Mike Zone reviews Richard Slota’s Stray Son

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Don’t stray away: a review of Stray Son

By Mike Zone

straysoncover 

Richard Slota manages to pile drive you, fist through the chest, through a brutal trip through time to face what you should have feared long ago but never could, as you never knew what was really there when it haunted you in unforeseen ways, your entire existence, like that of a man collecting bodies for the mortuary and speaking to ghosts, friendly and unfriendly, is parallel to you or I all of a sudden getting contemplative about ourselves without being inhibited by the confines of our working lives, finding revelation through reflection. A hell of a large sentence for a hell of a large-scale novel told on the most minor of scales, which in turn is the grandest of them all, between a father and son unable to connect in life but ultimately intersecting amid death. Perhaps it’s not too late after all to comprehend one another and perhaps none us are ultimately straying, just getting lost in a mindset.

Patrick’s a Vietnam vet, married with a wife and two kids, who long ago adjusted to the workaday routine of life, picking up dead bodies for a mortuary, even though he could be losing his mind. He’s haunted by a strange marine from World War II (I won’t even let you guess who it may be) appearing almost here, there and everywhere in-between, and the new millennium (a bit of millennium fever anyone?) brings forth the funeral of someone quite paramount to the protagonist’s life. So he road trips with his family back home, and the cosmic roadway (I liberally apply the term “cosmic”) gives us glimpse into the time-stream of the enigmatic figures of this father and son. What Patrick discovers leads to the most essential recovery of all, although absolutes are not what we actually desire, for the very nature of life and of the protagonist’s journey is the direct opposite of absolute resolution.

Contemporary fiction often forces us to hide in a candy-coated poptopian wonderland. But Stray Son basically says, To hell with all that, give us Kurt’s mindscape set to the tune of The Doors and directed by Martin Scorsese! It’s not the horror you expect or the family story you desire but the horror of the ordinary stories many families carry around. So, hop on in the car and take a drive down the road along with your own ghosts; past, present or probably soon to be. Even if you don’t believe they are there, you will find out in an endearing, savage manner that they always have been.

Stray Son is available here.

Poetry from Janine Canan

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THE MOST

 

Are you drunk, yet?

If not, go away—

you won’t enjoy my ravings.

All I hear is sublime Music—

all the rest is utter waste.

Time is a tiny box of matches.

I want to strike them all at once,

flare and merge in the Most Beautiful.

I can’t settle for less!

Can’t we put an end to this farce,

rise up and join the Most Beautiful,

Most Holy and True.

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Poetry from Lauren Ainslie

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The Thoughts Behind My Name

Lauren.

Soft, smile.

Lauren. Exotic.

Strong Woman. New Woman. Ready Woman.

Grow to be happy, Strive to be unique, my daughter. Aim to

Strike

Fear in your enemies.

Use your crinkle-eye smile, to love your friends

Your button nose, to breathe the scent of life; Lavender-Roma Tomato.

Use your curious fingertips to trace the bark of a Manzanita bush, to stroke the kaleidoscope fur of a cat, to caress the iridescent fantasia of an abalone shell.

My Buddha Baby, grow.

Mischievous smile, slow glance.

Bedroom eyes.

Yes, you are a

Lauren.

 

Taste your childhood, too early to preserve, the details fading but the aurora still

sweet and warm in your mind.

A starchy Ube ice cream, dappled with laughter and briny tears.

This name is waiting, a roseate orchid blooming behind your heart.

 

Olde English.

Lauren Faye. You are a scripture in waiting, my darling.

Warmed honey rolling off a silver spoon.

The Crown of the celestial sky.

My Lauren Faye D. Ainslie, my fragrant Earl Grey tea.

There has never been a Lauren in the family before.

I give Lauren to my Buddha Baby, and she will go

Wherever there is sunlight.

Write your scripture in the sunlight, my darling,

Write your scripture, Lauren Faye.

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Elizabeth Hughes’ Book Periscope

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Eve Blohm’s Four Seasons
blohmfourseasons
Four Seasons is a collection of short stories, some that read like poetry and words of wisdom and encouragement. I love the advice she gives at the end of the first one, “The Bear and Wolf, the Owl has the Last 9/22/2016.’ They are definitely words of wisdom I wish I heard years ago, and will heed from this day forth. A couple of others I particularly liked very much are “Gray’s Life Drama” and “Bouquet of Love.” Although, all of them are very good. I highly recommend Four Seasons by Eve J. Blohm. This would be a great gift for someone who loves to read.
Lesley Graham’s Star Warrior
Star Warrior is a sci-fi novel that has plenty of action and adventure to keep your adrenaline going full speed until the very end. It will keep the reader on the edge of your seat and keep the pages turning throughout the whole book. Jack Quantum was a Star Warrior that would keep other Star vessels and space craft safe from pirates and any other unscrupulous criminals in the Star System. The Star Warriors would help the less wealthy people as the police force would mainly keep the wealthy safe and many of them had shady practices. Due to a horrific accident on a Star Warrior thunder turkey Jack Quantum becomes an employee on a Star Trader Ship. Just the mention of a Star Warrior on any vessel would be enough to keep most of the criminals away. This is a fast paced, action packed novel and must have for the sci-fi fan. I very highly recommend Star Warrior by J. Lesley Graham.
The Adventures Of Toby Bear by Kim Lake-Seibert
The Adventures of Toby Bear is a true story in the form of a children’s book. The illustrations are truly delightful as is the story. Toby Bear is the pet and loving companion of Little Kimmy. They were very close and Toby Bear knew when Little Kimmy was very happy and also comforted her when she was sad or ill. Toby Bear seemed to know just what Little Kimmy needed to make her happy. This being a true story makes this book an even more special children’s picture book. Small children delight at the story of the lovable Toby Bear and will love the wonderful illustrations. This would make an excellent give for any child and also a wonderful gift for a preschool or kindergarten or day care. Pick up a copy today and enjoy! I very highly recommend The Adventures of Toby Bear by Kim Lake-Seibert.

Poetry from J.J. Campbell

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just the right amount of alcohol

sometimes when i
have had just the
right amount of
alcohol

i can picture myself
on my grandmother’s
bathroom floor

my cousin putting
her nipple in my
mouth and telling
me to suck on it

fast forward a quarter
century plus a few
years and there’s a
knock on the door

there’s the same
cousin with two
magazines sent to
the wrong house

the same smile that
makes my skin crawl

as i lock the door back

i realize i was never
meant to be anything
more than a broken
soul

i trusted that the years
would change all this

time is the knife firmly
planted in my back

one of these days i’ll
stop enjoying the pain

cremated and flushed

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Poetry from Vijay Nair

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Whore Poets

 

Poets we had against war

Poised in voice a roared lion

Polecats they fumigated rulers

Poker- faced all in funeral parlour

Poets that genre left a vacuum

Whore poets a new genre,

her Vagina a maze into womb

in Rotten eggs of her publisher

His heavy stroke vying into

Her soft surface of vulva

Fame of odium wafting

the Heavy unpleasant odour

An emetic; a cause of vomiting

From printer her copies

all Waffles her vacuous !!!!

 

©-Vijay P Nair -2017

Short story by Sheryl Bize-Boutte

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MADELINE AND ME

“Stop it! Stop it!” Madeline screamed as the kids on the Whittier Elementary school playground hurled whatever they could find on the ground at her.  Sticks, rocks, dirt, even discarded remnants of lunches were launched toward Madeline as the evil chorus shouted, “Fat Mad!’ Mad, Fat!”  “Mad” was short for Madeline and “fat “was because, well, she was bigger than the rest of us and those kids were mean.

Madeline ducked and dodged as best she could, screaming all the while. “My hair is clean!” she cried, as she covered her head with her hands in an attempt to protect her gleaming blond hair from the onslaught of garbage landing on her from head to shoes. That blond hair of hers was her crowning glory. For her, it neutralized her large body type and gave her a modicum of self-esteem.  And for Madeline, the big white girl, and me, the skinny high yellow bookworm, self-esteem was often hard to find.

Madeline was not just a white girl standing in the middle of the 1960’s white flight, she was the only white girl left at my school.  All of the other white kids and their families who were in the neighborhood when my family and I arrived in 1960 had moved away. On the schoolyard, as in the world, we had become acutely aware of our differences, and the torture that could sometimes result. We had also arrived at an age where how we chose to handle differences would be revealed. As fifth graders we did not process much beyond influences from parents, teachers, friends and television. When those influences combined with where we were at the time, we often just fell into the actions that made us fit in with the others.  It felt so good to fit in and so lonely to be an outlier, we were all vulnerable to meanness at one point or another. And those of us who were different, in varying ways, tended to cling to each other, just to get through the times we were forced to leave our sometimes viewed as odd comfort zones and step foot on the scary asphalt yard with the others.

United in the third grade by our differences to the accepted norms, Madeline and I were solid best friends. We were the only friends we had, and on that day, on that schoolyard, it was my duty to come to her defense. Even though I was thinking this, I still waited a tick for the adult yard monitors to intervene, but when I looked over at them, they were pointing and laughing at the attack along with the others. As I scanned the crowd it became clear that the adults who were supposed to protect us were having a good time watching Madeline’s anguish. As more joined the sideshow, those who had already used their physical weapons, added their voices to the verbal insults, while others began to gather just to join in the “fun.” After all, nothing bad could be happening since the adults were participating.  No nothing bad.  Just the torturing of Madeline.

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