one of the hop on hop off buses…  so we rode the bus all around and saw the sights of the city…  it was a lot of fun because the tour guide was a sweet young man who said it was his first day on the job and kept yawning because he had been too nervous to sleep the night before…  he kept getting lost in his script…  but he was such a jolly and pleasant kid that it was super fun…  the bus was not heavily used, so on some of the legs, we were on alone with the guide and the driver…  and we had a rollicking good time joking and laughing…  as we went by the shopping center the driver stopped at a cross walk to let and elderly lady cross…  when she got right in front of the bus she turned and gave us the finger…  we all thought that was so funny that we almost split from laughing…  especially because all of the Icelanders that we actually met were lovely and friendly, if a bit stand offish at first…

the second port was Isafjordur, Iceland…  this is a small town of a few thousand people situated on a fjord with mountains streaked with snow all around…  on shore, we found a small tour operated by a local farmer that took us around to some scenic spots, including a gorgeous waterfall coming down from the mountainside…  we had scenic overlooks of the fjord and drove to the next fjord where I made a snowball out of mountain snow…  he then took us to a small town for a look around and then to his farm where he showed us the nests of the eider ducks in his fields…  when these ducks make a nest, they lay their eggs in eider down and when the chicks are old enough the nests are abandoned…  the farmers collect and sell the eider down from the abandoned nests which is very valuable…  we saw a nest with four little chicks cuddled very cozily into their eider down…

it was a cool, fresh, sunny day…  the landscape was covered with wild flowers and flowering weeds and very pretty with lots of big spectacularly yellow dandelions…  and of course the deep blue water of the fjords with the towering snow streaked cliffs rising from the sea…

the next stop was Akureyri, Iceland, a city of 18,000, so considerably larger than Isafjordur…

here we decided to walk so did a walking tour around the town which included a climb up the mountain to see the gorgeous botanical gardens and the views overlooking the fjord…  after a lovely hike around the town and through a wooded, park area down the hillside, we still had some time before we had to go back to the ship so we stopped and used the last of our kroner to buy a very strange but delicious hot dog from an outdoor stand…  there was a bus stopped near where we were sitting so we asked the driver how long it took her to make a complete circle back and forth around the town…  she said 25 minutes, and since we had that much time we got on the bus (which was free) and had a ride through the residential areas all around the town and got to see people going about their business in Iceland which was kind of cool…  the town was clean and neat and everybody we saw seemed affluent…  children seemed nicely dressed and cared for and although there were apartment blocks there were lots of private houses looking not much different from those in Minnesota…

after Iceland, we had a day at sea (more drawing on deck)…  then we arrived at Orkney Island which is part of Scotland…  on shore there we found a nice inexpensive bus tour that took us to see the local sights…  before we left on the tour, we walked around the town…  they were having some kind of commemoration at the local church for animals killed in wars and five or six horse owners had their horses on the church lawn for the people to pet and admire…  the horses were big browns and blacks with glossy coats and their manes were braided (except for one very pretty little Shetland pony who had one long braid in her bushy mane)…  they were lovely animals, with sleek powerful looking muscles and heavy hooves, and it was fun to talk to the horse owners about their horses…

on the tour we went to the small town of Stromness were we walked and looked at the old buildings looking out on the little harbor and then had lunch at a picnic table in the sun…  there was a chilly breeze off the harbor and we could see a large boat that looked like a ferry of some kind and smaller boats in the harbor in front of us…  then we went to a prehistoric archaeological dig… called Skara Brae…  which is an excavation of a stone village that was originally built around 3100 BC…  from the size of the houses, I would guess that the people were fairly small and it was interesting to try and picture those little people working hard to pile these stones in careful rows to make walls to keep them warm and safe in that cold northern place…  how hard their lives must have been… but I am sure that, like us, they had their joys to mitigate their hardships and sorrows…  and probably lived rich lives fishing and tending their farms…

after a quick look through the manor house of Skail which is nearby, we went on to see the ring of Brodgar, a Stonehenge like circle of huge stones stuck upright in the ground…  making a huge circle on an isthmus between two lakes… it is amazing to see these huge stones, to feel the smooth gray stone warm in the sun and wonder why those Neolithic people went to all this work to build these monuments… there are many theories but nobody knows for sure… we then went on to see the smaller Ring of Stennes which may be the oldest of the stone circles in Britain and may date back to the same time as the founding of Skara Brae…

the driver let those of us on the tour who were on the ship off at the end of the pier so we had a nice half mile walk back to the ship past the industrial and undeveloped areas of the port…

the next day we were in Dundee, Scotland…  we walked to the tourist office in the center of town and they gave us a map with a nice walking tour of the town which we did…  the highlight for me was a visit to their small and somewhat provincial art museum which had a magnificent Dante G. Rossetti painting of Dante’s Dream…  I have been studying Rossetti and the Pre-Raphaelites for years and it is always a treat for me to see these paintings which are often found in out of the way museums in the UK and elsewhere…  often museums which cannot afford a Matisse or a Jackson Pollock, so exhibit their Rossetti…  after an hour or so of just feasting my eyes on this painting, we left and walked to the Jute factory…  it was kind of sad really to see this monument to a business, the business of jute weaving, which used to be a big industry in Dundee but today is all done in India…   like in Minneapolis, we have a similar museum dedicated to the history of the flour milling industry in Minnesota…  I don’t know where flour is milled these days, but it is not in Minneapolis…  it is like they are saying with these museums, “our city used to have great important work to do and this is how we did it” implying that whatever we are doing now is pretty much thumb twiddling…

at a museum dedicated to the explorers Shackleton and Scott, we saw the old ship Discovery, a polar exploration vessel from the early 1900s, a full rigged ship with steam power supplement…  from childhood I have been fascinated by sailing ships and it was fun to imagine what a thrill it would have been for me at age ten or so to have actually stood on the deck of one of these ships and looked up at the rigging…  imagine climbing out on one of those spars with nothing for support but a foot rope and the ship rolling wildly in stormy seas…  yikes…  I was glad to get back to the calm decks and dining rooms of the Pacific Princess…  still there is something about those huge old wind driven machines that stirs me…

by the time we left Dundee, sailing south to Dover, it had warmed up a bit so we enjoyed our last sea day sitting on deck not quit bundled in every garment we owned…  then we were in Dover and the cruise was over…  we took a cab from the ship to the bus station and the bus to London Victoria Coach Station where we got another coach for Swindon at the edge of the Cotswold area of England… the British coaches are very cheap if booked in advance…  we arrived at Swindon bus station in the rain but a friendly person helped us figure out which bus to take to our hotel and so we made it dragging our bags with only a minimum of soakage…  our plan had been to rent a car in Swindon but when I saw the traffic in Swindon, I realized that my days of renting a car and navigating the roundabouts from the wrong side of the road are done…  I did that many years ago with no problem with a car full of kids!!  but I decided that driving, even in the rural areas would be too nerve wracking so we re-planned the visit by finding a bus to our hotel in the village of Lechlade…  the hotel in Lechlade hooked us up with a local guy, an old retired guy with impressive mutton chops, who sometimes drove people around in his car for a cheap rate and so the first day we had him drive us to Buscot Manor about three miles from Lechlade…

Buscot Manor is an old house that has some murals by the Pre-Raphaelite painter Edward Burne-Jones…  this series of four maybe 8×4 foot paintings with smaller panels between them is based on the story of sleeping beauty and was installed in the late 1800s…  Mr. Burne-Jones was staying with his friend William Morris at the time in nearby Kelmscott and walked across the fields to work on the small panels between the main paintings…  I have wanted to make the trip to see these in the original for years and was really impressed…  in site, in the room, altogether, they are just ravishingly beautiful…  if you like that sort of thing…  which I do…  I could write a lot more about the experience of seeing these lovely pictures and my thoughts on them, on the age and ideals they embody and on 19th century art in general, but I have said much of that elsewhere and this is already 5 pages long…  the curator seemed surprised that I spent over an hour looking at the art in that room and then came back later, after our walk around the grounds to look some more…

just a few quick words about the paintings…  I love how Burne-Jones painted the draperies, the shadows, the fall of light and how these paintings are poems in tone and the lovely color is only the icing on the cake…  I think that this kind of artwork, where the medium makes images which do the work of what?  conveying meaning?  I’m not sure, but whatever it is that art does is done by the images which are made by the oil paint…  in a work in the contemporary aesthetic, the work of the painting is done by the medium or more accurately by the object which is made of the medium and even if there are images it is the object that matters…  paint on a surface, as my teachers used to say over and over and over, back in the 1960s…   but then, maybe this is all wrong…  i really do not understand art very well at all anymore…  i used to think i had it figured out…  lol  now i do what i love and i love what i do…  why not???

okay enough with the art talk… gibberish…  we walked around the huge park of the manor, some of which is plantings of huge old trees and untrimmed English style gardens and also looked at the lovely flowers in the formal walled garden…  by the time we made it back to the manor house, it was pouring rain and it was cool to be in that vast opulent old house with the rain pounding down outside and the high windows letting in a washed blue light in which the oil paintings just glowed like jewels…

the next day, we took the bus to Cirencester with a stop in the tiny village of Fairford to see the stained glass windows in the old church which dated from the 1400s…  the old church glowed with light from the lovely if somewhat faded windows…  and a musician was practicing on the keyboard which filled the space with lovely old Bach music…  (the vast pipe organ was being refurbished…) the ride to and from Cirencester  made me double glad that I did not rent a car as the roads were very narrow even outside of the towns and outside the towns cars went fast on roads that often did not have room for cars to meet but rather a place to pull over until the oncoming car had passed…  Cirencester is a much larger city than Lechlade or Fairford and we enjoyed walking around the town, looking at some flower market stalls and watching the people window shop…  we looked around the old yellow stone church and had a lovely dinner in one of the pubs…  while we were in the pub it started to pour rain and it was kind of a fun ride back to Lechlade in the bus with the rain pouring down…  it felt like we were in a submarine roaring through the walls of water down that narrow narrow road with on coming traffic missing us by inches…  and green brushy hedges right at the side of the traffic lanes with an occasional glimpse through the leaves to the rolling green hills, fields and woods beyond…

the next day we spent the day down the road from Lechlade at Kelmscott…  I will not go into the history of Kelmscott, the role it played in the life of Dante Rossetti and how he painted some of his strangest and most beautiful pictures there…  pictures of his good friend’s wife with whom he was having an affair with the consent of the friend in the early 1870s when they spent months living together there…  but, I encourage anyone who is interested to read the history, or more importantly look at the art…  Kelmscott sits about a quarter mile from the Thames river which is about 30 feet across there and regularly floods the fields (which are called water meadows) and every few years, floods the manor house as well…  it is a lovely old stone house, a large farmhouse really more than an actual manor house…  and it was great for me to walk those rooms and get a feel for the place and its history… I have read so much about the place… and it was cool to actually be there, thinking about what those Victorian artists felt and did…  I found myself contemplating the briefness of both art and life (Longfellow was dead wrong on that score)…  amid the flower gardens and the ripe and abundant nature of rural England in summer…  we were tired from walking and so spent the last hour before our ride came back sitting in the Gazebo, sketching and reading…  with the flowers everywhere, the scent of roses and the beautiful old house sitting there before us in sunlight and shade, comfortable in its old stones…  it felt very relaxing and right to be there….

I know that this Victorian and Pre-Raphaelite art is not to everyone’s taste and I am not sure why I dig it so much, but I do…  different strokes for different folks, as we used to say…

the next day, the old guy gave us a ride into Swindon…  it was Sunday so the bus to Lechlade did not run…  we caught a bus back to Victoria Coach Station and from there made a connection to Birmingham…  a long way around, but the coach was like $100 cheaper than the more direct train…  and the long coach rides were like a tour of rural England…  we saw lots of fields and woodlots and lots of sheep…  the landscape reminded me somewhat of Central Wisconsin around Baldwin where I lived as a child…  I think the landscape looks kind of similar, but the climate is a bit cooler there…

to my surprise I found Birmingham to be an nice clean modern city…  we went to the art museum the next day in a light rain and enjoyed looking at a lot more Pre-Raphaelite art…  I was absolutely blown away by a very large (like eight by twelve foot) watercolor by (again) Burne-Jones…

well, this is getting way too long but that afternoon, we took the bus back to London Victoria, walked to Hyde Park Corner and caught a Piccadilly Line train Hounslow right near Heathrow were we stayed for one night…  had a great Pakistani dinner for two pounds fifty, a free breakfast the next morning and caught the tube for Heathrow…   then 8 hours over the North Atlantic to Detroit and two hours back to MSP…  where we arrived home Tuesday evening…

exhausted…

Short story from Sheryl Bize-Boutte

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THE DRESS   

By

Sheryl J. Bize Boutte

 

By the mid 1960’s my parents had four school-aged daughters to support and a fifth change-of –life daughter on the way. Birthday and Christmas gifts often supplemented outgrown or worn out school clothes along with the begged for doll, bike or skates.  Sometimes we got something special; something homemade, handed down or handed over that always brought a unique and precious feel to the celebration.

It was in this tradition on Christmas Day in 1966, while the color wheel changed the aluminum tree from blue to green to red and back again, my mother handed me a gold- ribboned box.  Inside was a simple frock; a multi-colored, multi-flowered shirtwaist dress with a wide belt and full skirt.  A gently worn hand-me-down from one of my mother’s wealthy acquaintances, the bottom of the hem hit just below my knobby knees and fit my unfinished 15-year-old body to a “T.” Even though it was a spring dress, I could not wait to wear it to school.  My fingers were already turning the front doorknob, as my mother’s voice admonished, “Girl, don’t you know it is JANUARY? You are going to catch pneumonia in that thin little dress!” But I was halfway down the street and about to round the corner on my usual path to my freshman year in high school before she could finish her second sentence. My inaugural wearing of this dress would also be the day a 17-year old boy would look out of his window from the 3rd house on the right and see me for the first time.

I knew I probably wore that dress much too often, but I had never had anything like it. It had the power to make my teenage self feel like a big gown up lady and became the favorite in my sparse wardrobe.  It also made that boy wait for me to pass his house each day and then fall into step behind me.  Stealthy and silent, he walked behind me for the five blocks to school for the rest of the school year. A bookworm and a loner, totally inside my own head as I made my way, I never thought to look back.

On a late summer day, after almost a year of following me after I rounded the corner, the forces emanating from that dress with me in it, would give that boy the courage to ring my doorbell and introduce himself.  “Hi, I’m Anthony from around the corner. Does the girl with the flowery dress live here?” he asked my sister who answered the door.  With her usual eye roll she answered, “ You must be looking for Sheryl.  She is always wearing that old-timey dress.”  She called to me to come to the door and from that day forward the boy from around the corner became my boyfriend and soon after that, my fiancé.

On a beautiful spring day in 1971, we married in the living room of my family home with only our parents, my grandmother and a few friends in attendance.  Still waiflike at age nineteen, my wedding dress was an elegant non-flowery peach chiffon and silk, the perfect compliment to my new husband’s ruffled peach shirt and coordinating bowtie. Our reception consisted of post-wedding photos taken in my parent’s park-like backyard, while our few guests dined on crust-less tuna and chicken salad sandwiches cut into little squares accompanied by Mum’s extra dry champagne.

Settling into married life was automatic for us and as though it was always meant to be.  I finished college and my husband was at my graduation along with my parents.  Soon after I began my career with the government while my husband continued his climb in the building industry and finished his degree.  During this time, the dress became so faded the flowers were barely visible, and so threadbare it was no longer wearable. Tearfully, I threw it away.

As the years passed, my husband would often come home on my birthday, our anniversary or Christmas with a ribbon-tied box containing an exquisite dress, suit or even shoes, from a small boutique he claimed as his territory for his gifts to me.  Once he presented me with a beautiful white suit and when I asked what the occasion was, he replied, “Because its Tuesday.” He always chose the correct size and only stopped the practice when his boutique of choice went out of business.  But of all the wonderful articles of clothing he purchased, the dress, or anything like it, was never among them.

Then one rainy December day in 1976, during one of my shopping trips through the annual major department store Christmas wish book I saw it; a multi-flowered shirtwaist dress with a white background, a full skirt and a wide belt. It did not matter to me that Christmas was near and I was ordering a dress from the catalogue’s preview for spring, I had to have it and ordered it right away. When it arrived I was a bit disappointed to find that the fabric had an unworn stiffness to it and therefore not as soft as the original, the flowers were not as vibrant as they had appeared in the catalogue picture, and the belt was a skinnier version of its predecessor.  But after so many years of dress drought, I decided this dress and I would make a pact to stay together, even though we both knew the relationship would never be ideal.

My husband loved me in this dress even though I knew it for the poseur it was. And because he loved it, I wore it to work and out to dinner.  I wore to the movies and to the supermarket.   I wore it with a shawl in the spring and with boots and a jacket in the winter. I continued to wear it after our daughter was born in 1977 and was surprised, yet happy that after I punched an extra hole in the belt for just a bit more room, it continued to fit. I wore it through my daughter’s early school years and into her entry to junior high.  After she told me how much she liked it, I wore it even more. Still, through all of that, this dress could not convince me that it was the one.

Since I could never get enough of how happy it made my family, over time the dress and I had settled into an easy truce. I came to accept the fact that it could not help me to recapture the feelings I had when I wore the anointed original.  And it seemed to know that although it was not the dress, my family’s reactions would make it a most treasured piece in my by now, extensive and often talked about wardrobe.

Then one day, after 19 years of wear, I put the dress on and discovered I could no longer easily button it, and had run out of room for more belt holes. In defiance, I buttoned it and fastened the belt anyway, breaking a fingernail to the quick as I did so. The dress countered my orders for its cooperation with sharp and intense rib pain and taking away my ability to breathe.  We stood at loggerheads in the mirror for a few seconds before I gave in and feverishly began to free myself from its grip.  My disappearing waistline and the dress had finally conspired to betray me.  With mixed emotions I knew we would have to part ways.

Time went by and dresses with magic flowers and full skirts were often sought but not found. Over the years, I tried to replicate that special dress many times over, but it always ended in disappointment and eventual rejection; sometimes by me, but more often by the dress as the Body Mass Index continued its upward climb. Along the way, I happened upon beige and brown flowered silk shirtwaist and I bought it, but like the substitute garden scene dress I had previously outgrown, it was just not the same. I even tried other styles, and I felt I looked just fine, but I felt nothing extraordinary when they draped my frame and somehow that just continued to feel like a requirement.

From time to time, I would still pine for that original long-lost dress and the power it had to make a shy boy follow me to school, my daughter smile, and strangers stop to tell me how great I looked. Even though I was loved well, had a happy home and fulfilling work, I still wanted the all the dress had given me.

In 1995, our daughter went off to college and we became empty nesters. We moved on with life and the blessings of family and love continued as the years passed without the dress. Then on Christmas Day in 2010, my husband presented me with a golden box wrapped with a golden bow.  We had decided not to buy gifts that year, because we felt so blessed, so I was both surprised at the gift and annoyed that he had broken the pact. In the middle of a hot flash with lips pursed, I launched into my protest, “But I thought we weren’t going to…” I was stopped in mid-sentence when my smiling husband and daughter said in unison, “ Just open it!”  Their smiles grew wider and wider as I pushed through the tissue paper labeled “Zell’s Vintage” and opened the box.

Inside was a simple frock.

A multi-colored, multi-flowered shirtwaist dress with a wide belt and a full skirt.

The Dress was back for Christmas.

 

Copyright © 2012 by Sheryl J. Bize Boutte

 

This story was originally published by Harlequin Publications in their 2013 holiday story collection “A Kiss Under The Mistletoe” by Jennifer Basye Sander, and in my 2014 book, “A Dollar Five: Stories From a Baby Boomers Ongoing Journey” available at Amazon.com and other booksellers

 

https://www.amazon.com/Dollar-Five-Stories-Boomers-Ongoing/dp/149938310X/ref=sr_1_5?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=14

 

Poetry from John Patrick Robbins

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Before You Go

Sometimes when it’s silent in the bar the memories come to me as  a flood .

Emotions I would rather bury and old ghosts at times I wish only to see again.

And alone with my demons I find no excuses but every reason .
So I simply press the gas pedal .

Drink until I collapse and pretend it’s all in a good time .
When that old truth long since left this party so long ago.

Nobody truly needs you .
And don’t believe you cannot be replaced .

As easily as a person changes a lightbulb.
And throws the old one away.

Never lie to yourself .
For I know this truth better than any other .

My story has come to its end and you as a reader will find another thats suits your mood all the same.

It was good for the moment .
Whispered lies, are lies all the same.

 

 

 

         A Difference Of Opinion

A beautiful woman is like blessing upon the eyes .
And times a curse upon the tortured soul.

A great conversation after she has long since left the room .
Perfume for thought and the fuel of want and distant stories .

I once had a friend tell me.

“You don’t respect women cause you write such terrible things about them”.

I was always amazed by a critics opinion of my words .

Let alone the opinion of someone I considered my friend .

I laughed and bled in thought my temper held in check .
For my words were like the razors edge and I could cut anyone to bits if I choose to easily .

” Sweetheart as long as you’re not the bitch I’m writing about why does it matter to you”?

“You can’t group all people together “.

I laughed .

“I didn’t believe I was my dear , I write my truths leave them bare I love women even the ones that left a scar “.

“Well you have a funny way of showing it “.

I didn’t reply and eventually I allowed her self righteous opinion of me to smolder .

We joked and as usual the past was soon buried with the dead conversations much like this one.

I could push every button at will much like a old typewriter .

If she didn’t care she wouldn’t be so damn quick to snap .

Well either that or she was secretly a lesbian like a old friend once said .

I loved women and nothing brought me more pleasure than firing up the ones I truly respected .

Guess that’s why I was still single.

Michael Robinson reviews Jamel Gross’ poetry collection A Knight Without His Lovers

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Jamel’s poetry is new and refreshing, for he mixes older ideas with several new points of view on love. He has given much efforts and energy into the flow of each poem, which follows a unique pattern. Many of his poems are about the idea of finding and keeping love, and he has a rhythm to each line. Each word flows into the next, with each following a simple, yet unique flow. The themes of love bring expressed clarity to the experience of life, love, and death.

The imagery conveys the emotions of each poem along with themes that ignite one’s own imagination about love. His poems: “I Care 4 You”, “Untitled,” and “My Day Apart,” and “If I Should Lose You” are just a few of my favorites because of the stories they express. I had a hard time choosing these poems out of the collection because starting with ” I Care 4 You” and continuing with all of the following poems, Jamel’s poetry breaks the mold of grammar and still holds the reader’s attention. It’s a jewel worth keeping.

Jamel Gross’ A Knight Without His Lovers is available here. 

Poetry from Joan McNerney

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Another Night

 

Once again waking

to flashing blue lights.

 

More guns,

more assault weapons,

more mass shootings,

more death.

 

Darkness pierced by sirens,

angry screams,

air spinning with smoke.

 

Blood on streets

slick and slippery.

 

My weary eyes want

to stay shut and

my lips pray for

long nights of silence.

 

 

 

 

 

 

“A” train

 

brassy blue

electric

bleeds upon rails.

 

blue, white flashes

leap forward.

they move, they move

constantly they move.

 

close your eyes

watch points

like stars

 

think now

how insignificant

you are

compared to train

speaking for itself

 

stars known

in no language

shooting

thru

tiger’s eyes

 

brain in

constant action

reaction

 

to what we do not know

plans of distant stars

galaxies floating by as

 

“A” train

silver worm

bursting through

big belly

of city

 

 

 

 

Eleventh Hour

 

Wrapped in darkness we can

no longer deceive ourselves.

Our smiling masks float away.

We snake here, there

from one side to another.

How many times do we rip off

blankets only to claw more on?

 

Listening to zzzzzz of traffic,

mumble of freight trains, fog horns.

Listening to wheezing,

feeling muscles throb.

How can we find comfort?

 

Say same word over and over

again again falling falling to sleep.

I will stop measuring what was lost.

I will become brave.

 

Let slumber come covering me.

Let my mouth droop, fingers tingle.

Wishing something cool…soft…sweet.

Now I will curl like a fetus

gathering into myself

hoping to awake new born.