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Archive for December, 2010

The Rockcrusher Brothers: The Best Things, by Joshua Klug

 A pick and a shovel.  A pick and a shovel.  The smell of fresh ore and the taste of dust.  A pick and a shovel.  The crack and the crumble; the scrape and the bang.  Ahh, the cart, full laden with ore.  A pick and a shovel.  The cart on the track . . .  .  Squeaky wheel gets the kick!  A pick and a shovel.  A pick and a shovel.

            “PROAST!”

            Proast bolted upright in bed.  Drool laced his thick, chest-length bronze beard.  “I’m up.  I’m up.”  He shook his head to clear the grogginess.

            His brother, Belcher, pressed a foaming stone mug into his hands.  “Yer breakfast.”

            Proast raised it in thanks and then blew the foam off onto the floor.  His thick stubby fingers gripped the hard mug; his dirt encrusted fingernails leaving streaks on its surface.  He pursed his fat lips expectantly and drained the mug.

            He smacked his lips and wiped his beard with his free hand.  “That was the ‘37 yeh durned lollard!”  Proast’s belch echoed off of the stone walls of their single room home.  “Yeh know the ‘37’s a dinner ale.”

            Belcher pointed a stout finger at the most expensive article they owned as he grabbed another full mug off the squat table in the middle of their room.  He pointed at the ancient timepiece crafted by their great-great-great-great grandfather that sat atop their fireplace.  It read 5:00 o’clock.

            “Oi!  I’m late!”  Proast threw off his covers and scrambled around looking for his tools.  He was still fully clothed from the night before.

            Belcher grabbed him by the shoulders and hauled him to the floor.  “Yer so late yeh already missed yer shift.”

            “Oi?!”

            Belcher offered his own grimy hand to help Proast back to his feet.  “Yeh must’ve had five kegs in yeh when yeh stumbled in last night.”

            Proast thought hard, trying to remember the night before as Belcher stoked the fire in the fireplace.  Proast lost his train of thought and scanned the room for his gear.  “Did I at least bring back me pick and shovel?”

            “Bah!”  Belcher stood up and drained his ale.  “Yeh came in just like yeh are now.  I had to pull yer weight today.”  He belched through his foamy beard.  “And tomorrow,” he jabbed a stubby thumb into his own chest, “I’m the one taking the day off.”

            “Aye, but yeh know I’d do it for yeh, anyway.”  Proast slammed his fist to his shoulder with pride.  “I’m a Rockcrusher.”

            Belcher refilled his own mug and sat down on his bed across from Proast’s.  “If that were the case, yeh’d not have missed yer shift.  Ain’t nothing better than the smell of fresh ore.”

            Proast refilled his mug, too, and raised it in mock respect to his older brother.  “Ahh, yer close, ain’t nothing better than a ’26, and yeh know it!”  He drained his second mug and placed the empty container on the table.  He crawled back into bed.  “Now, if yeh don’t mind, yeh woke me from one of the best dreams I’ve had in a long time.”


For The Eleven Years I Knew You, By Stephanie Meeusen

I

I do not remember what it felt like to be first touched,

but I am told it was by you.

II

One day we walked to shop.

I was small, yet I leapt up inside

when you saw my hair reflected in the window

and called me your Golden Girl.

III

Then there were two times my small heart broke:

I saw your figure through the half opened door.

You sat and smiled for the last time

in the quiet space of your room.

The second time I sat near you on the bed

and you whispered incoherent advice.

IV

We knew you had to leave

either by chance or design.

So you went.

And the seams of our perfect world are bursting

until all will be made right again.


Rainbow, by Dorj Uranchimeg


The Most Important Day of my Life, by Tammy Rochester

            There have been many events throughout my life that I would consider important. For instance, the day I was born, the days my children were born, or the day I got my dream job were all very important facets in my life. But there is one day that sticks out in my mind that takes priority over all these other events. The day I am thinking about was a virtual turning point for me, making me the person I am today. This was the day I left the man I was supposed to be with forever, the father of my children, my husband.

            Some friends wonder why I still consider this to be an important time in my life and wonder why I just don’t forget about it. There were very many reasons behind my actions on this day. The reason that takes top priority is that I no longer felt safe. Actually, I had not felt safe, appreciated, or loved in a very long time leading up to this day. The events of this day had been a long time coming, like a spark that slowly lights into a full blown blaze of rampant fire. My only regret is that I wish this day would have come about sooner than it did.

            This day started out as any other Saturday. I woke up early, gently removing the covers so as not to disturb his sleep. I slowly crept into the kitchen, paying close attention to every step I took, so the floorboards would not creak, careful not to make even the slightest noise. As I was standing in the middle of the kitchen I had a horrible dilemma going on in my mind. Should I chance turning the light on and start cooking breakfast? Maybe not, it will make too much noise. But if the food isn’t ready when he does get up he will be really angry.

            Filled with anxiety and wondering what I should do, I leaned back against the counter and accidentally sent a glass flying through the air. I watched as the glass took on an almost slow motion effect falling to its fate and shattering into a million tiny shards on the hard linoleum.

            I thought to myself, “Oh no! What have I done?”

            Just then I heard a rustling coming from my bedroom. I knew then that what I had tried so hard not to do, I did. I had woken him up. I heard his feet hit the floor as he jumped out of bed. I heard him quickly walking towards the kitchen, chasing down the sound that had awoken him. I urgently and clumsily started reaching for the broom and dustpan. I immediately started sweeping up the broken glass, while thinking if that I just looked really busy, he wouldn’t be that mad. Too late.

            Before I knew it I felt an unsympathetic hand strike the left side of my face, spinning me almost full circle, leaving me reeling in pain. I knew he was yelling something about how wrong it was that I woke him up, but I had so much fear running through my veins I could not make out his exact words. As much as I wished, I knew this would not be the end of this situation. I knew he would not just go back to bed. I never expected him to say “sorry” because he never apologized for striking me in the past, but if only he would go back to bed, things would be fine. He did not go back to bed on this Saturday morning. He was not done with me yet.

            He kept on ranting and raving about how I had no respect for him and his peace and quiet. He grabbed me by the back of my hair and proceeded to slam my face on the same counter I knocked the glass off of. With his grasp still tight on the back of my head, he hurled me into the shelves across the kitchen that held our canned goods and dry food. Crash! I flew face first into the shelves and then sank to the floor along with the cans and jars from the shelves.

            Here I sat, crying, frightened, and humiliated covered in spaghetti sauce and glass sticking up out of my face and arms. But then something happened. I felt a feeling I had not had in a very long time. Anger. Where was this feeling coming from? I knew I was getting ready to say something, even though in the past when these incidents took place I was too afraid to speak because if I did not comply the beating would be worse. So I kept my mouth shut all those times before this day. I felt the words roll off of my tongue before I could stop myself from getting into more trouble.

            “You will never hit me again!” I could see the rage in his eyes as he started towards me with a horrible scowl on his face. He made his way to me through the mess that now lay about the kitchen floor. This scene also seemed to have a slow motion, dreamlike effect about it. As he ferociously reached down to pull me up and punish me some more, thoughts of the last thirteen years flashed through my mind. The bruises, the broken bones, the blood, the physical and emotional pain, and all the other horrible things he did to hurt me throughout our marriage made me want to vomit right then and there. How could I have let this happen? Why didn’t I leave long ago?

            As his hand got closer to me I blocked it away. He then had a look of confusion on his face because I had never fought back before. The confusion did not last long, though, the rage appeared in his eyes once more as he grabbed me by the neck. I somehow wriggled away from the hold he had on me. I then relayed the words I had spoken just moments earlier, “You will never hit me again!”

            He laughed devilishly and lunged towards me once more. This time I was no longer afraid of this monster. I felt a tremendous amount of power building up in my small frame, where it was coming from, I have not a clue. I lunged back towards him, my strength fueled by pure adrenaline, I reached up and grabbed him by the neck. With this new found power I threw him across the room which is an amazing feat, as I am only five foot three and weigh 125 pounds compared to his six foot three, 200 pound frame. But I did it, and with phone in hand I called the police as he sat dumbfounded on the floor staring at me.

            I walked out of that house of scary secrets that Saturday morning with a renewed sense of hope.

            The sun was shining as I walked with my children to our car. The knot that had been in my stomach for the last thirteen years loosened a bit. I felt strong. I felt happy. For the first time in many years I could smile and most importantly, I was proud of myself. I couldn’t wait to start my new life!


The Aardvark, an alphabet story, by David Racer

Aardvarks resemble domestic pigs.

Besides coming from Africa, they are medium in size and slow moving.

Common sense would dictate that I wouldn’t have seen one loping through my backyard last month.

Desperate to find someone to validate my story, I knocked on my neighbor’s door to tell them what I had seen.

Eventually both my neighbors came outside to hear my story.

Frustrated that neither of them believed me, I began my quest to find where the aardvark had run off to.

Goodness knows where it went.

Had it left tracks it would have been easy to follow, and the tracks could be used as evidence of its existence.

I began to have doubts that I had seen it.

Just when I began to think I was delusional, I saw it again.

Knowing that I might not be able to capture it, I ran into the house to find my digital camera.

Luck was not on my side, as it took me several minutes to locate the memory card.

Meanwhile, the aardvark once again disappeared for parts unknown.

No one would believe me without evidence, so I began to walk around the neighborhood, looking for my imagined beast.

Obsessed with finding the aardvark, I spent the next two hours searching before I thought I had found it.

Perhaps it was wishful thinking on my part that I had seen it again.

Quietly I snuck up on the spot where I thought the animal was resting.

Reality set in when I noticed my “aardvark” was a small child’s wading pool.

Stuff always seems to look different when you’re chasing after it.

Thoroughly disappointed, I abandoned the search and slowly headed back towards my home.

Ultimately I decided my neighbors were right; I hadn’t seen an aardvark in my backyard after all.

Vigilantly I searched for the aardvark on my way home with the faint hope I might stumble across it before I arrived back at my residence.

When I made it back, several people had congregated in my driveway, many laughing at how preposterous they thought my story was.

X-rays of my head were suggested by the next-door neighbor.

Yet to this very day I still believe that an aardvark had run across my yard.

Zebras aren’t usually seen in this area either, but last night, I thought I saw a zebra in my backyard!


The Sun, by Colleen Chadwick

And here I sit. I must have come here a thousand times. Will I do it this time? Or will I run like a coward with my tail between my legs. The question is–what has brought me here today? I’m not really sure. Is it just discontent with life, or am I sick of life in general? I’m not sure.  I could just start the car and drive away but, since I’m here.

 The lake is beautiful this time of morning, the water calm and not too many people are around. There is a slight chill in the air, not bad for early June. The last time I tried this it was cold.  What do they say–“bitter cold”? I believe it was twenty-something below zero.  That temperature is pretty normal for a Wisconsin winter day. In those winter months the sun does not come up until much later in the morning and more people are out and about before the sun hits the horizon. I chickened out as I have done all the other times in the past. Maybe today will be different?

            The first time I tried this I was on horseback; automobiles were not invented at that time. Milwaukee was just in her infancy. The city may have had one, maybe two thousand people at most. The landscape looks so different now. I know what brought me there that day. I wanted all of it to end; I could not stand for another minute the thought of what I had become.

 My family consisted of Amish farmers and craftsmen. Something was killing the cattle and since I was the oldest son, and a better hunter than my younger brothers, I stayed with the cattle that night. I tried to conceal myself in the hay stack as best I could with my best rifle at my side. The cattle were startled; something had brought one of them down within yards of me. As I got to my feet, I was thrown back down. The fiend was on me.

The pain scourged on my throat. I tried to fight him off, but he was too strong for me. I felt for my rifle to no avail. I did feel the handle of the shovel my brother broke while playing around earlier in the day. I heaved the handle in the fiend’s back and he was reduced to ashes seconds later.

Distraught, I lay on the hay, trying to compose myself. My heart was thudding hard in my chest. The dust that fell on me was biting my skin; the smell was sickly and pungent. As I felt the chasm at my neck, I blacked out. The next night I woke with a hunger I will never forget.  To this day I am haunted; I am haunted, by the memory. I still hear my blessed mother’s chilling scream from my hideous acts. I could not meet the sun on horseback that day.

Will I meet the sun this day? How the scarlet-ginger light grows against the horizon.  First light looks so much different than twilight. I cannot look away. The burn, I can feel the skin on my face starting to singe, just a few more seconds.  Oh, how magnificent the sun, how I miss its warmth. My flesh feels on the cusp of starting ablaze. Anguish. Will I last longer than last time? Oh the grandeur of the light.  How exquisite. Just another minute.  And here I sit. (Hearing the mechanical sound of the car window rolling up and the car engine starting.)


How the dishes get done, by Marianne Szabo

 

 A pile of stones

moved from one side of the field

to the other

and then back again;

as Sisyphus moves

his rock;

as a philosopher

picks up the particular

one

by one

in the fields

of the pedestrian,

with no time

for the Eleusinian;

to think,

yet not to think,

to find the

universal

in a gleaming

dish

as consolation:

this is the testing

in fire

of the

dishwater saints. 

 

 


If Only, by Hannah E. Hayes

 It’s just me here in our room,

A single bed, instead of a bunk,

His Spiderman pictures gone,

Only Metallica to cover the walls.

If only he was still here with me . . .

When I sleep,

I hear his loud, raspy voice in my ears,

Telling me of math tests or dogs,

Video games or scary cartoons:

His dreams to rule the world.

If only his short life wouldn’t have stopped . . .

It was cold outside.

Teachers said goodbye

And we ran for freedom.

Under the cover of green pine trees,

 And over the long, railroad tracks,

We raced each other on.

If only he had run more slowly . . .

He was in front of me,

And slipped over the tracks.

I ran to catch up,

And then gave him my hand;

He gripped it tightly, but his foot didn’t budge.

If only he had worn Velcro . . .

His brown shoelaces would not

Have gotten stuck

Under the jail of frozen, metal bars.

I tried to lift him up,

Pull his body to safety, like heroes on TV.

And I would have,

If only the train had not come . . .

He screamed like a baby,

I yelled and kicked at his shoe:

Nothing.

It came closer and was bigger:

A monster screeching in rage.

If only that monster had not killed my brother . . .

We would be here together,

In this room,

Laughing, talking, playing video games,

Drinking mountain dew,

Crunching on potato chips,

And guilt wouldn’t be slicing holes in my heart.

If only . . .


Seasons, by Robert Seth Whittaker

In early spring, a mother sings

Of love, and joyous tears it brings.

Could it be the most wondrous thing

To hear a newborn cry?

This mother seems to think it so,

For she shall never let him go.

But she will know, when sorrow shows,

That she must let him fly.

She holds her child for a while

With her love just like the Nile.

Whet your Mona Lisa smile

And kiss him with a sigh.

In time, young mother, you will learn

The answer to your woeful yearn.

A summer breeze brings Maple trees,

Melons sprouting from their seeds,

And a young man who thinks he sees,

But, oh, he is so blind.

Do not look for love, my son,

For it shall come when youth is done.

And it is not a path to run,

So you must take your time.

Free yourself of all your fears,

Guard your heart throughout the years,

Exonerate your wasted tears,

And let your spirit shine.

But, Son, beware a path awry

Toward demons in your lustful eye.

Autumn days of colored haze

Turn the leaves that brightly blaze.

A once-young man is finding grays,

But that is not his fret.

His mother who had held him near

Does not have much longer here,

And deep inside he has a fear

That he’s not paid his debt.

He holds his mother, his abode,

With his love he never showed.

Forgive yourself and let her go,

Along with your regret.

Bridges burned can be rebuilt,

But not if bound by grief and guilt.

The winter snow would come and go,

Though chilling winds would ever blow,

Along with souls from long ago,

Upon my shaken bones.

I saw the seasons seeming shorter

Through years of distance, doubt, disorder.

But in the end of this final quarter,

My soul, it ceased to roam.

I felt the warmth of a mother’s kiss;

I found the truth that youth dismissed;

And now I simply rest in bliss.

My heart has found its home.

I now see earth in all its light

As I taste the final breath of life…


Can’t Wait, by Claudine Burnley

Counting each day,

Each moment,

Each second ‘til

It all comes to an end.

 

Going back in my head

Thinking about all the

Good times that I had,

Or how good it could have been.

 

The joking,

The helping,

The laughter

An all the good times I spent.

 

16 weeks have

Come and gone.

Now it’s time

To say so long.

 

Can’t wait for this time

To finally end.

Most of all I can’t wait

to do it all over again.

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