 
Montclair Write Group Sampler 2014

Published by Strange Worlds Publishing

Copyright 2014 Hank Quense

All Rights Reserved.

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ISBN 9781311205650

Published by Strange Worlds Publishing at Smashwords 2014

First Publication 2014

Table of Contents

Foreword

Acknowledgements

Essays

Fiction

Memoir

Poetry

Plays

Author Listings

About This Book

Foreword

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Carl Selinger

As The Write Group approaches its 16th anniversary, it's fitting that we celebrate by publishing this collection of our members' work. The idea first came from Dr. Margaret Brisco, a retired obstetrician and one of our founding members. Now a published writer herself, Margaret remarked at a recent Write Group meeting that we ought to publish an anthology of our writings.

And so, a few short months later, here is that anthology, embodying the Write Group's "can-do" spirit. Members quickly volunteered to form an advisory committee, others committed to read and rate submissions, and still more to serve as copyeditors. We received submissions for fiction, memoirs, essays, poetry and even a play.

Read the anthology front to back, or dip into your favorite genre. Savor it any way you like. The Write Group is proud to share the diversity and talent of its members, men and women interested in writing. We are a writers' support group, graciously based at the Montclair (NJ) Public Library, that welcomes — and we do mean welcomes! — anyone interested in writing, whether published yet or not. Many authors in this Montclair Write Group Sampler 2014 are being published for the first time.

The Write Group now holds about 30 free writing events every month — yes, 30! Most of our programs are held at the graciously accomodating Montclair (NJ) Public Library. With no officers, no dues, no standing committees, we do all this with a shared leadership of a dozen writers. Even we are stunned by our stats: 30 to 40 active writers of all ages come to our events; over 200 viewers have "liked" our Facebook Page; more than 400 names comprise our "membership" list (including some who've moved away but occasionally "attend" events via Skype from Phoenix, Tucson, Raleigh, Quebec and India; and 700 recipients have signed up for our weekly email newsletter, the Write Group Update. If you would like to learn more about us, please let us know and we will be happy to put you on our email list.

We hope you will enjoy the variety of work we present in this Montclair Write Group Sampler 2014. Please tell us what you think.

Happy reading... and writing!

Carl Selinger

Write Group Member since 2004

selinger99 (at) aol (dot) com

Acknowledgements

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Hank Quense

This book didn't happen by accident. It required a lot of work by a lot of people performing a lot of tasks.

Montclair Write Group Sampler 2014

Project Director:

Hank Quense

Editorial Board:

Harriet Halpern

Nancy Taiani

Eveline Speedie

Josie Zeman

Hank Quense

Submissions Manager:

Nancy Taiani

Readers:

Harriet Halpern

Josie Zeman

Johnnie Jones Tucker

Donna O'Donnell Firgurski

Marcia Mickley

Vinessa Anthony

Copy editors:

Nancy Taiani

Eveline Speedie

Sheila York

Formatting & Production:

Hank Quense

Publisher:

Strange Worlds Publishing

The cover was designed by Gary Tenuta, who creates all the Strange Worlds Publishing covers. The pebbles on the cover have been interpreted as "random stones in the waters of life", a metaphor for no two people being the same. Other interpretations abound.

Essays

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We have four essays in this section on a variety of subjects.

At the Wall: I Remember, I Remember

Nick Ingoglia

(Author's note: An edited version of this essay was published in the Speaking Personally section of The New York Times, March 6, 1988.)

In the spring of 1986, my family and I paid a visit to our nation's capital. While walking from the Washington Monument to the Lincoln Memorial, I caught a fleeting glimpse of a swiftly approaching hooded assailant.

He was on me in an instant, but I managed to grab his right arm and fling him to the ground before he could deliver a blow. He bounced up as I tried to tackle him, leaving me sprawled on the ground. I rolled aside, but he was too fast for me. He dived and landed on my chest, grabbing my shirt at the neck and threatening me with a rubber knife he had hidden in his sleeve.

I yielded, knowing I was beat. Mercifully, this nine-year-old Ninja warrior spared me. He had to. Who else would he attack for the rest of this otherwise "boring" walk?

Danny, my Ninja-obsessed stepson, walked next to me for a while and told me that he really didn't like living in the United States so much. It wasn't exciting enough. Japan — that's where he wanted to live.

After a few moments, he disappeared behind the trees. I went on, wary of a sudden cry that meant I could expect to find him flying through the air with feet and hands aimed at one of my vital parts.

After we had gone around Lincoln on his great stone perch, we headed toward the Vietnam Memorial. I took Danny aside from his sister and twin brother, and told him about the monument, about the wall and how it contained the names of all the Americans who died in the war.

"So," I said, "treat it like it's a cemetery. Don't make too much noise or fool around. There will be a lot of sad people here, OK?"

Danny nodded agreeably and walked off, as is his way, to see The Wall by himself.

I also went on my own. I found the name Caesar Cavallo in the directory: 28 E was his spot on the wall.

I met Caesar in 1963 at Rockefeller University in New York City, where we both worked. He had escaped from Castro's Cuba in the late 1950s to come to New York via Spain. He was a passionate revolutionary, but he was furious at Castro for promising a democracy and then delivering a dictatorship. We shared a 1950s-bred distaste for the "red peril."

Caesar also had a passion for blondes. "Who's that woman you drive into work with?" he asked me one day.

The war was at a point where every fourth draftee was taken into the Marines. I wasn't drafted because of a minor physical defect. Caesar wasn't so lucky. Not only was he drafted, he also got taken into the Marines and was in Vietnam before we knew it.

Soon I was writing to him about the political climate around home — we were still supporters of the war then — and about Diane, my blond traveling companion. I wrote less often in the second year of his tour, but I always got word about him from Diane, with whom he had become quite close.

"Hey, Nick," Diane told me one day in the fall of 1966, "Caesar's getting out. He'll be home before Christmas."

She smiled and raised both hands exuberantly.

The next time I saw her, she told me solemnly: "They extended Caesar — some kind of big Vietcong offense. He still should be home before New Year's though." She seemed less sure of herself.

Two days later, a tearful, disintegrating Diane reported: "Nick, they got Caesar. The bastards, they got Caesar."

I traced my finger along Caesar's name on The Wall and felt gentle convulsions of sorrow shake my chest and tears run down my cheeks. His face looked back at me from the black marble, smiling sheepishly. It was the way he smiled the time I caught him coming back late to work after a lunch hour spent making love to Diane.

I moved on, looking for the name of a man I never knew but whose mother I had met three years before while having breakfast at a cafeteria in the World Trade Center.

"I'm going to retire in two years," the middle-aged black woman told me.

I must have looked surprised.

She laughed.

"You think I don't look my age?" she asked. "That's what all the girls upstairs say, too. If you want to stay young, I tell them, don't try to burn the candle at both ends. You can't party all night and then think you're going to do a good job at work the next day.

"And another thing" — she was sort of lecturing me in a motherly way — "don't neglect your children. Bring them up yourself. Don't leave them to somebody else. I had two children. I brought them up the best I could. They were fine children.

"My son Willard, he's dead now," she went on, her voice quivering. "Killed in Vietnam in 1970. That almost killed me.

"When they put up that monument in Washington, the people at my church told me I should go down there and find Willard's name. But I just couldn't do it. It's not that I don't think The Wall is a good thing. It was about time. It makes people remember. But that's one thing I don't need help with — remembering.

"There's a young boy, Anthony, who plays trumpet at the church. I've been teaching him all that I know about music. Well, one day Anthony says, 'Dorothy, if you're not going down there, then I am. I'll go find Willard's name on that wall.' So Anthony went down and searched until he found the spot. It's in Row 13, that's where Willard's name is.

"Anthony told me later that he didn't know why he did it, but all of a sudden, as he was touching Willard's name, he called out at the top of his lungs: 'Willard Kelly, Willard Kelly.' He said he was crying after he did it.

"Then he felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned around and looked up at these two white boys standing right behind him. One of them says to Anthony, 'Is that the Willard Kelly who lived in Brooklyn?' Anthony nodded.

"The other boy said, 'We were his buddies. We've been looking for his mother for years. We were with him all the time over there. We were with him when he died.' And then they started crying too, Anthony told me.

"When Anthony got home, he gave me their addresses and I wrote to them right away. Ever since Willard died, I had been thinking that I'd like to talk with some of the boys who were with him. If I could only meet one, maybe it would make it easier.

"They wrote back and said they'd come for a visit and take me out for a big dinner, but I'd have none of that. 'We'll have dinner here at my house and I'll do the cooking,' I told them. I wanted it to be like a real home, like a family.

"You should have seen them — those two big white boys walking through our neighborhood, and everybody looking at them, wondering what they were doing here. But we had a nice time and ate so much good food. And when they talked about Willard, none of us could keep from crying.

"One of them said, 'You know, we wouldn't be here or have made this trip if your son was a bum or something.' The big white boy was just crying like a baby. 'He wasn't,' he said. 'He was somethin' special to us. He was our buddy.'

"You know, every mother thinks that her son is something special. But when that boy said that to me, and I saw the way he still felt about Willard after all those years — well, it made me feel so good.

"One of those boys is a salesman and every time he's away, he sends me a postcard. And they've been to see me twice since that first visit.

"Last time they were here, we all got together and I said to them, 'You know, Anthony here is black and he's my son, and you two are white and you are my sons too.'"

Row 13: Willard Kelly.

I found the name, touched it gently and formed a picture of Dorothy sitting opposite me in the Trade Center cafeteria that morning.

"I remembered, Dorothy," I whispered.

Danny was tugging at my sleeve.

"Nick, Nick," he spoke in a low voice, knowing that only whispers were suitable here. I looked down at him.

"Where are the names of the guys who died in Vietnam?" he asked.

"On the black walls here," I replied, gesturing.

"No," he said. "I mean only the Vietnam guys."

"Here," I said. "All across this wall."

He seemed confused. I knelt next to him.

"Danny," I said, "there were more than 50,000 of us killed in that war; and it takes this whole wall to write their names down, one by one. Do you see?"

He nodded, his eyes looking from one end of the wall to the other. His sister stood next to us. "Do you still want to be a soldier and kill people, Danny?" she said sharply.

But Danny was already moving away from us and toward a green field he spied in the distance. In another moment, he was practicing his "moves," spinning gracefully, his golden hair flying in the bright sun.

I watched him, feeling the encompassing sadness of The Wall and remembered being nine. Our heroes then were out of World War II. Every morning, we would go to a vacant lot and storm the hill to take "Iwo Jima." We held stick rifles and tree-limb bazookas and threw dirt-bomb grenades.

We were the United States Marines. The enemy fell helpless before us. We, like that magnificent nine-year-old dancing on the hillside, were invincible!

© 1988 by Nick Ingoglia

Bio

Nick Ingoglia was a research neuroscientist for 40 years. In 2010, he began writing fiction, completing two novels — one, a coming-of-age story set in Bayonne in the 1960s; the other, about life in New York City in the 1970s. Currently, he is working on a novel about research in neuroscience.

Queen of the Fabricated Memoir

Martha Moffett

When I see news stories of faked memoirs, I remember that I was once taken in by a memoir so persuasive and transporting that I would forgive the author anything. "Write another!" I would say.

I found a copy of Cradle of the Deep by Joan Lowell in a second-hand store when I was 12 years old but already bookish enough to note that it had been printed in 1929 and was a first edition, and to assume, from the endpapers and the name on the spine, that it was the story ─ the adventures ─ of a girl I would like to be. Joan grew up on a clipper ship in the South Pacific. Just the life for me! I would not learn for almost 50 years that the book was regarded as a great hoax ─ a book that was presented as autobiography but was, in fact, pure fiction.

In the early weeks of 1929, Joan Lowell, 26 years old, was having the time of her life. Her publishers, Simon & Schuster, had told her that the first run of 75,000 copies of her book would be followed by another 75,000 before the month was out. It was receiving ecstatic reviews on both sides of the Atlantic, and best of all, the fledgling Book of the Month Club had announced its March choice: Cradle of the Deep, the story of a girl raised on the China seas by her sea-captain father. The public embraced the story and it was selling briskly ─ the Great Depression was barely a cloud on the horizon.

Simon & Schuster gave a publishing party for Joan and 500 guests onboard the Isle de France in New York Harbor. Among those invited was director D.W. Griffith, who announced that he would film the story and star Lowell as herself ─ not a stretch, actually, because Joan had been an ingénue in Hollywood and landed a bit part in Charlie Chaplin's Gold Rush. Perhaps her mentor Edward L. Bernays was among the guests. And surely her new ─ fairly new ─ husband, playwright Thompson Buchanan, was by her side. They had left Los Angeles together to come to New York City to become successful writers, to become stage actors ─ to become famous.

Birth records show that Joan was born in Berkeley, California, in 1902 and that her birth name was Lazzarevich. Later, she would supply the 1936 edition of Who's Who with the information that her father was Captain Nicholas Wagner and her mother was Emma Lowell Trask (she would act under the names Lowell and Trask). Candidates for Who's Who traditionally supplied their own data, including DOB, and the publisher took the subjects' information at face value. Joan's birth name and date of birth are often missing in biographical data. Much of Joan's information on Wikipedia is wrong, especially the account of her early childhood, which is taken straight from her book.

Joan attended Berkeley High School and the Munson School for Private Secretaries in San Francisco, but she must have been dissatisfied with her prospects because around 1923 or 1924 she went to Los Angeles, where she was soon cast as an unnamed saloon girl in Chaplin's film.

She was in two more silent films, Cold Nerve and Loving Lies. She got third billing in the latter, a melodrama about seafaring lives which was written by Thompson Buchanan, the writer/actor who became her husband. After meeting on this project, they decided to go east together and seek their fortunes. While they were both acting in a traveling troupe, they secretly married.

In New York City, Joan tried her hand at acting, playwriting and journalism. She came under the wing of Bernays, known as the father of modern public relations. It was he who encouraged her to put her "yarns" into a book.

In The Cradle of the Deep, Joan, raised from infancy to age 17 onboard her father's clipper ship, comes of age in an unusual and exclusively male environment. She learns domestic skills from the sail maker and the cook; she learns arithmetic by calculating her father's course; she studies cultures when the ship puts in at exotic ports; and when she asks about sex, her father allows her to assist in the dissection of a pregnant shark. Joan was every girl's heroine. She was feisty and adventurous and followed the sailor's code: never squeal on anyone, take punishment without a squawk, and never show fear. My code as well. And although I lived totally landlocked, it seemed important to me, too, to learn to spit into the wind.

Lowell's immediate success blew up in her face. The questions began, including whether a girl who had demonstrably lived most of her life in Berkeley and attended Berkeley High School and a San Francisco secretarial school could have racked up 100,000 nautical miles on the open seas. Most vociferous were sailing experts who questioned her savvy ─ gained, they claimed, "20,000 leagues away from the sea."

There was a powerful backlash against the book, and it was said that members mailed it back by the thousands to the Book of the Month Club, which issued full reimbursements. It wasn't that readers hated the book, or hated the author. It was that they had loved the book extravagantly, and were heartbroken to learn that it was fiction.

In England, where the book was popular, readers laughed at what became known as "an absorbing scuffle in Printer's Alley." They labeled it autobiographical narrative, perhaps another term for what lately is being called fictionalized memoir. "We on this side of the water are less concerned that our light reading should be veridical. All we ask is that it should be reasonably well written and amusing enough to carry us . . . so that we shall not mind a stretching of our credulity now and again," said the Observer.

Lowell's own response ─ the only relevant quote I could find ─ is the claim that "Truth is contained as much in the dreams and legends of people as in the factual chronicle of their lives." The book continued to be categorized as nonfiction. In 80 Years of Bestsellers from the New York Times, it is listed as number three of the top ten bestsellers of 1929, with the note "The sensational spit-in-the-wind Cradle of the Deep followed in Trader Horn's footsteps." That reference is to the book by Alfred Aloysius Horn recounting his youth as an ivory trader in Central Africa ─ supposedly a true story.

I knew nothing of this controversy. I hadn't been born yet. My family in St. Clair County, Alabama, made an annual trip to Birmingham to visit the dentist and do Christmas shopping. I had very early discovered the city's second-hand bookstore. There I found a battered copy of Cradle and it became my favorite book, for years my most revisited book. I was especially thrilled by the scene in which young Joan witnesses childbirth on a Pacific isle. I knew nothing about sex or childbirth. This girl was boldly pursuing the subjects that puzzled me.

Years later, when my children were young and we spent summers on Big Cranberry Isle in Maine, at the church bazaar and at yard sales old copies of Cradle of the Deep would turn up for a quarter or even a dime. Copies were still plentiful because between them, the publisher and the book club had run off so many prints. I bought copies for my girls and for their friends. These young readers loved the book as much as I had.

Twenty years later, when my oldest daughter decided to try her hand at turning the book into a screenplay, I had to pay a book finder 60 dollars to locate a copy. To help expedite the screenplay, I volunteered to try to track the copyright renewals. A few lines on the Internet alerted me to the book's history as a hoax, and my focus switched from the book to its author.

On a trip to California, I searched the Berkeley Archives and visited the Alameda County Courthouse and its museum room. The Academy library in Los Angeles came up with Joan Lowell's film credits and a publicity still that showed her as a classic beauty, with the strong jaw, nose and brow of beauties of that time ─ Irene Dunne, Joan Bennett.

I also searched magazine and newspaper archives. There was another disappointment in 1929, after Joan's book was dragged through the mud. In September, Thompson Buchanan opened a play at Christopher Morley's Hoboken Theatre with Joan in the lead role. The play closed two weeks later. A New York Times reporter tracked the author to his apartment at Washington Place and asked him directly about a report that the couple might file for divorce because of what their spokespeople had called a "recently discovered incompatibility of temperament."

Buchanan told the reporter, "I did not know what temperament was until the failure of my play The Star of Bengal, in which my wife was starred."

Undaunted by these reversals, Joan sank what was left of her book money into writing and filming Adventure Girl (1934) in the West Indies and Central America, with the vague notion it would prove that although Cradle of the Deep was not true autobiography, it might as well have been. After all, she added, "Any damn fool can be accurate ─ and dull."

In this "fact and fiction" talkie, Joan plays herself as she is buffeted by a hurricane, battles a boa constrictor and an octopus, and is nearly burned at the stake by hostile natives ("most of whom are smiling in amusement," noted a review). By now, she was billing herself as a globetrotting explorer, skilled mariner and deep-sea diver ... don't laugh, the movie turned a profit for RKO. She was finally living the life she had imagined for herself.

That life continued to be one of high adventure. In 1935, on a cruise, she fell in love with the ship's captain, who inspired her with his ambition to carve an empire out of the Brazilian jungle. He didn't believe she could do it; to prove she could, she lived on a remote beach, where he was supposed to pick her up a year later. He didn't show up. She tracked him to New York City, where he'd been offered the job of director of the Port of New York. Persuading him to follow their dream, she married her captain and they went to Brazil, with little capital but lots of energy.

They took on the job of building a 100-mile road into the jungle in the state of Goiaz. After three years of backbreaking labor, along with the workers they could find, they finished the road. The reward: thousands of acres of land.

Even her death in the Brazilian jungle in 1967 was dramatic and mysterious and unexplained. Joan's obituary in The New York Times declared that her book "created one of the most sensational literary controversies of its time." I looked over my clips and notes and photocopies again after the James Frey affair had run in the press and on TV for longer than seemed justified. I picked up her book again. How important had it been to me as a young reader to believe that the book was true? At the time, I was convinced ─ the endpapers alone are convincing, with their map of Joan's adventures, her portrait and the reference to her as Joan Lowell, the Captain's daughter. I would not have wanted to be told that the story was not authentic. Nor would I have wanted my money back. And I would keep the book. In spite of its history, it is one of those cherished books, read and reread and passed on.

© 2014 by Martha Moffett

Bio

Martha Moffett was born at the end of a dirt road in Alabama. She worked in NYC (GQ, American Heritage Dictionary, LHJ), relocated to Florida (another dirt road) as chief librarian at AMI. What was that like? " Like being flung into a Victorian workhouse." Now voting in NJ.

De-rek Je-ter

Carl Selinger

I made the best catch of my life decades after I stopped playing baseball, and it came off the bat of Derek Jeter in the old Yankee Stadium. And I also got the girl.

The warm summer day was perfect for baseball — low humidity, nice breeze. I sat by myself at a day game. I was in a box seat in the upper grandstand perched about 40 feet above the field, three rows back from the railing, down the right field near the foul pole. Nice seat, if you were okay with the very steep incline of the old stadium, and craning your head left toward the batter because the seats faced towards center field. You got used to it.

Perhaps I stood out with my black Mets jersey with "PIAZZA" on the back, but no one said anything. As a lifelong Mets fan, I don't root for the Yankees... except for Derek Jeter. I do have a black Yankees T-shirt with "JETER" above the 2. Official Yankees' jerseys don't display names because Yankee fans are expected to learn in the womb the legends who wore numbers 1, 3, 4 and so on.

Jeter led off the bottom of the first inning to swelling applause. The voice of PA announcer Bob Sheppard intoned: "Now batting for the Yankees, the shortstop, number two, Derek Jeter, number two." The "t" in Jeter was pronounced so crisply, so New Yawk.

Two screaming teenage girls distracted my reverie watching Jeter saunter to the batter's box. They sat — really stood and jumped — leaning on the railing of the first row of the grandstand, about ten feet down just off to my right. With their hysterical yelling and waving for Derek, I almost expected him to call "time," look in our direction, and motion for the girls to "keep it down." He didn't. Showing no recognition of the wailing fans, he grounded out, busting it hard to first.

The game moved on as baseball games do. I chatted with the guy sitting on my left, there with his young son. When Jeter came up for his second at-bat, the girls still had voices left; they regaled him, perhaps a little lower in volume this time, or maybe I was just ready for it.

Now I was able to enjoy the pleasure of watching Jeter's at-bat ritual. First, the practice half-swings as he walked determinedly to the plate, skirting behind the home plate umpire, arriving in front of the batter's box. Then, stretching his right foot ahead to plant it firmly near the back of the batter's box. After that, inserting his left foot in the front of the box, affecting a slightly bowlegged stance. He finished his ritual in a series of moves that can vary in order: tapping his bat on home plate, adjusting the bill of his batting helmet with his right hand, gripping the bat upright in his left hand, then holding his right hand up to the ump asking him to wait a bit while he gets ready — finally — for the pitch. Silly man; he doesn't need to do the "hold up, ump" because everyone is watching Jeter do his set-piece ritual. No one quick-pitches The Captain.

I don't recall much about the game, even who won. I didn't really care; it was a summer day at the ballpark. I was squirreling through a bag of peanuts when Jeter came up for the third time. The girls repeated their primal mating dance, now at a tolerable level. Jeter looked for the pitch. The girls were in the corner of my eye, standing and waving, leaning on the railing, swooning over his every move.

Jeter swung and reached — CRACK! — hitting an outside pitch on a line in our direction down the right field line. Instantly my innate centerfielder instincts knew it was coming my way. I was in "foul-ball-mode" ready to break for it, ditching the peanuts and standing up. The ball was coming closer, almost in slow motion, slicing towards us up at eye level in the grandstand. I sensed danger. I glanced toward the girls, who were watching the ball, now leaning way over the railing — reaching, stretching — to catch the ball. I immediately lurched down a row past empty seats and got behind the nearest girl who was now way out over the railing. I lunged and grabbed her with my left arm around her waist, and held on.

The still life lasted another second or two. The small white baseball flew past us — oh so close — disappearing foul beneath us into the lower stands. The girl hung over the railing with my arm around her waist. I pulled her back, and released my grip. She twisted to see who had grabbed her. I half-smiled. She said nothing. She and her friend sat down. I returned to my seat.

The guy sitting next to me commented, "Nice catch."

Jeter continued his at-bat after the foul ball. The game went on as if nothing had happened. Nothing did happen. The girls were quiet. I didn't say anything to them for the rest of the game. I figured I should let them start a conversation if they wanted to; they didn't.

Since then, every time I hear of a fan injured falling out of the stands, I recall that day when I was not interviewed on the six o'clock news.

Which leaves me to savor Derek Jeter. The jump-throws from short. The Flip. The Dive. And the batter's box ritual. And the time I made my best catch ever...off The Captain.

© 2014 by Carl Selinger

Bio

Carl Selinger is the author of Stuff You Don't Learn in Engineering School: Skills for Success in the Real World (Wiley-IEEE Press, 2004), and has been contributing editor of IEEE Spectrum magazine with more than 30 articles on professional development themes. This essay will appear in his forthcoming book, Stuff Happens: Tales from the Real World.

The Perfect Loogie

Jenny Ross

Spitting is judged on three major criteria: distance, volume, and hang.

Amateur spitters often sprinkle their saliva. They lack control over their fluids and, as a result, spray spittle all over the dugout floor. Master spitters can hit targets. They can hock a loogie with more force than a fastball.

As the first girl to play baseball in Wharton, New Jersey, I spent six years hanging out with boys. Early on in my career, I learned that they are generally interested in three things: spitting, making fart sounds with any part of their body, and sports. Of the three, I learned the most about the skill of spitting.

I never truly mastered the art form, but I learned to control my loogies accurately enough to get by in baseball. To be accepted by the guys I had to be good — at the plate, in the field and spitting on the sidelines. The better I could master these three elements, the more they were likely to forget about my gender. So while my girlfriends assumed I was some sort of undercover spy deciphering Guy Code, I was really just learning how to appreciate a good loogie.

It was in 1996, before a 13-year-old Babe Ruth baseball game, that I bore witness to the greatest glob of saliva in the history of spit. A legendary loogie that now lives only in this story and the memories of the few who were confined to a hot dugout that afternoon. My teammates and I sat waiting for more players to show up, the other team to arrive, or something good to happen. Time has since blurred the motive for a small contingent of fresh teenagers to be idle in uniform on a hot, early summer evening. I don't know who we played in the game. I don't know what we were waiting for. I can't even recall which teammates were present. The following moment has since overshadowed any other memory of that day.

Boredom settled in as the heat baked us. We searched for a form of entertainment. But for thirteen-year-old boys, there is always an easy solution — you spit. So a contest of loogies commenced. The something good we were waiting to happen happened. Sitting on the bench in a legitimate dug out dugout, one of the guys let his spit fly. The massively huge glob of saliva (volume) hit the chain link fence wall of the dugout (distance). It clung to a knot in the metal and delicately slithered over the diamond opening and froze (hang). It was the triple crown of spits. This was all we discussed for the next ten minutes. It never moved. The spitter was king of the dugout.

Like clockwork, my best friend paraded past the field. She would often come to my games to support me (read: check out my teammates). Her younger brothers played baseball, and while they competed on the smaller Little League diamonds, she would walk around the field to find us. I spotted her as she approached the first-base-side stands. My teammates groaned. They knew why she was there. They had grown tired of her constant attention to them. (Lesson 1: Even a thirteen-year-old boy knows when you're interested.) They wanted to play a trick on her. The spit conversation distracted them from my allegiance to the female sex, but — like a ball taking a bad hop off our infield grass — my gender suddenly hit them. They all looked at me. They knew she was my friend. They knew that meant I'd tell her the plot. (Lesson 2: Even thirteen-year-old boys know more about girls than you think.) What they didn't know was that I had grown annoyed by her constant flirting with my teammates. More importantly, I needed to be one of the guys.

Women ballplayers who have played beyond fourteen and into high school, college, and on semi-pro teams have noted their need to overlook the indiscretions of their male teammates. They couldn't be the one to throw up the smoke signals or run to players' wives and girlfriends to alert them of their unfaithful men. When it's your team, you pick them. Any girl who has played with the boys will confess their allegiance to the men and their complete disregard of Girl Code. My teammates weren't cheating on their significant others, but we could bond over secret saliva. So I was on board and my joining was essential to the loogie lure.

I had to be the one to call my friend into the dugout.

Beckoning her to come was like St. Peter opening the gates, and she entered her heaven with a smile. From this point on, the guys took over and lured her toward the fence. We had discussed many methods for how to get her to touch the spit. None were needed.

The moment played out in slow motion. One of my teammates pointed to something in the distance. As she looked, she stretched her hand toward the saliva-strewn fence and without prodding placed it on the loogie. She screamed. The guys (and I) laughed hysterically. I immediately felt bad. She stormed away, furious and disgusted.

It wasn't the only time I sided with my teammates over the course of my career. Boys picked on each other often, and pecking order was always based on ability. The better you were, the less you were targeted. One of the whinier, less athletic, and larger-sized kids on the team became the subject of many team tricks. One Little League game, he had a cup of hot chocolate on the bench from a nearby concession stand. Every time he wasn't looking, the guys would throw dirt and twigs into the Styrofoam cup. Each item sank to the bottom, concealed by the opaque liquid. They stared, waiting for him to sip from the gross mixture. A parent noticed the antics and a coach chucked it in the garbage before the kid ever downed his drink.

I wasn't a member of the mixology team that game, but I watched the hot cocoa being filled with dirt, sticks, and small rocks. I never said anything. When you are the outcast, you do what is necessary to fit in. You let a lot of things slide. It's bad enough you're the girl on the team. You don't want to be something worse — a tattletale. My issues were never as extreme as women who have gone on to higher levels in baseball and endured much worse, but I can understand how they turn a blind eye to what they witness. The need to fit in far outweighs your moral compass.

Since I could hold my own — on the field and in spitting — I wasn't the butt of team jokes or pranks. As far as I knew, the worst I ever experienced was a Little League game in Jefferson. My team was at the plate, so most of us were in the third-base dugout. Our batter popped up to the third baseman, but as I looked up to see the ball, my mouth opened. It made a sound. To my teammates, it resembled a kissing noise — even though at eleven not many of us knew what a real kiss sounded like. The guys immediately went off on a tangent centered on how I liked the third baseman. I was mortified. It was the one thing I never wanted to show — interest in my teammates or the guys on the field. The only thing worse than the guys thinking you liked them, was actually showing that it was true. They were usually displeased by my best friend's flirting. I didn't want them to think they had the same thing on their team. We were teammates; we weren't going to date. Or at least, that was always what I told myself to make playing with the guys less uncomfortable.

The strange part of growing up on a baseball diamond was that my life was altering. In fifth grade, they separate the boys from the girls and make you watch some outdated, awkward video that's supposed to tell you how your body will change. I wasn't there that day. Baseball made me miss the most important day of grammar school. But that's a story for another time. From what I gathered when I returned, after the video no one dared to ask any follow-up questions. None of my friends knew what went on with the boys. Girls just have some vague idea that some time in our future blood is going to come pouring out of our vaginas on the regular. But that's totally normal and completely a good thing. Then we start growing hair like Chia pets, but we are supposed to shave it off, which just results in more blood loss. The first time you cut your leg shaving (which is generally the first time you shave your legs), it looks like the shower scene from Psycho. It's shocking that teenage girls aren't hospitalized more often.

But no one on my team knew any of that was going on.

It was during my first official Major League Little League baseball season that I got my period. Wharton's Major Leaguers got to wear full polyester uniforms topped with cotton New Era caps. I worried on field about an ill-fitting sanitary napkin staining my yellow pants like a secret sniper. It was during my second season when I started wearing a sports bra. While my teammates were adjusting their jockstraps, my uterine wall was shedding. Guys knocked on their cups to ensure protecting their family jewels, and I had tumors sprouting out of my chest that required extra support. It was during those awkward pre-teen, middle-school years that I started to understand boys in a way other than having a good arm.

Every girl experiences their interest in boys in a different way. As their teammate, I tried for so long not to look at the guys with any curiosity. My eyes never lingered flirtatiously. I never left my hand out for a boy to casually touch. I didn't walk away in any attempt to lure them to check me out. I tried to be as asexual as possible.

I never went to the fields to flirt with my teammates. In fact, to this day, my game is limited to baseball and not the dating world.

All I let the guys see was my interest in baseball and spitting. It was common ground. They didn't have sanitary napkins or sports bras or thirty-two Band-Aids on their legs from a shaving attempt. Spitting let me linger in guy world a little longer.

I went the distance. I could hang. And my volume was low enough that they never kicked me out.

I was the perfect loogie a teammate could ask for.

© 2014 by Jenny Ross

Bio

Jenny Ross was the first girl in Wharton, New Jersey, to play boys baseball. After a softball career, she returned to the baseball diamond to compete with the East Coast Yankees women's baseball team. Currently, she coaches high school sports and writes young adult fiction centered on female athletes.

Fiction

Back to the Table of Contents

In this section, we have nine stories, ranging from flash fiction to excerpts from longer works.

The Waitress Sighs

Josie Zeman

Oh lord, my feet really hurt, and it's only 5:30. Why did I sign on for the long weekend shift? Friday, Saturday, and Sunday, noon to 10 p.m., serving the locals at this popular neighborhood diner. Mainly for the tips; weekends are usually better on that score.

Oops, here they are: "the girls" from the big apartment building that went condo two years ago. Six of them, all dressed up with nowhere to go but my table. Where are their husbands? Are they dead, or out dancing with their younger second wives at a much fancier restaurant? I wonder how long they will sit at this round table before they start complaining.

Jocylen is too cold; she hates air conditioning so she brings at least two jackets and a scarf even though it's 90 degrees outside. She can feel the draft from the vent. "It's blowing right on my neck," she complains to the others.

Sylvia is too hot. She's sporting an expensive pair of khaki pants, sandals that show off her freshly painted toenails, and an exquisite sleeveless cotton shirt. I call it "the California look" and wish she'd go back there. "It's so hot in here," she will say. "Ask the manager to turn up the air conditioning before I pass out."

There's mousy Madeleine, quietly switching seats so Jocylen won't feel the AC. "I don't mind, really I don't," she will murmur. She never complains if I get her order wrong, if the fries should be sweet potato fries instead of the other kind, if the pie should be warm and it's stone cold.

Ah, here we go. Jocylen and Sylvia are looking around for a booth that might be more to their liking. The problem is that once seated, it's hard for them to get up to go to the Ladies' Room because the benches are a bit too low.

Did Christine the vegetarian come with them? Of course she did. She favors the hippie look: Birkenstocks, long flowing skirt with a wraparound shirt, long dangling earrings. She will grill (no pun intended) me relentlessly about all the ingredients on her platter. "Is the fish farm-raised or fresh caught? Where did it come from? Did the chef cook the fish in the same pan as the shellfish special? I'm allergic to shrimp and clams, remember? Do you use chicken stock as a base for the lentil/vegetable soup?"

Look lady, I don't buy or cook the food here. I just bring it to you. But of course I can't say that.

There's Phyllis, the light diner who is always on a diet. I think she eats a full meal at home an hour before she gets here. "I'll just have a scoop of tuna, no fries, and make sure the mayo is fresh. I get terrible heartburn from the cheap brands you know," she tells her friends as she fumbles for a napkin that will inevitably land on the floor. I have to admit I like Phyllis. She looks so noble when everyone else orders dessert. She will just take a taste of the rice pudding with whipped cream and the chocolate sundae, thanks so much.

There's no right answer for Sally, the relentless health nut. If the salad is not made with organic greens she'll make a big fuss and send it back. "What kind of olive oil do you use? Is it the first press or the second?" "Are these beets from New Jersey or imported from the West Coast?" "Don't bring me anything grown in Chile or Mexico. Who knows what disease I might catch?"

After all these precautions, at least two of them will change their order at the last minute because they spied something more enticing on the menu. They will demand separate checks, of course. And to top it off, the tip will be small.

I'm used to them. "Hello ladies," I say in a friendly tone. "Welcome to my world."

© 2014 by Josie Zeman

Bio

Josie Zeman is a former journalist. Her weekly column, "Just Josie," appeared for a decade in The Jersey Journal. She worked as a communications/marketing coordinator for major philanthropic organizations in New York City.

Gundarland

Hank Quense

(Author's note: During the course of writing many short stories, novellas and novels, I've created two different worlds. One of them, Gundarland, is populated by humans, dwarfs, elves, trolls and other fantasy races. The following material is taken from my ebook, The Strange Worlds of Hank Quense, available online.)

Gundarland is the largest land mass on the planet called Gundar. Populated by diverse races such as dwarfs, humans, elves, half-pints, yuks and a few lesser races, these disparate races live cheek-by-jowl in many cases and get along with no more than the usual interracial hostility.

At one time, the yuks roamed over all of the island subjecting everyone to their boorish behavior and crude manners. The other races mostly put up with them, but it was a brave hostess who invited a yuk to a dinner party. They ate with their fingers because they always pilfered the cutlery as soon as they sat down at the table. Eventually, the yuks were driven into the southwest corner of the island, a land of marshes and mountains deemed worthless by land developers.

By ancient tradition, warriors always took a double major when they studied the arts of war. The double major came in handy during the rare outbreaks of peace. Thus, in medieval times, knight-accountants, warrior-cooks and soldier-lawyers roamed the countryside seeking combat and/or clients.

Historically, the country was divided into a number of independent provinces ruled by dukes, warlords and an occasional madman. The principal occupation of these province leaders was making war on the neighbors. These constant wars provided employment for many dwarf warriors since the dukes prided themselves on the quality of their ax-dwarfs. Many dwarf families were proud of the generations of warriors who fought exclusively for Duke X or Warlord Y. These families ignored the fact that most of the warriors died at an unnaturally young age.

Whenever, the country suffered from an outbreak of peace, it resulted in devastating disruptions to the economy. Weapons and armor manufacturers, many of them one-anvil blacksmith shops, went bankrupt from the lack of orders. The Camp Followers Guild, which furnished the armies with food, drink and entertainment while in the field, saw its primary markets vanish. Dens of inequity lost many of their profitable, inequitious customers. Ripple effects troubled other economic sectors. Ale brewers laid off workers in response to the hordes of penniless ex-warriors. The garment industry suffered from a glut of skimpy, rip-away costumes favored by the Camp Followers Guild. The surviving blacksmiths offered reduced rates to sharpen kitchen knives and scissors. This always led to an alarming increase in marital homicides.

While elves, half-pints and humans all felt the effects of non-war, dwarfdom suffered the most. Dwarf warrior unemployment shot up to historic highs causing hardship, worries and a frightening rise in highway brigandage. Both freight wagons and train traffic suffered equally — showing that the dwarf ex-warriors are up to technological adaptation — since train robberies require new and different techniques than wagon robberies. The disruption of traffic brought on more unemployment and an increase in economic hardships.

Religion

The planet was named Gundar after the omniscient god who accidentally created the universe with an explosive sneeze caused by snorting a larger-than-average dose of His favorite recreational powder. The nodules of spittle flew through space and eventually solidified into suns, planets, comets and other celestial bodies.

Scientists call this event the Big Achoo. Medical authorities argue that infectious diseases are the result of this unsanitary beginning. Religious authorities counter that such talk is blasphemous and that the medical authorities should accept infectious diseases as Gundar's holy will. Ordinary folk think the authorities have too much free time on their hands and ought to get jobs.

The priests are known as Gundarites. The Gundarite symbol of their god is a well-used handkerchief. Some priests have used the same one for years without washing it.

Officially, the worship of Gundar is called Gundarism, but competing religions call it Snotism. So do nonbelievers.

The biggest festival occurs in the spring when Gundarism celebrates the birth of the universe. Know as the Sacred Sneezing Ceremony, the ritual culminates in everyone simultaneously inhaling crushed pepper to generate a giant sneeze. Doctors love the festival; many of them make more money in the month following the Sacred Sneezing Ceremony than they do for the rest of the year. Oddly enough, the priests all wore masks during the ceremony. Nonbelievers called this ceremony the Snot-fest.

Many Gundarite rituals call for a sneezing choir. Soprano choirs consist of females chosen for the musical quality of their sneezing; males have baritone and tenor choirs. By selecting choir members with specific sneezing tones, a musical composition can be preformed, but this complicated and expensive performance is reserved for the most sacred rituals.

Priests conclude blessings and homilies by swiping an index finger under their noses and then wiping the finger on their chests. This is known as the Sign of the Sneeze.

Troll Patrol

The Troll Patrol is an institution unique to Dun Hythe, the largest city and most important seaport.

Long ago, the city leaders recognized the need to control and direct the heavy wagon traffic that flowed to and from the port area. They organized a foot patrol of citizens for this purpose and all went well for a while. No one knows who allowed the first troll to join the foot patrol, but word immediately spread throughout the troll community that one of their number had a paying job with unlimited donuts. Soon after that every opening in the foot patrol attracted dozens of trolls who brazenly persuaded non-trolls to withdraw their applications.

Trolls proved to be particularly inept at traffic control. A member of the Troll Patrol could station himself in the middle of a deserted intersection and within minutes he would create a traffic-snarling mess. To keep the enraged wagon drivers under control, the trolls relied upon truncheons. A whack or two in the head always knocked a driver groggy and made him a lot less noisy.

The Troll Patrol did prove effective in controlling the riots started by their traffic messes. Since trolls evolved from rocks, they have rock DNA in their systems and that makes hitting a troll in his head a waste of energy. All it does is damage the weapon and focus the troll's attention on the head-hitter, much to the head-hitter's discomfort.

Trolls have a unique perspective on bribery. Frequently, a visitor who was apprehended by a Troll Patrol on a charge — often a dubious one — would offer a sum of money to make the charge disappear. The troll always pocketed the money and then added bribery to the charge sheet. The bribed troll scrupulously shared the bribe money with the shift desk sergeant.

Early in the process of changing from a foot patrol to the Troll Patrol, politicians discovered that it was nearly impossible to fire a troll and continue living. The fired troll took the firing personally and considered himself insulted. An insult to a troll insulted the troll's entire family who felt obligated to avenge their family honor by slaughtering the insulter.

© 2011 by Hank Quense

Bio

Hank Quense writes humorous and satiric scifi and fantasy stories. He also writes about fiction writing and self-publishing. He has published 15 books and 50 short stories along with a few dozen articles. He and his wife, Pat, usually vacation in another galaxy or parallel universe.

Sister Mary

Richard Herr

There's only one thing better than the fresh flush of youth when you think you're indestructible: discovering the trick of surviving past that age of foolishness.

Quite full of myself, at the tender age of eighteen, I was Crewman Fifth Class Pendry Surch on an interstellar freighter, the Kkchech charting through the Bis-Ra section of the Galaxy. Only problem was, I didn't know what my job was. That should've given me a hint I was being young and foolish.

The reason the name of the ship sounds like you're clearing your throat is that it was registered on the planet CChhoo. The CChhoon are an amoeba-like race that have no firm body structure, so they gurgle out their speech. That's why the name of their planet sounds like you're clearing your throat.

I approached a native member of the crew. His name was Rrsshh. I should have known better than to approach him from his rear, or the part of his body that was, at the moment, away from his eyes. Most creatures turn their heads to view someone else, but not the CChhoon. They hold still, but let their eyes migrate across the surface of their bodies to look at you.

"I'm still trying to figure out my job on this ship," I said.

Instead of creeping oculars, Rrsshh took the shortcut. His eyes traveled through the middle of his body and suddenly bobbed to the surface on my side, staring at me. His mouth also made its appearance slightly above his eyes. "I'm sure the reason will absorb its way into your being, Srrcchh. Who knows, it may lead to you becoming one of us."

I started to ask him what he meant by that, but suddenly an androgynous voice issued from my translator. "Crewman Pendry Surch, go to Cabin 16B. There is a human passenger. Indoctrinate it to the ship."

That was strange. This was a cargo run, heading into a remote sector. Usually, the few passengers aboard would be Amalgam traders. The odds of a human riding with us were remote.

I went to the cabin and knocked on the door. A lady answered.

"Good morning, ma'am, I'm Crewman Pendry Surch. I've been sent to familiarize you with procedures on the ship. I'm sorry, but I wasn't given your name. May I ask what it is?"

"Sister Mary Armbruster."

She wore an outfit that was black with white trim, with beads hanging from her waist. She was small and slight. Her age was beyond middle-age, but paused before entering elderly. She wore no make-up, and her skin was a clear white, reminiscent of the finest china.

"Well, uh, Sister, is there anything I can help you with; anything you need to know about the ship?"

"Why, thank you very much. As a matter of fact, I don't know how to get something to eat," she said.

"That's understandable. We're the only two beings on this ship who eat food, rather than absorb it. Let me take you to the...well...I guess you'd call it the cafeteria. It's time for me to have lunch. I'll join you; show you how to order up chow."

"Thank you. That's very kind of you," she said, and gave me a warm smile, like this was the nicest thing someone'd ever done for her.

On the way over to lunch, I pointed out the life boats and explained other things she needed to know during her time on the ship. When we got to the feeding area, I showed her how to order her meal.

Over lunch, I told her I was trying to figure out what my job was. She said, "Don't worry, dear, I'm sure you'll discover what God's will is."

"May I ask what you're doing in this remote sector of the Galaxy?" I said.

"I come all the way from Earth," she said. "I'm also trying to find my mission."

"Where do you come from on Earth?" I asked. I was interested in finding out about our home planet.

"A place called the Vatican," she replied. "I don't know where I'll wind up, but I'm certain it will be someplace where God's Word needs to be spread."

I showed her the translators. "The first switch setting translates what you hear in the general area. This second lets you listen in on the information being disseminated for your particular language. In your case it would be Anglo. The third setting gives you access to both."

Just then, the second channel emitted an announcement from the central computer. "Attention, Crewman Pendry Surch report at once to the Boarding Area." We'd finished our lunch, so I mouthed a quick excuse me at Sister Mary, and headed toward the Boarding Area. "You are to meet the boarding party of Bis-Ra."

At last I'd find out what my duties were. As I made my way, I noticed the rest of the crew members were giving me a wide berth. I thought that I had such important duties they didn't want to slow me down.

I was being young and foolish again.

"The following is the information available on the Bis-Ra." The computer downloaded Amalgam info out of its files. "They are a species that resembles what you refer to in Terran terms as a caprine stock, closely related to goats. They have a highly developed sense of territory. When a ship encounters them in their sector of space, they will board and demand that someone answer their territorial challenge. Since their goal is a ramming contest, they search the ship for the being with the hardest skeletal structure."

My stomach began to sink as I realized why I was hired for this trip.

"The first part of their challenge is a staring match. After the opponent has lost the staring match, the Bis-Ra will insist on a ramming contest. Records show attempts to hide from their challenge have proven unsuccessful. They are able to penetrate up to twelve inches of tempered plasteel. Recommended technique is to not lock eyes with the Bis-Ra. This concludes the report. Have a nice day."

I absorbed the news as I approached the Boarding Area. I was stuck. The realization struck home to me that I was, in fact, young and foolish. My mind worked furiously trying to devise some way to get myself out of this mess.

I'd reached the entrance to the Boarding Area. I paused, trying to figure out what to do.

"Ah, Srrcchh, I see you have made it here." It was Captain GGhhmm, waiting for me in the boarding area. I could see him with my view from the passageway. He prominently displayed his triple voorts, the emblem of his rank, on the side of his body facing me. I couldn't see the Bis-Ra from this angle. "I'm glad that you were so quick to obey my order to come to the Boarding Area." He stressed the word order. "Don't just balance on your appendages out there. Come in here."

That was it. I was stuck. He'd ordered me to enter. The Amalgam Regs have many twisted logic patterns woven into their fabric. However they are very clear about obeying a captain's order. I had to do it, even though it meant my certain death. The CChhoon didn't realize my peril. For them, being squashed was just a bit uncomfortable. If they were smashed into several pieces, it only meant that they became their next generation. I averted my eyes to the floor and entered.

I couldn't miss the Bis-Ra. He was huge! Even out of the corner of my eye, I could make that out. He was about eleven or twelve feet in height when you added the two feet of horn that formed a solid ramming plate at the top of his head. The minute I entered, he saw my skeletal frame and started his challenge.

"Who are you, and why do you dare to challenge me in such a manner? Why have you come brazenly invading my home territory? You avert your eyes like a common thief. You're not brave enough to stand and look me straight in the eye. Your guilt is displayed by your cowardly lack of response." He paced back and forth across his end of the area, working himself into a lather.

I was trying very hard not to look at him, but I felt a compunction to lock eyes with him. The Bis-Ra have a talent for forcing one to face them. Slowly my eyes raised up toward the Bis-Ra. I couldn't stop them. I'd lock gazes with him in any second.

"Exactly what are you doing, young ram?"

The commanding voice immediately took control of the situation. It stopped me dead in my tracks. It stopped the Bis-Ra. It seemed to stop the clock. It wasn't that it was that loud. It spoke in a moderate tone. However, it commanded respect. It forced everyone, the Bis-Ra particularly, to turn around and face the speaker. All of us in the room, including the captain, said, "Nothing," even though we weren't the ones addressed. The Bis-Ra also said, "Nothing."

"That is nothing, 'Sister'," she corrected.

Everyone (myself included) promptly answered, "Yes, Sister."

It was Sister Mary. She'd followed me to the Boarding Area, with her translator still set to the Anglo channel. She'd heard everything, and she'd responded.

Sister Mary Armbruster had stepped in and accepted the challenge of the Bis-Ra. I could now turn my gaze on him, and I could see he had turned to face the sister, looked at her, and had most certainly quailed. He maintained eye contact with the sister, but he was losing the stare-down. He looked like a nocturnal animal caught in a light's glare at night.

"So, if you were doing nothing, you were certainly making a lot of noise doing it."

"I-I-I was just challenging, Sister."

"Challenging? Challenging whom?"

"This being who came here." The Bis-Ra fluttered an appendage in my direction.

"And why would you be challenging him?"

"Because." He was fading fast.

"Because what?"

"Because we've always done it."

"And who may I ask is 'we'?"

"The rest of my people. We always do it, Sister."

"I see." She paused. "And if the rest of your people always jumped off a cliff, would we do that, too?"

"No, Sister."

"I would think not. It certainly doesn't make any sense, does it?"

"No, Sister."

"Then are you going to stop doing this from now on?"

"Yes, Sister."

There was a momentary pause. "What, may I ask, are you chewing?"

His eyes widened. "My cud, Sister."

"I see. And do we have enough cud for everyone else to chew?"

"No, Sister."

"I see. Then don't you think it would be a good idea if we got rid of it."

"Yes, Sister." He swallowed. Later, I learned that swallowing an unchewed cud gave them an enormous bellyache.

"Are we prepared to start behaving properly?"

"Yes, Sister."

"Very good, dear, then go on about your business," she said with a dismissive gesture.

"Yes, Sister. Thank you, Sister." And the Bis-Ra cast his eyes to the ground and slunk out the port, back to his ship.

He'd lost the staring match with the sister. The Bis-Ra, the whole race, had been met and defeated in a challenge. Therefore they had to cede and allow the sister anything she wished. What the sister wished most was to set up a mission on their planet. The Bis-Ra were most happy to have her do that, because they needed to have such a skilled challenger teach them her secret.

As of last report, practically all the Bis-Ra have converted to Catholicism. They knew they had to learn the secret about how to be such an effective challenger.

Although they no longer challenged anyone.

Sister Mary wouldn't let them.

She says, "That's not proper behavior for good, Catholic rams and ewes."

© 2014 by Richard Herr

Bio

Richard Herr has had a varied career as an actor, stage manager, computer graphic expert, and presenter of Dog & Pony shows. He has three books published by Prankish Publications: Invasion From Fred, Dog & Pony, and The Star Board Café. "Sister Mary" is from Star Board.

Parasol

Joe DelPriore

The woman with the round face enveloped by helmeted dark hair, the olive woman, tells me no one is sitting at her table. She gets up to leave with her boyfriend, a singer who has just finished his set, consisting of simpering, self-pitying songs. I plop down, order the vegetarian chili. The place is packed; I'm older than everyone else. The waitress comes back, asks if I can switch to a smaller table so a larger party can be seated. She's sexy in that preppie, fleeing-her-old-life way, her hair a tangled web. I do the switch and gaze diffidently around.

The singer I'm here to see has exactly three songs I like, one of which she never sings anymore. She's pushing tables away from the mike like a cranky interior decorator. I think about asking her for an interview. I'm a freelancer. But ultimately I'm too scattered to care. A tall woman with a ballerina's neck and hair that becomes a shampoo commercial when she walks is someone I recognize as my former profile subject. I ponder joining her and her friends. As I approach them, I'm met by polite smiles and a marked chill; I quickly retreat just in time for my food. Maybe she didn't like what I wrote.

The woman I came for has a small-boned face, a pinched expression. Her practiced smile and polished patter carry her between songs. Her husband, balding, lanky and stone-faced, sits right up front. She leans forward several times and whispers to him. My singer is irritated after someone tilts back on their chair and falls. A man across from me in a jacket and tie keeps looking in my direction. Around me people chew, laugh, drink and gesticulate.

I want to talk to someone about anything. My chili gets cold too fast. The couple at the next table cracks up at everything each says. He makes a series of refrigerator magnet observations and she just can't get enough of his wisdom. I want to punch him, smack the guy in the jacket, and gouge another guy who keeps dropping names of famous people he's worked with.

My woman singer is drain-opener thin, but rips into some blues with searing power. My temples throb; everything closes in, the singing, talking, soup smell, a jaunty beret, all of it a percussion of transience. I will never see these people again, nor the posters, the smug entitlement, the swallowing and swilling. This game devours me. I pay the waitress and burst into the street. Couples stream past, decapitated goldfish. In the drone of traffic, the vomit of color, I stumble down Bleecker Street, assaulted by Cupids and Valentine hearts in every window.

Wind follows me to Christopher Street and right into the Path, where I'm again surrounded by couples spit-swapping stories and dialects, entwined like exotic insects in larvae overcoats. I close my eyes on the train, try to remember details from my day; a raised eyebrow, curled lips, jutting chin, anything to create meaningful context.

In Hoboken, bars are jars of mashed fruit with eyeballs. I avoid all of them, walking to my car on Clinton. A man hovers in a doorway, perhaps excavated from ruins. I follow his hungry eyes to a couple hugging. The young man lifts his woman, and she whirls and whirls, her white pants a fixated dove circling. I stutter past, hear him fumbling with keys; sense her excited breath punching the frostbitten air.

At home, lying in bed, I see them circling each other always, a parasol of shadow and light.

© 2014 by Joseph DelPriore

Bio

Joseph DelPriore has been writing since 1982. He has six collections of flash fiction under the Switchblade Stories series. He has also written extensively for the theater and rates books for Indie Reader.

Excerpt from Into the Lion's Mouth

Brian Montalbano

Chapter 1: The Lion's Den

The sun rose over the hills in the province of Raetia, one hundred and twenty-seven years after Caesar Augustus transformed the Roman republic into an empire. A slight breeze glided through the southern Germanic lands this fateful morning, gently folding the blades of grass. The day seemed so perfect. Only the gods could decide if it would end that way.

"This is the place where blood will stain the ground," a man crouching atop the tallest hill said in a soft, yet commanding, voice. A helmet rested at his side. Its crossway plume signified his elevated position in the legion. The insignia of a lion on his chest plate told his enemies that he was Leonius Aurelius Regillus, the supreme general of all the Roman legions in the empire.

Numerius Tuccius Vespacian and Aulus Cornelius Saturninus, two high-ranking officers, stood behind him.

"Should we engage them so far east of the mountain pass?" Vespacian asked. "With the terrain protecting us at the pass, it would be harder for them to outflank us, and we could ensure a retreat to Rome should the worst occur."

"The surveyors said this location was optimal for a battle — better than the land by the pass," Leonius explained. "The gentle decline makes for an easy advance, the open plain allows for maneuvering, and the wind blows northward here, so it will be at our backs to aid our archers. All these factors give us the advantage while it makes their charge more difficult."

"My soldiers' swords in their bellies does the same," Aulus said. "Ain't no way we retreatin' against the likes of some filthy barbarians, Vespie — put ya fears 'bout that away."

"How colorful, Aulus," Vespacian commented. "Leonius, what would your father have to say about leaving Rome so exposed?"

"My father expressed concern about taking the only legions stationed in Italia so far from the capital," Leonius answered as he stood, "but my brother voiced his support on my behalf."

"Aha," Vespacian exclaimed. "The Aurelius boys joined forces to break the spirit of the mighty tree."

"But Tertius is the emperor," Aulus interjected, perplexed. "He's not a tree —"

"It was a metaphor, Aulus."

"Metaphor or not, let us instead say my father's spirit bent," Leonius quipped. "Aquilus cited my countless victories over four campaigns. They were enough to sway my father to trust my judgment. He would trust it now as well."

"And here I thought Aquilus was the sensible one," Vespacian jested.

"He may prefer the halls of the Senate to the chaos of battle, but he understands its necessity. And, in those matters, he respects my abilities as a praefectus and military advisor."

"Still, your father's caution has merit," Vespacian added. "Legions in Germania Superior could have come from the west to handle this without as much risk, or Pannonia from the east."

"And allow the barbarians to cross the Alps?" Leonius scoffed. "No. If they do that, other tribes will gain confidence that they, too, can defy us and they will swell with the hope that they can make it to Rome herself. We will stop them here — now — and show them their place."

Leonius' eyes returned to the horizon.

"The Marcomanni will attack our center with vigor," he said. "But they will fail. And they will all fall."

Suddenly, the centurion Modius approached, leading a disheveled woman. "This Marcomanni woman stumbled into camp," Modius reported. "She asked specifically to speak to Leonius."

"Tell me, why should I converse with some barbarian?" Leonius replied. He lifted some of her hair. "Especially one with clumps of dirt in her hair and clothing that barely covers her properly?"

"She claims to have spoken to the gods about the battle," Modius said.

"Well, this should be intriguing. Go on. Tell me of your divine conversations."

"A mighty oak will fall," the woman spoke with her eyes rolling around her head as if in a fit of seizure, "leaving acorns behind that will compete for the soil in which they lay."

"Excuse me, harlot?" Leonius snapped. "What is this madness you speak? Speak plainly about the coming battle or find your life rapidly extinguished."

"A battle between brothers seems much more intriguing," the woman said. "Blood will be forced to go against blood of its own as the bond of brotherhood falls to —"

Before she could complete the prophecy, Leonius plunged his gladius into the woman's stomach. Falling to her knees, she reached out to cling to Leonius' waist. Gasping for a final breath, she uttered one more warning. "Beware. When the lion challenges the eagle's supremacy, the eagle will bite back."

Leonius flinched from her grasp. With the prophetess teetering on her knees before the young general, he delivered a stab through her throat, which quickly extinguished the life in her body.
Chapter 2: Battle Plans

The four men stood silent atop the hill, staring at the lifeless body of the Marcomanni woman lying at their feet.

"Should we take the time to ponder what such a vision could mean?" Vespacian broke the silence. "It is an ominous message from the gods."

"Do I look like some Greek fool who throws gold at the words of unfounded oracles?" Leonius barked.

"But sir, what if her words hold truth?" Modius questioned.

"If our gods wish to send a message, let them come down from the mount and talk to me. You truly believe this barbarian harlot could have a direct link to our gods? Her words are as empty as the vase left by Pandora."

Aulus laughed heartily. "Ya think the Lion of the Legion worries 'bout them gods? Jupiter can suck Leonius' —"

"Aulus!" Vespacian cut in. "Your boorish ways are only outdone by your broken speech. You're no longer a mere commoner, you're a centurion. Speak with some diction and have respect for your position." As Vespacian chastised him, Aulus turned toward the slope of the hill, then began urinating. "By the gods, is he already drunk?" Vespacian asked Leonius. "I don't understand why we tolerate his foul presence."

"Calm yourself, Vespacian," Leonius said. "Aulus may be crude, but he's almost as vicious as I am on the battlefield. I put up with his drunkard ways because there are few better than he with a gladius and even fewer who can command a century as well."

"And drunk or not, I understand that words mean little," Aulus said. "Actions win wars, not the supposed warnings from those ridiculous gods a' yers."

"And I would respect no god that shows his wisdom to a barbarian over a favored son of Rome," Leonius added.

"It's not wise to spit in the face of the gods," Modius said.

"It's also not wise to bother me with mindless prattle. Interrupt me again with such nonsense, and it will be your blood that stains my sword. I do not relish the idea of spilling the blood of a Roman, but one who is so easily seduced by the words of a barbarian is no better than a barbarian himself. Now, if you've wasted enough of my time, we have a battle to prepare for."

~ ~ ~

Back at the camp, just a few miles from the Inn River, a major tributary of the Danube, everyone prepared for the coming battle. Soldiers adjusted their armor, blacksmiths re-forged broken gladii to ensure each soldier had strong steel in his sheath, and a priest offered blessings from Mars at the camp altar.

The men did all they could to prepare for the violent storm of the coming conflict. With the sun directly overhead, shooting its vibrant rays down onto the field, the men ate their last meal of the day; for some, the last meal of their lives.

Leonius and his two centurions walked into camp. They found it full of assurance and optimism as the soldiers boasted about their skill in battle.

Third centurion Avitus asked Leonius as he passed, "How many Marcomanni ya think'll fall to ya sword?"

"As many as I can get my hands on," Leonius replied with laughter in his voice.

While the three men continued on their way, a new recruit, Nepos, approached Avitus and asked, "That's Leonius, right? Praefectus of the Praetorian Guard?"

"Aye, that be the Lion of the Legion himself," Avitus replied.

The young man stared in awe at Leonius walking away. While still fixated on the Lion, Nepos began to speak.

"He appears more unassuming than the legends make him out to be."

"Don't be fooled, youngin'," Avitus answered. "He may stand shy of average height for a legionnaire, but generals value strength of arm more than uniformity of height — Leonius proves this notion ten-fold. Take one look at his sculpted muscles an' you can see a hint of the massive strength he possesses.

"His soft features, too, can hide the beast that hides within. His eyes, though, they betray his modest look. They glow with such fierceness and intensity. One look into his eyes an' you'll know Leonius is ready for any confrontation."

Nepos remained silent. He continued to watch Leonius disappear in the distance before he said, "There's a story I remember from my childhood. When the Roman lines faltered, Leonius rushed forward from the back line, screaming. All the legionaries heard him and felt his courage. They were stirred by their general's bravery and rallied to retake the field. Is the story really as grand as the reality?"

"Ah yes, the Lion's first battle," Avitus replied. "I was there. His courage took the field that day. At first, his father was furious. Leonius is the son of the emperor. He was s'posed to observe an' order, not fight — he hasn't stood idle in a single battle since."

~ ~ ~

Leonius entered the headquarters tent. He took a moment to survey the men before him while conversations dwindled to a hush. Then he addressed all the gathered centurions.

"I look in the eyes of each of you, and I see different things. In some, I see fear — others, anticipation. Even some, I see uncertainty. I do not know for what purpose the Marcomanni have crossed our borders, but it should make little difference. Let us put away our doubts and find the strategy that will instill confidence in all our soldiers."

"The Marcomanni are courageous and persistent, but also rash and inferior," centurion Galeo proposed.

"That's why a defensive stance is most beneficial," Modius suggested. "We can outlast them and minimize casualties."

"Bah, defense be damned," Aulus said. "Let's run 'em through quick, so I can be inside a prostitute by sundown."

"Aulus is right," centurion Calidus added. "Use the wedge formation. Attack them head on, so we control the battle. That will keep our men safe."

"That's right. Like that scrawny little bastard said."

"Enough, Aulus," Vespacian said. "Your eagerness to fornicate doesn't hold weight in battle plans. But—— what if we used the Marcomanni's eagerness to our advantage? I have an idea to take not just the field today, but also their spirits."

© 2014 by Brian Montalbano

Bio

Brian Montalbano received his MA in history from Montclair State University with a focus on the classical world, which he has intertwined into his historical fiction novel. Brian has had two short stories published in literary magazines: one in No Return; the other in The Bracelet Charm.

The Bird Lady

Eveline Speedie

Elspeth Morgan woke up one day to find Jesus in her flower bed.

She had gone to her kitchen window to admire her garden like she did every morning. There, surrounded by lilies, she saw the Nazarene in the Bearded Iris patch.

Elspeth gasped. Hands shaking, her fingers trembled as she dialed the telephone number of the local newspaper, The Observer.

Silas Rogers, the editor, answered after several rings. He listened patiently to Elspeth's story. An old school newsman with more years behind him than ahead, he remembered back when Elspeth had called to say Elvis was in her garden. That time she swore she could see "The King" in her flower bed and Silas had agreed begrudgingly to send a reporter to check out the story.

"Elspeth, please, remember what happened last time," he reminded her.

"Yes, but that wasn't my fault," she protested. "Your reporter came late."

Unfortunately for Elspeth and Elvis, a neighbor's dog got there first and had already destroyed the scene and the evidence.

"This time, I protected the environment," she assured Silas. "I staked the site. Please come."

"O...kay," Silas drawled out with a sigh.

It was a slow news day, being a Friday afternoon in late summer. Elspeth's call lifted the old man's spirits even if it was nonsense. He faced the ordeal of filling his front page during the dog days of August and Jesus just might be his savior, he told himself. At the very least, it gave him hope, and a laugh.

So Silas called out to Cathy Johnson, his new hire. "Johnson, I got a scoop for you," he shouted. Cathy's antennae went up. "He sounds too chipper. Something's up," she murmured to her two colleagues, the municipal reporter and the guy who covered sports.

She entered her editor's office to find him leaning back in his chair, feet planted on his desk and an unlit cigarette dangling from his lips.

"You're looking pleased with yourself," she said.

"A woman over on Lake Road claims she saw Jesus in her garden," Silas told her, growling out the words. "Maybe she did and maybe she didn't. Go check it out. And take the camera with you. Here's the address."

Cathy didn't know whether to laugh or show honest confusion. She delighted her editor by choosing the latter.

"Ah, you want me to see if there's an image of Jesus in a flower bed," she stammered. "Uh, this is a joke, right?"

"No joke," Silas grumbled. Reaching for his pack of Marlboros, he stepped outside the office and motioned for her to follow him. He lit up and took a thoughtful drag. "You're a reporter, aren't you?" he asked. "Check it out, unless you've got something better to do."

"Well, no," Cathy responded. "The town's absolutely dead." Pissed off now, she went back to her desk, gathered her notebook and camera and sought refuge in her car. What's the old goat up to, she wondered.

She pulled out of the parking lot and gave a tentative wave at Silas, which he acknowledged with a nod of his head and a big grin on his face.

Lake Road ran along one side of Hamilton's Lake, which bordered The Hamilton Country Club in the town of Hamilton. The residents who lived along Lake Road were old money and tight-knit. New wealth lived at the other end of town, in McMansions nestled within sprawling housing developments featuring tennis courts and swimming pools.

Elspeth's house was at the end of Lake Road, a dead end street. Cathy parked in the turn-about next to the house and walked up a pathway that was in need of repair. She poked her finger through a mass of cobwebs to reach the doorbell.

The door opened and the face of a sweet looking elderly woman appeared. Reassured by apparent normalcy, Cathy smiled at the woman. "Hi, Ms. Morgan. I'm the reporter from the paper. I think you called about..."

"Oh, no, dear, it's not me you want," the woman said quickly, cutting Cathy off. "I'm Nancy Sinclair, a neighbor," she explained. Pulling Cathy into the house, Nancy hastened to shut the door. "We're always afraid someone will get out, you know. Can't be too careful," she admonished sweetly, ushering Cathy further into the dwelling.

OK, getting creepy, Cathy's inner voice declared. Why did that SOB send me here? She remonstrated with herself to get a grip and then she heard the sounds. She couldn't identify them at first but the noise grew increasingly louder as she followed — no, was pulled along — by the woman named Nancy.

A considerable roar greeted them as they entered a dark hallway. At the end of the passage was a sun room with floor-to-ceiling windows that faced out onto a garden. "I can't see," Cathy shouted. "The sunlight's blinding me. What is this?"

Then she felt something brush past her head, then another touch on her shoulder and another on her arm. As she regained her sight, she identified the source of the sensation and recognized the sounds she heard. The room was full of birds, little ones, flying all around and singing as they flew.

Cathy disliked birds intensely. "Damn that Hitchcock," she murmured.

Another woman, decked out in jewelry from head to toe, appeared. "Just stand still," she commanded in a shaky voice. "I accidentally left the cage doors open all at once and they all got out. Don't be frightened. They won't hurt you. Nancy and I will have them back in their little homes in just a tic."

The two women bustled about, knocking into each other as they worked feverishly to get the birds in their cages. Cathy's heart rate climbed. She recognized the flying demons as parakeets and couldn't stop ducking and flailing at them. When the last blue and green creature finally was ensconced on its perch, Elspeth Morgan was able to greet her visitor.

"I'm so sorry," she said as she waved her hands about. A tall, thin woman, she was decked out with gold chains around her neck and rings on every finger. Her body sparkled in the sunlight that filtered through the windows. Cathy was mesmerized. She didn't know where to look first — at the fingers, the neck, the birds, the garden. She remained speechless while Elspeth rambled on, her conversation punctuated by the twittering of the birds.

Introductions were completed and Nancy took her leave. Taking Cathy's arm, Elspeth commented, "You look a little pale, my dear. I hope my little friends didn't frighten you too much. They are my treasures, my comfort, you know. They watch over me."

"No, that's okay," Cathy declared. "I'm okay now." The birds were staring at her but they were behind bars, she told herself.

"Good. Now let's look at my prize. You must see Jesus. You've got your camera, don't you? You must take a good picture."

Elspeth led the way to the rear door. "Mind you, watch the stairs," she warned. "They're badly in need of repair."

As they started to step outside the old woman shook her head. The wood frame at the side of the step was crumbling away. "See what I mean," she said. "It wasn't always like this. This house was a showpiece when we first moved here. We gave big parties and newspapers and magazines sent photographers to take pictures. We were always in the society pages."

Cathy murmured sympathetic words and tried to move forward through the doorway but Elspeth had already entered another world.

"I was young then, and I was so beautiful," she said, dreamily, her fingers fluttering in the air. Memories overcame her and she stepped back into the sunroom, reaching for a photograph sitting on the piano beside the door.

"Hmmm. My wedding picture," she said. She handed it to Cathy, who took one look and decided time had taken its toll. The woman standing before her in the room that day had not aged well.

"You and your husband?" Cathy asked. "You were a beautiful couple. So elegant, both of you."

"Yes, we were. Thank you," Elspeth said. "Here's another one. Our last photograph together. We were leaving for Europe. Hmmm. We always dressed in those days. I always wore a hat. They accentuate the wardrobe, you know. And always a necklace. My husband loved to buy me jewelry."

"You look so happy," Cathy said. "Like in your wedding photo."

"Ah, yes, well that was before that wicked woman...she took such advantage. Well, men are weak, aren't they?"

Cathy saw a tear fall as Elspeth spoke. The old woman dabbed at her eye and sighed. The birds noticed and started chirping. "Hush," she told them.

"I fell ill, you see," she continued. My husband sent me back by air. He took the boat...and met her. Life can be so cruel. I lost the baby. By then he didn't care. He said he would take care of me but she got her hook into him. She fixed him good. And me as well, what with the trial and all. They couldn't prove anything. Ah, but you don't want to hear all this, do you? You've come to see Jesus. Come, come. Let's get the daylight, shall we?"

Cathy's ears perked up at mention of a trial. She made a mental note to ask Elspeth for more details. The multitude of birds, the dust everywhere, the neglect and piles of stuff consumed her thoughts as she followed Elspeth to the sanctified site. What happened in this woman's life, she wondered.

"Now, here he is," Elspeth said, stopping at a staked-out spot. "Isn't He magnificent?"

She clapped her hands together suddenly and in that instant a cloud formed behind her. Then a shaft of light burst through, shining down upon her and Jesus in the flower bed.

The image took shape before Cathy's disbelieving eyes. The blades of grass, the light, the lilies all formed an image that might indeed be His, she reckoned. She hurried to capture the moment on film.

"Elspeth, I'm speechless," Cathy declared.

"Oh, I knew you would see Him too," the old woman said. "As soon as you came in the door, I told myself you were a 'sensitive' and you would see Him. Not like that other reporter who laughed at me about Elvis. She got her due in the end. Now I know I have His forgiveness. Now come in with me. We'll have a sherry, shall we? And I'll tell you all about when I was young. You won't mind the birds. They'll sleep. I'll cover them. They've heard it all anyway so many, many times."

Cathy started to say she had to get back to the office and then she stopped. The birds were staring at her.

"You know, come to think of it I would love a sherry," she told Elspeth, "and, yes, I'd love to hear more." She saw the birds relax as Elspeth covered the cages.

Jesus' picture was for the old man, Cathy decided, and for that he could just wait. What other reporter, she wondered. Elspeth called me a "sensitive." What was that? Cathy looked at the bird cages. Were the little creatures twittering something?

© 2014 by Eveline Speedie

Bio

Eveline Speedie is a former newspaper editor, features writer and restaurant reviewer. She resumed fiction writing five years ago when she joined the Write Group and is working on her first novel, a mystery. "The Bird Lady" may be the second story in a trilogy. Then again, maybe not.

The Test

Lynne Rubin

(Author's note: Based on "Don't Look For Bonuses" Write Group 11.28.11)

The test was hard. He had studied — in as much as an 11-year-old with ADHD can study. He had opened his book at home and tried to review the lessons of the past week. He had looked at stuff. He had read stuff. He had even written some stuff down and read that. But here, sitting at his desk in the crowded classroom, all he could seem to focus on was the annoying ticking of the clock on the wall as it moved the hand back then forward again, barely advancing each minute. "Tick-tick; tick-tick."

His body began to shake. He quivered. He could feel his energy pulsating, searching for an outlet, an escape. He began to kick his desk with both feet. At least that released some of the energy, but his focus was still only on the sounds of the room: "Boom-boom, boom-boom, boom-boom; tick-tick; boom-boom, boom-boom, boom-boom; tick-tick..."

In response to the noise, Mr. Miller raised his eyes over his reading glasses, to give Jack an angry, authoritative stare, hoping to scare the boy into conformity. But Jack didn't even notice: "Boom-boom, boom-boom, boom-boom; tick-tick; flappa-flappa-flappa-flappa; boom-boom, boom-boom, boom-boom; tick-tick; flappa-flappa-flappa-flappa..." Jack had begun to tap his pencil wildly on the offending test paper.

"That's about enough, young man," demanded Mr. Miller as he noticed the other children in the room begin to lose their concentration amidst the building cacophony. But Jack, try though he did, was unable to still his body or his mind. His thoughts raced. The words on the page became bold and fierce and seamed to scream at him before they faded and floated away among the ancillary thoughts that began to crowd his mind and demand attention. "Flappa-flappa-flappa-flappa... BAM!" Mr. Miller had appeared next to Jack and slammed his hand down on the desk, hoping, in his impatient and unempathetic way, to bring Jack back to the task at hand. This child is really hopeless, he thought as he stared the boy down.

"S-s-s-sorry." Jack shook himself a little. He really was trying to concentrate.

"The test, Jack," Mr. Miller insisted. "Just get it done. And don't look for any bonuses either. You'll be lucky to get the basic questions answered at the rate you're going."

Jack nodded meekly and took a deep breath. He closed his eyes, then opened them again. He re-read the first question, but before he could write down the answer — which he actually knew — his gaze wandered out the window. He was not near it — on the far side of the classroom actually — but he could see the light spring breeze catch the trees in the courtyard. "Wissssssss." His body calmed, momentarily as he imagined himself standing outside, the breeze on his face. Then he felt himself floating. He was above the trees in an airplane, an old-fashioned biplane with an open cockpit. Higher and higher he lifted and farther and farther away he floated, the noise of the motor vibrating through his whole body: "brrr-u-puh-puh-puh-puh, brrr-u-puh-puh-puh-puh, brrr-u-puh-puh-puh-puh...

"Jack!" Mr. Miller brought him back in an instant. "The test."

Jack lowered his head. "Whoooooosh." He could feel the hot blood of shame rushing upwards to his head... and then the tears... the tears he didn't want anyone to see. He took a quick, shallow breath and read the first question. Again. More noises. Forget it, stupid. Don't even bother. You can't do this. You've lost too much time fooling around. You'll never even finish this dumb test now."

Tears still meandering down his cheeks, Jack looked around the room. Everyone else had their eyes on their own papers and seemed to be having no trouble at all progressing through the questions. No one was kicking the desk or tapping their pencil. No one seemed to even hear the clock ticking. "Tick-tick..." Jack met Mr. Miller's eyes boring into him once more. Again Jack lowered his head.

There had been other tests. There had been other teachers, many of them kind to Jack. But as he had gotten older, it had gotten worse. Maybe they had become less tolerant of him as the class sizes increased and there were just more kids to manage. Maybe it was just that he was older and everyone expected more of him. Maybe the nicer teachers he had had when he was younger had babied him. In any case, he had always managed to get it together when it counted. He had always pulled through and gotten good grades. Until this year. Until Mr. Miller. When he spoke to Jack there was always an edge to his voice. Jack could feel Mr. Miller's frustration and superiority with every exchange. It reminded Jack a bit of his mom when she lost her cool with him for not getting stuff done around the house. That had been happening more and more too. And with each missed assignment, with each unfinished test, Jack's self-confidence had eroded more and more. The negative voices in his head had begun to take over and he had changed. He was moody, sulky, and that brilliant traffic-stopping smile of his younger days hardly appeared at all anymore. In all things Jack had slipped farther and farther behind each day and now, in the spring of sixth grade, with the weight of the world on his shoulders, he couldn't even start this test.

"I hate this." Jack muttered under his breath. "I hate this class; I hate this teacher; I hate school; I hate everything."

"What was that?" queried Mr. Miller.

Jack just closed his eyes and succumbed to the voices: You're no good. You're a spaz. You're stupid. Why do you even try? Just give up. They were the voices of everyone he knew — kids in his class, Mr. Miller, his mom — it's what everyone would say when they found out he had failed another test. You're no good. You're a spaz. You're stupid. Why do you even try? Just give up. It was all he could hear now. All he could think about. It was visceral, this sense of failure. It was heavy and hot and all-consuming.

Helpless and alone, Jack put down his pencil and wiped his face. There was nowhere to go — no one to go to — but he knew he couldn't stay here. There were too many people thinking bad things about him, yelling at him. "Scrrrrrrrrrreeeee." He pushed his chair back and stood. "Aaaaaaaah," gasped his classmates. "Rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr." His ears began to ring loud and shrill, blocking out everything including Mr. Miller's protestations.

Jack headed for the door and took off at breakneck speed. He ran. He ran for air. He ran for silence. He ran for freedom from his failure. But what he didn't know, as he threw open the double metal doors at the end of the hall and broke out into the warm sunshine, was that he had gotten it wrong. It wasn't that he had failed all of those people. It was that they all had failed him!

© 2014 by Lynn Rubin

Bio

Lynne Rubin is a Music Together Teacher in Northern New Jersey and the mother of three young children (one of whom is ADHD). She is also a La Leche League Leader. Lynne's writing has been seen in several La Leche League and Music Together publications both online and in print.

Excerpt from Guava Road

Rosa Soy

Moving to Miami was a welcome change. After dropping out of the piano competition I felt relieved to leave my former life as a budding pianist. And now, reunited with my cousin Elba, I was ready to re-invent myself.

At Sacred Heart High School, I was the new kid where no one knew anything about my musical or academic talents. I tried blending in, not raising my hand too much, hiding all my A+ papers from the other kids.

But now, my great secret was out.

"Maria Eugenia, I hear you are an excellent pianist." Sister Dolores, the music teacher, had been searching for a new choir accompanist.

"Well, I've taken lessons," I said, trying to downplay my ability.

"Stop by my classroom after school and I'll show you the music."

All morning long I waited to confront the villain who had "outed" me, and when I walked into the cafeteria at lunchtime I saw her sitting at the far end, enjoying a hearty laugh, probably at one of her pranks. I marched right up to her.

"It was you, wasn't it?"

"What did I do?"

"You told the nun I can play the piano."

"The poor thing sounded so desperate in class yesterday. I was just trying to help," she said with a guilty look.

I wanted to strangle Elba. She had to remember how broken hearted I was having to walk away from that music competition to appease my father and his hatred of Russian music.

After school I stopped at my locker, restacked my books, and got rid of the trash I should have thrown out weeks before. Slowly, I made my way down the long hallway and sighed.

"Time to face the music," I smirked.

Sister Dolores was seated at the piano, playing something that sounded strangely familiar. I tiptoed over to a chair and sat down to listen. Suddenly, I was filled with panic, realizing the nun was playing the Rachmaninoff prelude — my prelude. I stood up and began to make my way towards the door, when I was stopped by a saccharine voice.

"Maria Eugenia! I didn't see you come in."

"I...I just got here."

"Come, come." Sister Dolores motioned for me to approach and took out a book, Benjamin Britten's "A Ceremony of Carols." She watched me patiently as I slowly paged through it, stopping at the selections she had marked.

"What do you think?" she finally asked.

It's okay."

"You think you can handle it?"

I looked at her with a slight smile. Of course I could. I could handle this, and the Messiah piano reduction I saw on the music stand, and I could especially handle the Rachmaninoff she was butchering when I walked into her classroom. "Yes, Sister. I'm pretty sure I can."

"Promise me you'll practice very hard?"

"I promise."

"Let's meet next week and you can show me how far you've gotten, okay?"

I shrugged and walked away with Britten tucked under my arm and a sick feeling at the pit of my stomach. I wanted to ask her to work harder on the Rachmaninoff, to listen to the inner voices, not pound the bass so the melody would not be drowned out — yes, there is a melody in that piece, Sister, if you'd care to look for it.

"See you next week, Sister." I scurried down the hall, toward an exit door, in desperate need of fresh air.

~ ~ ~

"So?"

"So what?"

"What did she say?"

"What did who say?"

"Damn it! The nun...what did she say?"

"She just gave me some music to practice."

Elba was at the corner, probably waiting to see how her little ploy had turned out. "Are you going to do it?"

"What choice do I have? You told her I can play. How could you? Don't you remember what happened?"

Elba stared at me as I wiped my tears with my shirt sleeve. "Sorry, Nena. I didn't think it would bother you that much."

"That's what your problem is; you never think. You don't consider how anyone else might feel. You stab me in the back, and all you can say is 'sorry'? Well, that's just not good enough!"

Her eyes widened, shocked at my rare display of anger. I was afraid of what else I might say. I turned and quickened my steps toward the house.

~ ~ ~

Elba and I were desperately trying to find a way out of our increasingly oppressive home environments. I was determined to study hard, keep up my grades, and get a scholarship to a college as far away from my family as possible.

Elba's choice was not that clear cut. She had never enjoyed school, especially now when she was feeling the first stirrings of romance. My mother and aunts tried to help and give her advice, but I knew she had no intention of listening to anyone. There was only one person whose opinion mattered, Joey, the lead guitarist of The Young Rebels.

Joey had dropped out of school, lured away by promises of recording contracts and rock stardom. He had all the right moves, the breathy, sensual voice, the bad-boy smile that made the girls swoon, the dreamy hazel eyes — "bedroom eyes" Elba called them. I wondered where she'd learned the expression. Elba couldn't take her eyes off him, singing along to his sultry lyrics, her body swaying to the driving beat. He had brought meaning to her life, and being with Joey was the only thing Elba desired.

"They're going to play in Vegas. Isn't that wild?" She was sure her man was on the road to success.

~ ~ ~

Sister Dolores watched me play through the first few pages. I could see her out of the corner of my eye, nodding to the music. I was sure she was impressed with my ability. Then, she stopped me. "I can see you've been working hard."

I had actually sight-read the piece two days before and gone through it only one other time.

"But you must remember that you are the choir's accompanist."

What was she talking about? Wasn't that the reason I was there, to accompany the damn choir?

"Now, when we accompany," she began, using the plural pronoun nuns are prone to use when imparting wisdom, "we must stay in the background."

I kept staring at her, pretending to listen to her sickeningly sweet voice.

"The choir is the soloist, see? And the accompanist supports the soloist."

"Okay."

"And you must follow the conductor."

"Sure."

"Good. I will expect you at rehearsal tomorrow and Friday."

"Tomorrow and Friday?"

"Yes, we must start practicing for the concert, and the choir must get used to having the accompanist there."

I knew the thoughts that crossed my mind would require a trip to the confessional. I smiled politely. "See you tomorrow, Sister."

"Practice hard."

~ ~ ~

The choir dragged in after school the following day. I slipped in the back door and took my place at the piano.

Sister Dolores walked in, looking agitated.

"Where's the music? Who is in charge of bringing the books?"

Two senior boys walked in, carrying a heavy box, which they dropped, making a resoundingly loud noise. The choir broke out in wild laughter. Sister Dolores yelled at us for twenty minutes over our outburst, and, when we finally started rehearsing, she assumed her well-known victim posture. After a few bars, she stopped the music and launched into a litany of complaints about how hard she had worked to put the concert together, and all the time and effort she had spent selecting the material. Then, she dismissed the choir, and as I was getting ready to pack up, she told me to sit back down. The room cleared in an instant.

"You were not following my direction, Maria Eugenia."

"Sister, I could not see your hand."

"Well, then we'll practice. I'll stand at the podium, and you will play."

For the next hour I played while Sister directed, sometimes purposely hiding her hand from my line of sight to fluster me. Then at five o'clock, she stopped, mumbled something and flew out the door.

This is how I was going to have to spend the next few weeks, maybe months, of my life. I was in music hell, courtesy of my cousin.

On my way home that day, I contemplated every possible form of revenge against Elba for ruining my life. But nothing seemed like a strong enough punishment.

~~~

"You guys sounded really good." Elba was waiting for me outside the music room one late November day. I ignored her and continued walking.

"Nena, I know you're mad at me."

"You do? Whatever gave you that idea?"

I took the shortcut through the park, and she followed, chattering incessantly about how she had almost blown up a Chemistry experiment, how Sister Catherine had threatened to suspend her if she didn't lower the hems on her skirts, how Sister Alphonse had turned her in for smoking behind the gym. The more she talked, the faster I walked.

Finally, a desperate voice stopped me in my tracks. "Please, I have to talk to you!"

I turned slowly and crossed my arms, staring at her frenzied look.

"I really need you."

"What is it?"

"I'm not sure what to do."

"About what?" I asked dryly.

"It's Joey. We've been getting so close. And the way he touches me, it makes me feel so good."

I was way out of my league here, but I sensed an element of poetic justice which I wanted to milk for all it was worth.

"Two days ago Joey said we should do it, you know. But I'm scared."

"And why are you telling me this?" I asked, pretending not to be interested.

"Because you are the only one I know who'll be completely honest with me."

I wasn't sure if she was being sincere, or just manipulating me. But I sensed her desperation. She looked so frightened, I really didn't have it in me to be cruel. "So how do you feel about it?"

"I don't know...I think I'm ready, but...it's such a drastic move."

"Do you love him?"

"Oh, God, more than my own life!" Spoken like a woman in love.

"What about him? Does he love you?"

She thought for a moment. "I think he does...It's different for guys, you know."

I didn't know what to say. Most of what I knew about the opposite sex came from what I learned through eavesdropping and whatever spicy little novels I found lying around. In those days, it wasn't acceptable to talk about sex or even acknowledge any type of physical feelings, especially in a Catholic school. But that still did not stop most of us from peeking or staring at those bulges in their pants, wondering what the big fuss what all about.

"Elba, I have a feeling that, no matter what I say, your mind is made up. I just hope you do it the smart way. Protect yourself."

She put her arms around me and we hugged, knowing one of us was about to cross a big threshold. We walked down by the playground and sat on the swings giggling like a couple of kids. She said how much she'd missed me over the past weeks, how we should never stay mad, or do mean things to each other again. And we reminisced about the "good old days" like a couple of middle-aged women.

Elba pulled out a pack of Kools and offered me one.

"I never tried one," I said, almost embarrassed.

"There's a first time for everything."

She sat with me as I coughed and hacked my way through that first cigarette, patting me on the back, and reassuring me that, when the time came for me to take my big step into womanhood, she'd be there for me, too.

© 2014 by Rosa Soy

Fossils

Jeanne Margolskee

When I was 13, I told my father that I intended to go to Harvard. I should have known better, even then. We were sitting in the kitchen, at the breakfast table. I remember that it was wintertime, because my hands felt stiff and cold, and we were eating hot cereal ─ that mixture of Cream of Wheat and Wheatena that my grandmother liked to make. Even though she was five years dead by now, we still ate it anyway, in deference to her memory.

When I was a small child, I remember, my grandmother would mix the two grainy powders together, half and half, and then boil the mixture in milk. She said that it reminded her of something she ate in the old country, something that she couldn't get in New York City. I liked to let the cereal sit in my bowl for a minute or two, until the surface turned nice and shiny, and then I would sprinkle sugar all over the top, as evenly as I could. The sugar would start to melt, and then I'd pour a little milk around the edge and watch as the sugar dissolved into the milk, bit by bit. Meanwhile I'd wrap my hands around the outside edge of the bowl, trying to make them warm.

That morning, my father and I were sitting alone together at the table. I don't know where everyone else was. Maybe they were all still sleeping. It must have been a Sunday, then, so no one had to be up early to go to school, or to go to work, or for anything else like that. Weekday mornings were much noisier, with my mother banging on the pots and my brother and sister fighting over the jam and my father searching the apartment for his work boots. This particular morning was different. It was calm, and the stillness was disarming ─ that must be why I dared to speak my mind.

"I want to be a biologist," I said. "I want to study animals, just like the ones at the Museum of Natural History. They have a museum like that at Harvard too. It's called the Museum of Comparative Zoology. I want to study there."

I had read an article, in the newspaper, I think, that said that Harvard was the best university in the country. They had Nobel Prize winners, and fancy laboratories, and lots of interesting people there. I wanted to be an intellectual.

"So, my little faygeleh! So you want to go to Harvard?" My father pushed back his chair and then slid his glasses down his nose. He peered at me over the lenses, and then wrinkled up his eyes. Whenever he did that, the right side of his face would scrunch up higher than the left side, and his right eyebrow would raise up in an arch. I didn't much like it when he did that. It always made me feel smaller than I already was.

"People from New York City don't go to Harvard. Especially not little girls from Washington Heights. Why would you want to go such a long way away from your family anyway? And where would we find the money?" He readjusted his glasses at the top of his nose before retrieving the paper back from his lap.

My father read the Jewish Daily Forward every morning. I would have read it too, had I been able, the way I read everything that crossed my line of vision; but I didn't know enough Yiddish to speak the language, let alone to read it. My parents had deliberately kept their children ignorant, so that we could be raised as proper Americans, speaking only English.

Instead, they used their mother tongue as a secret code, between themselves and among their friends. The only time I heard it spoken was when I wasn't supposed to hear it, while eavesdropping through the doors on my parents and their meetings, or catching fragments of arguments in the hallways. I knew enough Yiddish to say hello and goodbye, to count to ten, and to shop in the streets, but I couldn't follow a serious conversation. I even knew about 20 curse words, but I never would have used them; I was too unsure about what they really meant.

As my father rustled his paper, I sat there excavating my cereal. I liked to carve away at the edges, where the milk puddled most deeply, leaving an island of cereal in the middle of the bowl. With each spoonful I'd take away more cereal and more milk, until the milk was all used up, leaving the edges of the cereal exposed in mighty cliffs that towered above the bottom of the bowl. I pretended that these cliffs held human skeletons, and I was a famous scientist who would find the missing link. What were those little specks of brown and black? Were they clues to an important find? I poked at them and then held little bits of cereal up to my eyes so that I could get a closer look.

"Don't play with your food. You're not a child anymore." My father spoke to me through his paper.

"Yes, Papa." I transferred the spoonful of cereal into my mouth, and added more milk to splash against the cliffs in the bowl. Then I began more excavation.

"If I went to Harvard, they would teach me how to find fossils." I certainly was a persistent child.

"And if wishes were horses, then beggars would ride." My father opened his paper to a new section and then refolded it with a snap. "You have your head in the clouds too much, Debbie ─ you should learn to be more practical."

"I am being practical. Look at all those bones in the Museum of Natural History. Someone went and dug them up. Someone found the money to send them." I picked up my empty bowl and carried it over to the sink. I turned on the water to block my father's voice, but I couldn't drown it out.

"You'll go to Hunter College, and you'll train to be a teacher. That's what's practical." He folded up his newspaper and brought his own bowl up to the sink. "It is a good school, and besides, you can live at home."

My father handed his empty bowl to me and I held it under the open faucet. The bowl still held small chunks of gummy cereal, stuck here and there around the edges. As I stood and watched, the water carved tiny channels into the cereal, revealing little specks of brown and black, and then washing them down the drain.

© 2014 by Jeanne Margolskee

Bio

Jeanne Margolskee worked as a molecular biologist for many years and now writes and edits. Her interests include the relationship between scientific knowledge and public policy, and making scientific information accessible to the general public. She is currently working on her first novel, a biological thriller entitled The Refugees' Inheritance.

Memoir

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The memoir section has the most entries with ten.

My Mother Had Hairy Legs

Marcia Mickley

My mother had long, dark, curly, brown hair on her legs and under her arms. Her sleeveless blouses and skirts showed them off.

"Lady, why don't you shave your legs?" a stranger on the subway said. The stranger spoke in a loud voice so that he could be heard above the clack–clack of the subway noise. People usually pretended to ignore each other. It was against subway etiquette for him to have spoken to us. The fifteen other people in the subway car looked at my mother's legs, then looked at the man who had spoken, then looked away.

We pretended to ignore the man who had spoken. The other passengers kept sneaking looks at my mother's legs. My mother continued to act as if nothing had happened. Casually, my mother had us move to the other end of the subway car. Mom thought the man was strange because he had talked to us.

I was very embarrassed. Now, everyone in the subway car was aware of my mother's hair. It didn't seem to bother my mother. She talked and laughed as the train moved towards our stop. I listened to her while I snuck a peak at the other women in the subway car. None of them had any hair on their legs. The other people kept sneaking looks at my mother, while I looked at them.

"Why don't you shave, Mom?"

My mother told me, "Your father likes me the way I am. Shaving makes more hair grow back. Why do you care what everyone else does? If everyone jumped off the George Washington Bridge, would you jump off too?"

"Mom, of course I wouldn't follow them."

She said, "I don't see any reason to shave."

According to her, I was too young to worry about being "a beauty queen." Even after I explained that I was the only girl in my grade who didn't shave, my mother still refused. "Why follow everyone else?" she said.

"I want to shave to look good."

"Marcia, no shaving!"

I was graduating from elementary school and going to the big junior high school. I was going to meet a lot of new kids. I didn't want to be known as the girl with the hairy legs. I wanted to fit in.

"People should like you for who you are not what you look like," was my mother's answer. "Those are your true friends."

I persisted. "They're my legs!"

"You are not shaving. That is final."

I asked my grandmother if she shaved. She showed me her legs and how she didn't need to shave because she had blond hair. No one could see her hairs. That didn't help me. I had long, dense, dark, curly, hair just like my mother.

Gym class was embarrassing. Those ugly, green, one-piece, button-down, gym suits we were required to wear ended at the knee. The gym suit emphasized my hairy legs. Fortunately, those gym suits had sleeves so they hid my underarm hair. Changing in the locker room was torture. I tried to keep my arms down so the girls couldn't see the hair under my armpits.

I tried to fade into the background. I thought the girls were staring at my unshaven under arms and legs. Every time the girls spoke in quiet voices I thought they were gossiping about my hairy legs. I was so self-conscious. I felt like a gorilla.

After every gym class I asked my mother if I could shave.

"Stop asking me to let you shave!"

There was a constant debate inside my head. Should I listen to my mother and not shave? I would continue to be uncomfortable with my own body. Or, should I shave and deal with my mother's anger for disobeying her? I agreed when she said people should accept you for who you are. Would people accept me with hairy legs? Either I would get yelled at by Mom or I would be self-conscious about the hair. My mother said that once you shave you always have to shave. What if I had regrets? What if shaving made me even hairier?

I realized that I had to shave because I felt too uncomfortable with hair on my legs.

Secretly, I saved up money to buy a razor. Using my babysitting money, I bought a razor at the drugstore. I sneaked it into the bathroom. It was hard to find a good hiding spot in the medicine cabinet. My mother checked everything. She had found my diary and my poems in my drawer and my closet, so I hoped she wouldn't check the medicine cabinet. I put the razor behind some Avon powder and perfume my mother hadn't used in years. I knew that if my mother caught me she would never let me have the chance to buy another a razor.

How hard could shaving be? I thought; no pain, no gain. The next time that my mother took my brothers to the playground I decided to shave. It was the only opportunity I would have to be alone in the apartment.

I dug deep into my secret hiding spot and pulled out the razor. After about ten minutes I decided that the coast was clear; they wouldn't be back for a while.

I held the razor in what I hoped was the correct way. I ran the razor down my leg. It made a hairless line on my leg. My skin looked good without hair. When I ran the razor up my leg I cut my knee.

I worried that shaving wouldn't be worth all the yelling my mother would do afterwards. This was one of the first times that I disobeyed her.

I made quick strokes up and down my leg. It was easy. I smiled as I cut the hair off my legs. Shaving on dry skin hurt. My knees got really cut up. I found out afterwards that I was supposed to moisturize my legs before I started to shave and that knees don't get shaved. Even with the pain from the cuts, the air against my clean-shaven legs felt good.

There were at least ten places where my legs were bleeding. My knees were the most sliced-up.

I cleaned and washed the bathroom floor. The razor went back in its hiding place in the medicine cabinet. All evidence of my hair was gone.

My mother was furious when she returned and saw my legs. "Now you'll always have to shave. Why did you do that?" She looked at my legs and added, "Do you see what happens when you don't listen to me?"

I felt proud that I had shaved. The wounds were badges of honor so I put Band-Aids on my legs. I wouldn't stand out anymore.

It was easier for me to go to the locker room for gym class the next day. I got ready for gym without dreading it. I changed into my ugly green gym suit. The gym suit showed off my beautiful shaved legs. My legs felt so smooth and I thought that they looked so good. I felt attractive and well-groomed. The man in the subway couldn't call attention to my unshaven legs.

Proudly, I strode into gym class. I never thought about the many Band-Aids on my legs. The pain, which was caused by the cuts on my knees didn't bother me. I was so glad that I had shaven that if anyone stared at the Band-Aids on my legs, I didn't notice.

I kept gazing down at my shaven legs and smiling.

© 2014 by Marcia Mickley

Bio

Marcia Mickley has been told all her life that she was meant to write. She is finally following her dream.

Discovering the Music in Me

Birgit Matzerath

A couple of weeks into my stay in Minnesota, my host mother Gladys came into my room carrying a small stack of my underwear that had come back from the wash. She put the pile on the bed and shut the door.

What is this all about, I wondered, sensing something serious. Gladys sat down on the bed and began to cry. I sat down next to her and cautiously put my arm around her shoulder.

"Mom, what's the matter, why are you crying?" Shaking with sobs, she didn't answer.

"Oh mom, what is it? Is there anything I can do?" She pulled a wrinkled Kleenex out of her sleeve, blew her nose and said, "Why did you lie to me?"

I let go of her and moved away to the edge of the bed. "Oh my God, mom, I didn't lie to you!" The moment I said it, I could have bitten off my tongue, but "oh my God" had just slipped out. Only recently, she had scolded me for saying it, because I was using the name of Our Lord in a disrespectful way. Now, she didn't even seem to have noticed.

"You know what I'm talking about," she said.

"Mom, please tell me, I have no idea."

"And here you are, lying again," she continued. "I took you into my house like my own daughter, and you are lying to me."

I got up and leaned against the dresser that stood on the wall opposite the bed, between the two windows.

"Do you remember I asked you whether there was anything else you needed when we went clothes shopping last week?" The sadness was fading from her voice, and she was gearing up to sound like a drill sergeant.

"Yes, you did ask me that," I replied, completely clueless what to make of all this.

"And when I asked you that, why didn't you tell me that you needed a slip?" She was almost shouting now.

In my mind, I went through my wardrobe in a flash. In German, we sometimes used the word "slip" for underpants. I had underpants; she'd just brought in a stack of them.

"Mom, what do you mean by slip?"

"Oh, don't tell me you don't know," she replied impatiently. "Don't tell me you don't wear a slip under your skirts and dresses in Germany."

It began to dawn on me what she was talking about. We called it "Unterrock" (underskirt) In German.

"Oh that," I replied. "Mom, I hardly ever wear skirts or dresses at home. I wear pants most of the time. And besides that, in Germany you only wear a slip under a summer dress or skirt, something you can see through. Nobody would dream of wearing a slip under those thick woolen skirts."

"Don't you try to be smart, young lady," she interrupted. "I don't care what any of you do back in your Germany! You better be wearing a slip under your skirt as long as I'm answering for anything that you do while you're around here."

"Mom, of course I will, if that's what you want me to do. I'm sorry. I'm really, really sorry. You know what," I added, making a feeble attempt at damage control. "I don't think anyone would have noticed that I wasn't wearing a slip under these thick woolen skirts."

"Oh baloney, what you think! People can tell, when you bend down, and there's nothin' stickin' out under the hem of your skirt, and the outline of your underpants are showing through the fabric. "

Secretly, I started to wonder how she'd found out. Had one of my host sisters reported me?

As if she could read my mind, she continued, "Don't you think you can sneak around me, young lady; I been checking your laundry, and when you didn't put in a slip after all this time, I just knew you be lyin' to me. But I ain't as stupid as you're thinkin'. Don't you ever dare lie to me again!" With that, she stood up and left the room.

For a moment, I didn't know whether to laugh or to cry. This was so ridiculous; I wondered whether my parents would believe me when I wrote about it. In the long run, though, it wasn't funny. It was a turning point in my relationship with Gladys. She was convinced that I had lied to her; the trust was broken, and there was no way to make amends. She had never left the state of Minnesota, and the possibility that people did things differently in other places was beyond her comprehension.

From the first day I set foot on the farm, I had a feeling that Gladys and I were incompatible. At least I didn't have to lie to myself any more, since the hostility was out in the open. At the same time, I was tormented by my feelings. My host mother, who was giving me the exceptional educational chance of living with her family for a year, was the first person in my life who I hated from the bottom of my heart. This was not how things were supposed to be. Exchange students were ambassadors of their country. It was their task to bring joy and happiness to their host families. "Why can't I be the sunshine?" I wrote in my journal. The game of pretending that everything was fine made me miserable.

Two, three times a week I wrote long and detailed letters home. They took at least a week to reach their destination. It was usually my mother who answered with long, detailed letters, two, three times a week. Our letters often crossed, and in the meantime, I had to solve my own problems.

When I confessed that I was homesick, my mother replied, "What kind of a letter was that? Who could be homesick, with those wonderful people around who are just being who they are and doing their best to be good to you?" What a difference it would have made if she had written something like, "Honey, we miss you, too! I'm so sorry you're having a hard time. It must be very difficult to get along with your host family, who know nothing but the life they lead."

But no, everything was my fault. My feelings were wrong, as they always were. Apparently, everybody had the right to be who they were and express it, except me. Not only did I fail to get along with my host family, I was also disappointing my mother's expectations. When she was 16, the war was on. They didn't even know whether they'd make it home from school alive. Compared to that, spending a year in a foreign country with people who were a little rough occasionally, should be a piece of cake.

I found an escape where I least expected it. Within the first week of school, I knew that a day without time spent in the choir room was a lost day. I signed up for every class in vocal music I could get into: Glee Club, concert choir, chamber ensemble, pop group and eventually, solo lessons.

You had to audition to sing in concert choir. I was worried, because my voice always tightened up when I had to sing high. When the day came, I followed the patterns our choir director played on the piano without thinking. It was over before I knew it. Miss Yates welcomed me with a bright smile. There was a twinkle in her eyes when she said something about the joy of having a beautiful lyric soprano from Germany among the singers this year, and that I had almost perfect pitch.

Miss Yates loved music. She loved to share it with us, and she loved us. I felt an irresistible longing to be with her, and I wanted to be like her. In her presence, I was comfortable with myself. There was no need or desire for pretension.

Eventually, her office became the one place in the little town where it was safe to share my thoughts and feelings. "Come in, sit down," she would say in her low and reassuring voice. "What is it? Spit it out." We talked about my host family and my family in Germany, about the world of a troubled teenager, seeking orientation between cultures, lifestyles and beliefs. It didn't even matter that much what we talked about. More often than not, her presence was enough to solve the problem.

Unlike my mother, she never judged feelings, observations, or opinions. She could bear silence, and she knew how to listen without jumping to conclusions. Once, on a long drive to an event in another town I confided in her, a strategy I often applied to earn praise and avoid criticism: "I simply say that I'm not happy with the way things went, and I don't think I did very well. If it's true, people don't pounce on me, if not, they outdo themselves to express approval."

Miss Yates didn't say much. I wasn't aware that I had admitted how manipulative I could be, and how I was craving recognition. My mother would have been very upset. In her opinion, flaws of character weighed even heavier than bad grades in school. I don't know whether Miss Yates made a mental note, but she never mentioned it again. I trusted her, unconditionally, and I felt that she trusted me.

"For me, music is one of the most beautiful things in life," I wrote into my journal. "It says so much and it can help so much. Sometimes, when I hear a song I really like, I just want to be alone to listen to it. Then I can forget everything around me. Nothing has to be real anymore; you can dream and build your own world, with people who you like. Everything seems possible. It is so beautiful that something like this exists and that nobody can take it away from you. It is one of the few things that really belong to you."

My mother was a music teacher, and I had music around me since childhood. She sang with me since I was a toddler, and piano lessons started in elementary school. It wasn't until I met Cindy Yates that I discovered the music in me. I began to own my talent, and music became the one companion that never left.

Life on the farm didn't get any easier, but it became less important. Music was more than a balance. It was a counter world that was greater, and just as real. Late on a cold, clear night in winter, I was sitting at the window of my room, my favorite place on the farm, looking out at the barn and the silo across the yard. Everybody had gone to bed, it was very quiet. Sometimes, you could hear the chains of the animals clank in the barn.

The nights in the country got very dark, much darker than they ever did in the city. The longer you looked at the sky, the more stars seemed to appear — the same stars that my family and my friends in Germany could see. The full moon was shining, its light reflecting on the metal roof of the silo. In my mind, I heard the music from the Messiah that we were rehearsing: "The people that walked in darkness has seen a great light." There was darkness, but there was also light. There was hope, there was joy, and it was all in the music. It was what I wanted to spend my life with.

© 2014 by Birgit Matzerath

Bio

Birgit Matzerath is a pianist, teacher, writer and composer who was born and raised in Germany. In 2002, she relocated to the US, and taught at the community music school in Concord NH for seven years. She now lives in Maplewood, NJ.

The Wallflower Diaries: Chapter One: The Pink Rose

Jacqueline Stearns

I am a garden variety wallflower. I am a tall skinny beanpole with red hair and glasses. I am so shy that when I go to my first party, I am afraid to knock on the door. Finally, I gather my courage and tap lightly. When no one answers, I knock harder.

The door is opened by Sam, a guy in my history class. He is the male wallflower. We have a lot in common. I am ushered into a room filled with happy laughing teenagers. I look around the room before glancing at the other kids. The walls are the same pale green as the carpet. Tasteful photographs hang on the walls.

My attention turns to Ryan who is in a corner talking to a sexy blond. Adrianna is checking out the munchies. Cassandra, a tall intense brunette who works on the school paper is chatting with another writer.

I spend most of my evening talking to Sam.

"I hear Antonelli's having us play current events next week," said Sam.

"That will be more interesting than one of those boring films," I say.

"Are you trying out for the play, Rose?"

I sigh. "I don't know, Sam. I was going to but I heard Ashley might audition. She's the meanest thing on two legs. She only likes certain people. I'm not one of them. Are you trying out?"

Sam shakes his head. "No way! I could never face an audience."

The evening passes quickly. To my surprise, I actually have a good time.

~~~

Diane convinces me to go to tryouts with her. We become friends in home room. We share an enthusiasm for drama. Diane stands up for me when Ashley, a girl in my art class, bullies me.

One afternoon, Diane finds me crying uncontrollably. "Rose!" She exclaims. "What's wrong?"

"Ashley poured glue over my head! I can't get it out."

Diane goes to Ashley and tells her to leave Rose alone or else.

"What's the play?" Diane asks a week before auditions.

"Jabberwocky," I tell her.

I get a small role in the show.

~ ~ ~

One night I am at a talent show rehearsal. Diane announces she is having a party.

"Oh I don't know if I can go," I say. "I'd need a ride. My dad works a different shift every week."

"Oh you shouldn't come. You wouldn't fit in." With that, Diane tosses her shoulder length dark hair and walks off.

Well! You could have taken this wallflower and pressed her into a book. My face burns with humiliation. How many kids have heard this exchange? I need air. I begin walking towards an exit. Two boys are listening to a radio. The song blares. "Can't you see? Oh can't you see? What that woman is doing to me!"

"That's the story of my life," one of the guys says. "Chicks just won't leave me alone."

Jerk, I think. At least you've got someone.

This isn't the first time I've been left out of a social event. I don't go to the ninth grade dance because no boy has asked me. I hear my parents talking. I leave my room and slip quietly to the upstairs landing.

"Rose is really upset." This from my mom.

I hear daddy say, "Maybe we should take her out for ice cream."

Great! I think as I trudge downstairs. I'm so pitiful that even my folks feel sorry for me.

When we arrive at the ice cream parlor I order a hot fudge sundae with chocolate chip mint. Mom and dad mouth platitudes.

"You'll go to the next dance," my mother tells me.

"Nothing is permanent," says my dad.

God! I think. Do adults really believe this drivel?

"I'm going to Becca's house on Sunday. Her mom invited me to dinner."

I see my parents exchange relieved looks.

Becca and I met in fifth grade. At first glance it would appear that we have nothing in common. I am a tall redhead. She is a slightly chubby brunette with big blue eyes. Yet we both love animals, music, and writing. We both cry at the drop of a hat. We are like sisters.

~ ~ ~

"I hate school, Becca. Everyone hates me."

Sunday dinner is over. My friend and I sit in the living room talking. Becky's dog, Sparky, sits beside us.

"I'm sorry, Rose." Becca reaches over and grabs one of my hands. "I wish we still went to the same school."

"I don't know why the other kids hate me," I sob. "I'm a nice person. Ninth grade is horrible! I get pushed against lockers and am called a retard."

Becca, usually so gentle, loses her temper. "How dare they Rose? I want to get them!"

~ ~ ~

One day I am walking to history class, when a boy I don't even know sneaks up behind me and kicks me in the back as hard as he can. The pain is excruciating!

The moron runs off saying "I finally got you loser retard!"

For the first time in my life I wish I were dead.

~ ~ ~

"I can't go back to school, Brian! Bertha will kill me."

Brian is my friend who lives across the street. Brian is calm. "What happened?"

"Oh, Brian, I did something really dumb. I was going to science class when Bertha and company started making fun of me. I called her fat."

Brian whistles. "Go to school," he says. "I'll take care of it."

I never know what Brian says to Bertha. All I know is that witch and her coven never bother me again.

Life improves during sophomore year when I follow my artistic leanings and become involved in concert choir, the school paper and the drama club. I make friends. Doug and Joanna are the quintessential high school sweethearts. Trevor and Cassandra are single entities like myself.

We hang out together during and after school. I like spending time at Joanna's house. Her mom lets us stay for dinner. In the summer, there are pool parties. I sit at a lunch table filled with choir members. We have twenty minutes to eat lunch, and dissect each other's love lives or lack thereof. One afternoon, we arrive to find Heather sobbing uncontrollably. She lifts leaking blue eyes. "I didn't know Tim was listening on the extension! Now he knows I've been sleeping with my tennis instructor."

We are shocked into silence. My first thought is, why would Heather sell herself so cheaply? She is a petite blond who gets good grades. Then I think back a few months. Heather had verbally assaulted me.

"You think you can get away with everything, Rose. Then when things go wrong you cry."

I look at Heather dispassionately. Who's crying now?

You're jealous! My inner voice whispers. Of course I am. Why does Heather get two guys when I have none? Why does Joanna get Doug? My mom has my dad. My sister has my brother-in-law. If there were another Noah's ark I wouldn't get on.

~ ~ ~

During junior year, a guy in my science class kills himself. We are numb.

Our teacher, Mr. Brokowsky, is dazed. "He was sitting right there," He says pointing to a desk.

Mr. Brokowsky asks us if we need to talk. He asks if everything is all right at home. There are no grief counselors in the 1970's. We muddle through as best we can.

"I don't understand it!" I say to Joanna. "Why would he commit suicide?"

Joanna pauses, then says, "Maybe he felt he had no one he could talk to. You know how adults can be."

I nod my head in agreement. Adults say the dumbest things. Even my sister told me, "Maybe your friend slept with her tennis instructor because she has low self esteem."

Later that night, I think about my situation with guys. Would I take my life because of it?

~ ~ ~

After I begin singing in school talent shows, my status improves. I get standing ovations! Kids respect my talent. Music is my friend. It takes me to a better place.

One afternoon I am walking with Kyle. We appear in a town production of A Christmas Carol. We become friends and are in the same drama class.

"I don't want to be a minister like my dad," he says.

"What do you want to be?"

"An artist," he replies. His voice takes on an excited edge. "I want to create. I want to paint and act."

"That's how I feel about singing and writing," I say. "I get lost inside of a song! Writing makes me feel like I have control over my life."

"How are things with your family, Rose?"

I sigh. "My dad's great. But my mom? She tells me I shouldn't go to the pep rally because I don't have any friends."

Kyle whistles. "Sounds like she should have watched TV that night."

~ ~ ~

Not all the males in school are as nice as Kyle. When my figure develops, guys ask me out for the wrong reasons. When I don't play along they talk about me to their friends. They don't use complimentary terms.

One night Luke calls me. "Hi Rose, have you got the assignment from Connell's class?"

I stifle a frustrated scream. "I've got it right here. We're supposed to write a short story."

After thanking me, Luke says, "Rose, I hate what those guys are saying about you. Don't listen to them; they're losers."

"That's easy for you to say. I'm the one who feels like a freak."

After a few more minutes we ring off.

My image in the mirror tells me, "At least you've got a guy calling you."

© 2014 by Jackie Stearns

Bio

Jacqueline holds a BA in communications from William Paterson College. She has been published in poetry journals and local newspapers and has edited and written for in-house newsletters. "Harmony," which represented the Clifton Women's Club, won a blue ribbon. "The Equalizer," which represents The Turn A Frown Around Foundation, is read by mental health advocates statewide.

Colorful Roommate

Donna O'Donnell Figurski

(Author's note: This essay is based on a chapter from a still-to-be published memoir, Prisoner Without Bars: Conquering Traumatic Brain Injury)

As the elevator doors opened, a team of nurses met Brad and his entourage. It was obvious the nurses were expecting him. They directed the paramedics down the hallway to a double door past the nurses' station. One nurse stealthily tapped a code into a keypad, and the door slowly opened. We passed through ─ Luke, Jen, Jen's daughters (Abby, 9, and Meg, 7, who had recently arrived), and I.

I soon learned that this floor was the lockdown unit. Only authorized personnel could access the door with a secret code. It was locked because it housed some seriously disturbed brain-injured patients. It didn't take long to meet the first "inmate." He was Brad's roommate. As the nurses settled Brad into his room, hooked him up to the various IVs and monitors, and completed the mounds of paperwork, I met "Uncle Gino."

Uncle Gino was an old man in his 80s, at least. He was a large man with a long face topped with a balding head. He looked exactly like someone's sweet, old great-grandpa, but he terrorized me. The television over his bed blared. For one who does not own a TV, I was unsettled by the noise; and I knew it would be troublesome for Brad when he regained awareness. It didn't help that Uncle Gino played with the on-off switch, for what seemed like hours, flicking it on and off and then on again for no apparent reason. He wasn't watching the TV.

The nurse attempted to settle Uncle Gino and drew his curtain closed. The curtain provided us with pseudo-privacy, but this did not deter Uncle Gino. We were his entertainment du jour. No sooner was the privacy curtain drawn between the beds, when Uncle Gino grabbed it, pulled it aside, and stuck his very large balding head across the space. He was curious. The nurse firmly pulled the curtain back into place and just as firmly, yet gently, encouraged Uncle Gino to watch his TV. Then she left me to fend for myself.

I squeezed into the cramped space between the beds to adjust a twisted hose on Brad's respirator, when the curtain was whipped away again. I stifled a scream as Uncle Gino nearly grabbed me. I dodged him. Then I edged my way down the side of Brad's bed, keeping as far away from Uncle Gino as possible. I never went to that side of the bed again ─ not when Uncle Gino was in the room.

Brad was oblivious. He wasn't bothered by Uncle Gino, but I freaked out. When Uncle Gino started yelling for the nurses, I nearly lost it. He pleaded to use the bathroom. He begged for what seemed to be an eternity, but no one came. At first I wasn't concerned. I knew the nurses were busy, and I figured they would tend to him in due course, but eventually it seemed as though they were ignoring him. My mind went into overdrive. If they ignored Uncle Gino, would they ignore Brad when he needed their help? I didn't want Brad to be here. Nursing home and hospital horror stories raced through my mind, and I thought we might be the main characters in one. I wanted to pack Brad up and take him home, but I knew that was impossible. Instead, I calmly approached the nurses' desk and told the nurse that Brad's roommate needed to use the bathroom. She must have seen the horror on my face and took pity on me. She patiently explained that Uncle Gino had a condom catheter, which allowed him to void directly into a bag. He didn't need the use of a real bathroom, she explained. Though I was embarrassed, I was relieved to know that he was not being abused.

Uncle Gino had a repertoire of tricks to share with us that night. Next he began to moan, "Maria, Maria, please come. Where is Maria? Ma-ri-a, where are you? I want Maria. Maria, Maria, Maria." His voice drifted off, and then he moaned again. After thirty minutes of this repetitive behavior, my concern heightened, and I again sought out a nurse. She explained that Maria was Uncle Gino's daughter, who only visited on weekends. I felt sad. But, I was sadder to know that Uncle Gino didn't understand where his daughter was.

Because of the commotion in Brad's room with Uncle Gino, Abby and Meg sat in the waiting room. Luke, Jen and I feared that Uncle Gino's bizarre behavior would frighten them. The nurse reassured me that Uncle Gino was harmless and that he would soon go to sleep, but I wondered how she knew. He looked overly animated to me. I later learned that each night sleeping pills were doled out like candy to all the patients. Quiet nights.

Uncle Gino's sleeping pills must have been placebos that night because they didn't work. Perhaps the excitement of his new roommate was too much for him. I know the excitement of Uncle Gino was over-the-top for me. And, for the first time, I shamelessly broke down and cried in front of nurses. I begged them to change Brad's room, but there were no empty beds. We were stuck. They did promise to move Brad when a room became available ─ tomorrow ─ the day after ─ next week.

I was inconsolable. Steven, Brad's charge nurse, felt for me...either that or he feared I was ready to flip out. Then he would need another bed. He promised he'd try to find a room. In the meantime, he wheeled Uncle Gino to the small waiting room down the hall. I was horrified when I saw him strap Uncle Gino to his wheelchair. How cruel, I thought. I didn't know then that it was protocol and was routinely done for the safety of the patients. I felt guilty. Because of me, Uncle Gino was ousted from his room and banished to the waiting room. My heart broke when Uncle Gino cried and pleaded to return to his room, to go to bed. The nurses assured me that he was fine and that, if he went to bed, he would soon ask to get up. This was typical behavior for him, they said. Though I was not comforted, my selfish self was glad he was gone.

Finally, Brad was settled in, and Jen joined her daughters in the waiting room. What a surprise she found. Abby and Meg were engaged in a lively conversation with Uncle Gino. In our angst over Brad's situation, it hadn't occurred to us that, when we were relieved of Uncle Gino's presence, he would be keeping company with Abby and Meg. Jen laughed as she told me that her girls were delighted by him. They only saw a very old grandfather ─ though Abby did later confess that he seemed somewhat strange. Abby and Meg's acceptance of this strange man with his odd behaviors makes me smile. The wonders of children.

I wasn't comfortable leaving Brad in this strange place, not even for a single night. I was confused, frightened and exhausted. I couldn't imagine how Brad felt. But, I had no choice. It was late. The girls needed to go to bed, and I had the only car. When Luke volunteered to stay the night with Brad and the nurse wheeled a sleeping-chair into the room for him, I was relieved.

With heavy heart, I went home for the first time in more than three weeks ─ to the scene of the trauma. I didn't want to see the black marks made so carelessly by the paramedics as they bounced Brad's gurney into the freshly painted walls. I was nervous entering our bedroom, where the nightmare began. Images of Brad writhing on the bed in pain played across my mind. I was afraid to sleep in our bed ─ so big and so empty without Brad by my side. And, I was scared that Brad was afraid too. These unwelcome thoughts tumbled around my mind as I drove home. As we approached the gate to our complex, my phone rang. It startled me. It was Luke. I expected bad news. I expected him to tell me to return to the hospital, so I was relieved when he said that Brad was sleeping peacefully...in a room across the hall. Thank you, Steven. Now I could sleep too.

© 2014 by Donna O'Donnell Figurski

Bio

Donna O'Donnell Figurski is a teacher, playwright, actor, director, picture-book reviewer, and writer. Donna's book reviews were recognized by the National Education Association, and she won the 2013 Essex County Legacies Writing Contest. Donna has published with Scholastic and has written biographies for a Native American Anthology that's in press.

Snowman Competition

Nancy-Jo Taiani

The snowman with a prominent carrot nose offered "Season's Greetings!" from the front of the card I opened on December 1, 2007.

"This snowman looks like just your husband," Father John had written inside.

Certainly Father John was referring to the nose. I laughed all the more because I recognized the card. Packs of unasked-for cards arrive in my mail each November — with requests for donations of course. I order my cards from UNICEF, and Father John's mailing list was huge, so I had given my surplus cards to him, snowman included.

I had grown to love this charismatic and unorthodox priest beginning the day, five years prior, when I walked into his church. Our family had lived in Montclair and attended the church closest to my home — never even knew of that other Catholic church on a small side street — until a day that changed life for so many, September 11, 2001. Once our country engaged Afghanistan in war and began posturing toward Iraq, the usual homilies at my church were not enough for me. Checking out other parishes, I tried a mass at St. Peter Claver Church and met the priest who would become my best friend and propel my life into activism.

From the start I could see that this pastor, Father John Nickas, and his church were different. Father, in a flowing white vestment that almost hid his prominent belly, paused several times on his way down the aisle to greet congregants, smile, and touch a shoulder. His homily brought The Word down to earth, down to how it related to our lives. He even read from the New York Times, spread out on the lectern. And he spoke of peace. At the time during mass for the sign of peace, Father John left the altar to shake hands with many in the congregation. The love that bound church members together was palpable. Besides, there was a banner hanging in front of the church proclaiming it to be a Peace Site. That was enough for me. I switched churches.

I soon discovered that Father John was unique, not just for a priest, but for a man, most especially because he listened. He asked open-ended questions inviting long answers. Once he had asked me, "Tell me what events and influences in your life have caused you to develop into the person you are now?" — causing me to wonder when I had mistakenly walked into the confessional. But then, and whenever I spoke to him, he sat, listening intently. He remembered what people told him, often calling on each parishioner's unique abilities to recruit them for a task at church. It was a joke at St. Peter Claver that if Father decided you were right for a job, refusal was impossible. Besides, Father John was so complimentary and appreciative — a card of thanks always arrived — that, even if you had wanted to refuse the task, you accepted it, learned from it, and even found reason to be thankful.

During my first year as a parishioner, Father John posed a question: "Our church is a Peace Site. How can it become an active peace site?"

Before I could consider how much I was taking on, I found myself recruited as chief scribe, responsible for producing a weekly page about justice and peace issues for our church bulletin — a job I have to this day. Father encouraged my growth as an activist, gifting me subscriptions to progressive magazines and even occasionally joining our small justice and peace community as we stood on the corner, protesting war.

Being Father John's friend had its highs. I relished the many times we stopped in small shops together. "Sell me something I don't need," he said, upon entering a gift shop.

He could never leave a store without buying something. I witnessed him charming each proprietor with his good will; it overflowed, so that I couldn't help but emulate it. I never got enough of that feeling!

But loving this man also had its heartbreaks. Between March of 2003 and September of 2004, he bounced in and out of hospitals for bypass surgery and a heart valve replacement, pneumonia, a stroke and two bouts of heart failure. With each hospital event, I despaired, then prayed him through the illness. Following the last heart failure, he recognized that he had to retire as pastor. He moved to a priest's retirement home in the nearby town of Caldwell and enlisted me as his new, unpaid secretary. It was from there he sent that pre-Christmas card.

I showed the snowman card to my husband, Adel.

"Do you have a card with a snowman to send? Let's get him back," he said.

The snowman on the card I found wore a thinner carrot. It worked to mimic Father's straight, slightly upturned nose. "My husband says that this one looks like you," I wrote.

A second card soon came from Father's residence. "Here's another snowman in Adel's honor."

So, of course, we retaliated with another — with several snowmen on the front. I wrote, "Sorry. Couldn't find any resemblance here."

Two more cards came in rapid succession. Father John wrote, "I see your husband everywhere." And, "So many cards. You are just too popular!"

"He's too much," said my husband. "The only way to beat him at this is to send him a snowman ornament."

I found a small plastic snowman among our Christmas ornaments. "Okay," I said. "I'll dress him like Father."

I made our snowman a tiny white chasuble — the outer garment priests wear for mass — and painted it to look like Father's favorite vestment, the one with a strip of gold and black horizontal stripes, draped scarf-like down the right side in front and down the left in the back. I hung a tiny cross around its neck, then boxed him up and mailed him off with a note from Adel, "This one looks like someone we know."

Father wrote back, "Dear Adel, I surrender to you. Your snowman is the most inspiring, intelligent and well-dressed one of all. You win the prize."

"Intelligent. Well-dressed." Hmmm. He obviously recognized himself. I wasn't so sure we had won.

The Friday evening before Christmas, Father John invited us to his favorite dessert place in Caldwell. But first, he gave us a box to unwrap. Inside was a cheerful snowman made from a gourd and a sign, "Winter Welcome."

Father has been gone from us over five years. Consistent with his unpredictable nature, he died, not in a hospital, but while on a pilgrimage in Turkey. My snail mail became boring. I find no more charming thank-you notes, no more gentle suggestions to spur my activism or spiritual growth. And no more competitive Christmas cards. Is it mere coincidence that Post Office rates were raised several times since Father's death?

I miss the impromptu shopping sprees and the goodwill that enveloped me when I was with him. Three different priests have taken turns at St. Peter Claver Church since Father retired. All good men, each with his own style, yet none has captured the hearts of parishioners as Father John did. Sometimes, when the current priest wears a chasuble I'd seen on Father John, I can almost see and hear my friend at the altar. But soon I wipe away a tear for what I've lost.

The gourd snowman Father John gave us greets our visitors from a table by our front door every winter. It still makes me smile, remembering our snowman competition and Father John.

© 2014 by Nancy Taiani

Bio

Writer/artist Nancy-Jo Taiani is an activist for the environment, peace and justice. Healing Father John: A Journey of Contrariness, Connection, and Change tells her story of Father John. It and her children's book , A Night of Power: A Ramadan Story, are available online. Website at https://sites.google.com/site/aramadanstory. Blog at NotingNature.blogspot.com

Frank Sinatra Brings Brotherhood to My High School

E. Bette Levin

A high point of my high school years was when Frank Sinatra came to visit. It was 1939, and in those days, bobby-soxers squealed and swooned over his blue eyes, especially when he crooned his soulful tunes. But I was different — just not impressed.

My teenage heart pounded for the Chicago Cubs baseball players, especially Stan Hack, Billy Jurges and Gabby Hartnett. These were the men who made my blood course recklessly through my veins. To see the shortstop scoop a liner out of the dirt and hurl it to first base to beat the batter for an out — now, that's something to scream about!

Surprisingly, Sinatra was not coming to sing. He planned to participate in a special assembly sponsored by the National Conference of Christian and Jews. This piqued my interest. Since Frankie wasn't going to sing, I would be spared the spectacle of girls making fools of themselves.

On the day of the assembly, a priest, a rabbi, and Frank Sinatra shared a panel discussion on brotherhood. I don't remember everything they said, but just seeing men of the cloth from different religions sharing the stage shoulder to shoulder, listening to each other, held my rapt attention. I didn't know priests and rabbis spoke to one another, much less shared ideas. And Frank Sinatra himself voiced ideals: to respect people of different beliefs and the importance of tolerance.

This was meaningful and exciting. The democratic and progressive ideas expressed by these religious leaders were not entirely new to my experience. I had already encountered some of them, largely from cousin Dorothy with her searching mind, my father's convictions about working people, and the goals of the Ethical Culture religion. It was gratifying to hear them affirmed by others, especially religious leaders and a national celebrity.

From early childhood, I wondered why people of different religions set themselves apart. Religion was supposed to make you a better person. But if it kept people separated, even distrustful, and sometimes angry at each other, where was the good? And if each group claimed to have the real truth, how could that be? Was it possible there was more than one truth? Here was a mystery that confused my childish mind, and I longed to figure it out someday. The high school discussion demonstrated that people from different religions and perspectives could find common ground.

At the end of the assembly, the three men held hands and rose to their feet as one. They raised their clasped hands over their heads, triumphantly, like boxers claiming their prize. This was a profound moment for me: this vision burned into my consciousness as hope of what could be someday.

When people hear this story about Frank Sinatra, they're surprised to learn he had a social conscience. I recall hearing an early recording of Sinatra singing The House I Live In, connecting with this high school experience. His refrain, "This is America for me," celebrates a democratic society of hometown values, diversity and respect.

The school assembly spurred me on my religious journey toward ethical and spiritual growth. The applause of the students as they shouted their approval of the common quest of priest, rabbi and Frank Sinatra still echoes today.

© 2014 by E. Betty Levin

Bio

E. Bette Levin, M.A., has been a private-practice psychotherapist for 39 years. She is a founder and was an early president of the New Jersey Association of Women Therapists, and has served as president of ASERVIC, the Association for Spirituality, Ethics and Religious Values in Counseling. She lives in Millburn, New Jersey.

One Night

Toby Stein

A few days after I came to work at J. Walter Thompson, I met a man with a particular gift for conversation. My new acquaintance ─ I'll call him Frank because that was his name ─ was, like me, a facile writer. Because coming up with good ads counted a lot more than how much sweat you put into them, we could nearly always manage at least one unhurried conversation a week on Thompson time.

Frank shared my boredom with gossip, so our talks were about art and books and music. Especially music. He admired that, barely in my teens, I'd stood at the old Met four times to hear Kirsten Flagstad, the great Wagnerian soprano. I knew what I liked, and I had taste, but Frank knew more ─ and he knew that, too. Not only knowledgeable but smart, he let me figure it out for myself.

Holding back like that also fit Frank's general reserve, a trait I found appealing, partly because it's one I occasionally yearn to have. All in all, I looked forward to every opportunity for a conversation with him, none related to Ford, the automobile account we were both on.

Ford cars were how I came to Thompson. Someone there had heard about my work at another, small agency, where I wrote about the lunar module for Navy magazines, and was the sole writer on Gulfstream ─ fast becoming the airplane all forty-year-old boys wanted to arrive on. A female who had experience writing about "male" products intrigued the people running the Ford group. But even as they invited me in for an interview, they saw a potential problem.

I didn't know that, but had my own hesitation: I really liked working on the Grumman account, especially after I won a nice little award from Esquire and the client found out that I was in fact the writer on the account and not the secretary. Though I wasn't interested in changing jobs, and knew that, once they found out I didn't drive, they'd immediately lose interest in me. Still, it was flattering to be invited in, and I went.

Bert Metter, in command of all print advertising on the account, talked to me a good while before he broached the issue that gave them qualms.

"Do you cry?" he asked.

A few years on, that question might have been worth two or three hundred thousand dollars in a discrimination lawsuit. But the evening of my interview I knew I had to answer ─ or walk out. I like a challenge, so it took me only seconds to decide I wanted the job, after all. I invested a few seconds more in coming up with an answer.

"Not between nine and six," I said.

Bert Metter nodded. He didn't ask even one more question, like: "You do drive?" So I became the first female ever to work on Ford at Thompson. Fifty-eight men and me ─ a situation any fervent young feminist would deplore. I was delighted.

But this story isn't about why I didn't become a feminist till much later, so I'd better get on to more of why I liked my new co-worker so much. Despite being a serious fan of George Herbert and Bach and William Maxwell, I am, deep down, a pretty superficial woman. And the way Frank dressed pleased me. His clothes were as reserved as he, but showed that he'd made choices, which distinguished him from our account executives, who never even showed up in a paisley tie.

We progressed ─ but not hastily ─ from being acquaintances to becoming friends. I knew I'd been promoted when I was invited to dinner at Frank's.

His pitch-perfect taste held at table. The plates were handsome stoneware; the flatware decisively plain; the crystal, a Baccarat pattern I recognized. The food was equally fine: the scallops had not been sautéed a breath too long. As for the frozen apricot pudding, never before or since have I tasted its match.

Dinner at Frank's meant you were the guest. I have, sometimes with disastrous results, gone out of my way to bring friends of mine together, but Frank kept his friends compartmentalized.

Then a play Frank wrote was produced Off-Broadway. Opening night presented him with a dilemma, which I'm sure I was not the only friend who enjoyed. He could not very well leave any of us off the invitation list, so for the first time we all met. Kind of. At intermission, there were cursory introductions, one or two enthusiastic phrases exchanged ─ before Frank parted us as authoritatively as God parted the Red Sea.

I thought Frank's play very good. Like him, it was not in the least frivolous, but had a rich vein of humor. I especially relished a scene in which a girl who slept with the protagonist the night before hangs around anticipating emotional leftovers. Finally, having had quite enough of her looming presence, the protagonist says, "What did you expect, roses?" Bull's-eye.

I didn't get a chance to congratulate Frank until the next day, because immediately after the final curtain, he disappeared, presumably to avoid embarrassing the friends who wouldn't get to celebrate with him. I was too happy for him to feel slighted, and hoped others felt the same.

One day, in the midst of a discussion about the plot of "Der Rosenkavalier," I popped up with, "Jarmila Novotna made a smashing Octavian, but as the Marschallin, Eleanor Steber nicked my heart. Her performance was perfection."

"Steber was marvelous. But for perfection, there was only Lotte Lehmann."

I shook my head.

"Have you heard Lehmann's Marschallin?" Frank said.

Shook my head again. "But she can't have been as good as Steber." When you witnessed a great performance at fourteen years of age, you're committed to it.

Frank smiled, and we returned to dissecting the plot.

When, some months later, Frank invited me to come over after work that very evening to hear Lehmann's recording, I hesitated. He said he'd make daiquiris using the Ford group's secret recipe. I laughed, and accepted.

The Lehmann was a revelation, and I was finishing my second sublime daiquiri when Frank told me he was gay, and asked if I would go to bed with him.

"I want to find out if I can," he said evenly.

I had no idea what to say. I didn't even know what I thought.

What I felt was astonished. It had never occurred to me that Frank was gay. There were certainly homosexuals in Performing Arts, but Frank offered none of the clues they eagerly supplied. Besides, he had, more than once, come into my office to discuss a romantic problem.

How should I have guessed that he had, for the telling, changed the gender of the other party? That wasn't honest. It wasn't fair.

This wasn't honest. In that moment, I saw what he had done. The Lehmann and the daiquiris. . . . He had set the scene for his confession ─ and his request. He'd staged the whole thing!

So? He was nervous, and he's a playwright ─ he's a friend who needs a favor. . . okay, a huge favor. He asked someone he trusts enough to think she might be willing to help him ─ you.

Why wasn't my business. And fair or not wasn't the issue any more.

Am I willing to do this?

Jesus! How would I know what to do? Was there anything I could do that would make it work? And if it didn't, how would he feel?

Hell, how would I feel?

Does he have any idea how much he's asking?

I looked at Frank. He knew. I could see reflected in his eyes the doubts, like pimples, sprouting all over my face. But he didn't flinch. He was still hoping I'd say yes.

He stood and went over to a closet. He reached up, and from the top shelf took down a framed photograph. He handed it to me. It was an eight-by-ten head shot of a man who looked to be in his mid-forties. Handsome if it weren't for the shadows under his eyes. Like mine, but I wore make-up that covered mine a little. I wondered why the photographer hadn't erased the shadows.

I handed back the picture.

"His name was John," Frank said. "I lived with him in Paris for six years. He died. His second heart attack."

I didn't say anything.

"John's mother arrived from North Carolina to claim her son's body. She got there quickly. She wanted to make sure I didn't abscond with any of John's belongings." He winced, then continued tonelessly. "She wouldn't speak to me, so she had no way to know which of our things belonged to me. She packed up everything. I let her. I only kept the picture and a small book of Chinese fairy tales in French that was small enough to stick in my raincoat pocket."

"When was all this? You've never mentioned living in France."

"That's where he lived." He cleared his throat. "I loved him."

I tried to nod; it didn't come off.

"Six years next September, that's when he died. I came back to the states right away. No reason to stay in Paris. I thought I could make a living here writing plays or for TV. Naive, huh?"

"You're a very good writer."

"You might as well know it all. Since John died, I haven't cared about another man."

"Six years is a long time to be alone."

He heard the question I hadn't asked. "Once or twice. . ." He shook his head. "It doesn't work out. So, strangers. I have sex with strangers. Better that way."

"How many?" I didn't even try to resist asking.

He looked away, but answered. "Hundreds," he said flatly.

His eyes were back to me. "More," he said, his voice almost loud this time.

I blinked. Hard. He wants to get waiting-for-my-no over with.

That usually very reserved man had told me so much, he was practically standing naked in front of me. I picked up my second daiquiri, finished it in a single swallow, and took off my clothes.

As soon as I lay down on the bed, I stopped being afraid. I was me again and he was. . . Frank. We were friends. There wasn't going to be any saying or doing the wrong thing.

In the morning, there being no possibility that I would go to work in the same clothes I'd worn the day before, I went home to change while Frank went straight to Thompson.

An hour later, when I got to my office, my desk was strewn with deep red roses. Instantly, I remembered: what the girl in Frank's play didn't receive. My secretary stood next to me in the doorway, the questions on her face so thick they were smudging her make up.

"Morning, Dottie," I said. "Do you think you can track down a big vase for me?"

For a week or so, Frank and I skirted each other, more his doing than mine. Then he asked me to lunch. When we had been served, he thanked me, rather formally. Then he said, "I've given this a good deal of thought. I would prefer not to discuss what happened between us, not now and probably never. But I do have one thing to tell you. Since John died, no one called me by name in bed till you. I thought you might want to know."

My second bouquet.

Frank was right; we never did need to talk about what happened. And I'm not going to say any more about it here. I will tell you something I learned that night. Having someone say your name in bed means they know who you are.

© 2014 by Toby Stein

Bio

Toby Stein has been a member of the Write Group since 2013. The author of three novels and two nonfiction books, she is a free-lance editor. She's writing a memoir about her journey from a secular Jewish childhood through ten happy Catholic years to her life now as a Conservative Jew.

I Wanna Hold Your Hand

Harriet Halpern

(Author's Note: This is an excerpt from my forthcoming memoir, "Balancing Act: A Story of Life After Diagnosis as Told by a Reluctant Inspirer")

I love going to Broadway shows. Before multiple sclerosis, I went by public transportation, but now I need to go by car. Enter Marc, my theatergoing partner. I used to take him to shows when he was young, the only one of my three sons who wanted to go with me. It's kind of a special bond we have, dating from when he was around eight. I would buy him jelly donuts (three for a dollar back then) as a special treat. Proper nutrition was never my strong point.

No more jelly donuts now. Before show time, we find a place close by the theater to have something light to eat. My favorite kind is a deli where you go to the counter and check out all the possibilities and tell the guy what kind of sandwich and salad you want. A real bonus is if we can get a table by the window. I never tire of looking out on what's going on in New York. The sidewalk traffic in all its variety is something I miss being part of, but watching the flow of humanity from a seated position is fun too.

After the last show we saw ended, Marc wheeled me over to the elevator that would take us up to the lobby level. As I sat in my wheelchair, I was surrounded yet again by people standing over me. Then I spotted a young woman in a wheelchair nearby. She was looking at me and nodding her head and smiling. I instinctively held out my hand to her and she grasped it. I told her my name and asked her for hers. By now, I could tell there was something seriously wrong. She couldn't answer me. But she was able to smile and keep nodding, so that's how we communicated. We held hands until the elevator came, and then we went our respective ways; she was wheeled to one side of the large elevator and I to the other.

Perhaps you're wondering, Why make a fuss about holding hands with another person sitting in a wheelchair whom you never saw before in your life and who can't even speak when you ask her her name? Because she's a valued part of my new world. Because she and I are on the same level. I'm not able to stand tall or stand any which way anymore, that's why. So I live in my new world and learn to recognize the opportunities there. At first, I rebelled because I didn't want to be in this particular world, the one inhabited by cripples, but now that I've settled in, I'm able to take a good look around and see what's there for me to take and how I can give back.

Always, look for ways to give back. Do unto others in return for all you need done unto you. Enter whatever world you find yourself in and make it a better one for you and your co-inhabitants. Also, accept the crappy parts and figure out how to make them more do-able. The thing is, live your life fully in whatever circumstances you find yourself. Re-define fully. Re-define live. Re-define whatever you have to. Circumstances change, and so do opportunities.

Reaching across to the other woman in the wheelchair was an impulse, and a good one. We connected. We became, however briefly, a part of each other's lives. I don't think I'd recognize her again but, as you can see, I haven't forgotten her. While others were standing and jabbering above us, we communed with one another on our level. We had our own private meeting, not of the minds, but of the hands.

Life is about moments. This one was ours.

© 2014 by Harriet Halpern

Bio

Harriet Halpern joined the Write Group in 2000, four days after she moved to Montclair and has been an enthusiastic regular ever since.

Call Me Siggi

Carney W. Mimms

(Author's note: This excerpt from Carney Mimms' larger memoir "Not My War" has been published in the June issue of Kol Emunah, the newsletter of Temple Shomrei Emunah, 67 Park Street, Montclair, NJ 07042.)

I had been sitting in the waiting room at my mother's Manhattan dentist for only a few minutes when a small figure appeared at the door, pushed it carefully open and limped hesitantly across the small room, supported by a four-footed cane. Stooped and wizened, he appeared at least as old as my mom, who was now approaching her 97th birthday.

He lowered himself carefully into the chair next to mine, closed his eyes and breathed heavily for a few moments. I watched him as he struggled for breath, concerned that he had arrived unaccompanied and seemed to be in distress.

"Can I help you, sir?" I said. "I'll be here a while waiting while my mother gets her work done."

"Thank you," he replied. "I'll be better in chust a moment. And my niece vill be here to help once Dr. Romano is done with me. I fear I haf been here too long already."

Relieved, I smiled and put out my hand. "Carney Mimms. Pleased to meet you, sir."

My neighbor opened his eyes and returned the smile. He reached slowly into his jacket pocket, withdrew his wallet, and plucked out an elegantly engraved business card. It read:

Sigismund Weinberg

International Import-Export

Industrial Tools and Fittings a Specialty

His faint but persistent German accent and Jewish name caught my attention. After some hesitation, my curiosity about his name got the better of me.

"Sigismund?" I said. "That's a pretty Teutonic sounding name for a Weinberg."

"Yah it is. Not such a gut name for a Weinberg. My parents vere great enthusiasts of German culture. But that soon changed. Call me Siggi."

I could see that the exchange had amused him. Now I could relax and enjoy his company. As we shook hands, my instincts told me Siggi was ready to tell his story and that it would be a good one. A Jewish story. A story I very much wanted to hear.

"So how did the Weinbergs come to this country?"

"Vell, I vas chust a boy zenn, and my parents vere trying to stay ahead of the Nazis. Ve ended up in the Bronx. The Bronx vas gut for us but my mother and father still missed die heimat — the homeland — even venn ve had been made into enemies. America vas not heimat yet either. As Germans ve vere considered enemy aliens even here."

"That must have been difficult. When did that change?"

"Soon enough the var came. I vas lucky. I told them I vas seventeen and joined the Army. Now I vas not an enemy. My mama vas not too pleased, zoh."

"Did you go to war?"

"Oh yah. But not right away. I vas lucky again. Got pneumonia in Basic Training in Texas. The Army saw my tests and thought I vas a smart guy so zhey sent me to G2-Intelligence school. The rest vent straight to the Battle of the Bulge as infantry."

"What was your unit?"

"Ve vere in Patton's Third Army, but ahead of US lines. Ve vere supposed to try to intercept communications. Radio, telephone, even captured messengers."

"Sounds dangerous."

"It vas, but sometimes ve lived gut. The Germans vere abandoning their positions so ve took the best places for our headquarters. One vas a big chateau near the Belgian border. That's vere I got stupid. I volunteered."

Siggi leaned towards me, his grey eyes now wide open.

"You vere in the service," he said finally.

I felt an odd thrill of recognition. It was not a question. I nodded.

"You vere in a var?"

That was a question. I shook my head.

"No matter," he said. "You vill know how it vorks."

"Never a good idea, volunteering." I smiled carefully. My father, another veteran of Siggi's war, had given me the usual advice on that subject — advice I had ignored.

"The Germans counter-attacked and cut us off. Sam and I volunteered to stay behind and burn our documents. Ve put thermite packs on the document bags and burned everything else in the big fireplace in the great hall. Ve vere still feeding the fire venn the first rounds landed. Must have been the Waffen SS. Zhey vere always gut with the mortars. The floor collapsed and I vent down with it."

"How did you make it out of there?"

"Sam dragged me into the voods before the Germans arrived. Ve hid out until dark. Zenn he dragged me past the patrols and sentries until ve got back to our lines. I don't remember much after that until I got to Third Army hospital in England."

"Was that the end of the war for you?"

"It could haf been. I vas there for more than two months, recovering. The Army vas ready to send me home, but venn der doctor came, I told him 'I vant to go back to my unit'."

"Did he ask you why?"

"I told him I vas a Jew and I needed to kill more Germans. He said he would mark me fit for duty. He seemed to understand. I zink he had heard this before."

"Did you get back to your unit?"

"No. The var vas almost over by the time I vas reassigned. Zhey put me in with the MPs, herding Germans. It vas gut to see them all so sad. And soon I vas home."

"I bet it felt good to be home."

"Oh yah. This time it did feel like I vas home. Schwer zu sein a Yid. Ach, it's hard to be a Jew. And it's not so easy getting to be an American either!"

© 2014 by Carney Mimms

Lotteries & Rage

Steven Trombecky

My mother and I sat in front of the television. The lottery was about to begin. This wasn't today's one in twenty-two million chance of winning the Mega Million Jackpot. This was the U.S. military lottery. The date was December 1, 1969. It was the first draft lottery since 1942. We were well into the Vietnam War and Nixon needed able-bodied young men. Every 18- to 25-year-old this night was terrified, including me.

I was on my sixth Budweiser waiting for my fate. I'd spent the last two years attending draft card burning demonstrations in Washington D.C., selling underground newspapers and reading Gary Snyder, Allen Ginsberg and other fellow travelers.

My father sat in his chair, feet up, sipping a gin and tonic, ignoring the television and reading The Godfather. My brother, Bruce, thirteen, and my sister, Laura, eight, were in their rooms, too young to be interested.

At 8 p.m. on the television screen, in bold letters appeared: "SPECIAL REPORT." The announcer's deep voice said, "Mayberry R.F.D. will not be shown tonight so we can bring you the military draft."

A stone-faced New York congressman dressed in a black suit and tie stood in front of other men dressed in black.

"They look like pall bearers," Mom said, taking a puff from her cigarette.

The congressman walked in front of a three-foot-high, clear cylinder filled with dark blue capsules. They looked like something you'd find in a boardwalk game where you lower the claw to grab a prize. But this was no game. Inside each capsule was a slip of paper marked with every date of the year.

I listened for an hour, unable to speak. All the beer was gone when the man opened the next blue capsule. "Number 123 is December 28," he said.

"Oh shit," I blurted.

My mother turned to me, eyes wide. "Is that bad?"

Pop didn't look up. "It's not good, Marilyn."

I knew I had a 50% chance of going to Vietnam.

~ ~ ~

After checking the mail every morning for seven months, the letter arrived. The upper left hand corner read, "UNITED STATES SELECTIVE SERVICE DEPARTMENT." My heart pounded so hard the roach clip on my silver chain banged against my chest. I ripped open the envelope and in bold letters: ORDER TO REPORT FOR ARMED SERVICE PHYSICAL EXAMINATION.

My mother with her Jewish radar knew something was wrong. She banged on the kitchen window. I didn't respond. She turned off the faucet and headed outside.

"What is it? Is it from the draft board?"

I handed her the letter. "I have 30 days to report."

Mom studied the paper as if it were a death notice. She shook. Tears mixed with her mascara and ran down her freckled cheeks.

From the house, I heard my father yell, "Where is everybody? Marilyn where are you?"

He opened the screen door. My father was just out of the shower, his blonde hair slicked back with Brylcreem gel and a cigarette dangled from his mouth. "What are you doing out there? Why are you crying Marilyn? Steven what did you say to your mother?"

Mom sobbed but choked out the words. "Stanley, your son has to go for an Army physical."

Pop smiled. "Oh yeah? You have to cut that ponytail and beard." I knew what he was thinking: The Army will straighten his ass out!

Mom tried for a temporary truce. "We're going to eat soon, let's go in."

My mother went to the kitchen. My father and I each took a section of the Philadelphia Inquirer and sat in the formal dining room on opposite sides of the table.

After a few minutes he put down the newspaper, leaned forward and looked me in the eyes. "When do you have to report?"

"In 30 days, Pop."

My father reached to light his cigarette and slid the pack across the table toward me.

"I don't know what I'm going to do," I said.

"What do you mean? You have to go."

We had argued about Vietnam many times. It never ended well. This was no longer a philosophical debate. This was real.

His voice dropped and his jaw tightened. "You have a duty to your country. You're being called to serve."

"So what?" I snapped back. "I'm not going over there just to kill innocent people. Why? To stop Communism? I'm either going to jail or Canada"

He cleared his throat. "Dammit! For once in your life act like a man!"

"You know what? The hell with Nixon, the hell with McNamara, and fuck the USA!"

My father jumped up, his chair crashing against the wall. He charged me. I stood and pushed my chair away. He was taller and weighed 100 lbs. more than me. We locked arms, swaying back and forth like Sumo wrestlers.

My mother ran in from the kitchen. "Stop it! Stop it!"

My father's huge frame devoured me. His breathing became labored.

Mom slapped us with a kitchen towel. "Enough you two. Enough."

My brother and sister ran in from their rooms. They stood at the edge of the room in amazement.

"Do something Bruce," Mom begged.

"Do what?" Stepping behind the sofa.

My father threw me down on the plush carpet and climbed on top of me.

"Take it back! Take it back!" He demanded.

"No way!" I said.

Pop gasped for air. Brylcreem mixed with sweat poured down his face. His body felt limp.

I rolled his 250 lb. body and pinned him against the wall.

"Give up Pop! Give up!"

He shook his head back and forth. Blood was running down his nose.

I stared at my father, turned and grabbed a chair. I pulled myself up. Everyone stood there in silence. I staggered past my mother and leaned on the table to catch my breath. I looked across and could only see my father's head against the wall. My mother sprinted over with the towel, knelt and wiped her husband's bloodied face.

Not looking back, I grabbed my car keys and escaped into the cold night.

© 2014 by Steven Trombecky

Bio

Steven Trombecky is a retired owner of Steven Joseph Construction. He lives with his wife Carmen, son Joseph and sister-in-law Lulu in East Hanover, New Jersey. His soon to be published memoir is called Forgive Me, Pop.

Poetry

Back to the Table of Contents

We have nine poems in this section with a wide range of subject matter.

A Trial of Language

Ron Bremmer

(Originally published in International Poetry Review, Vol. IX, No. 2 Fall 1983)

(Author's Note: "A trial of language" concerns my two cousins. My cousin Joey died at 28 years of age under suspicious circumstances. The death was ruled a suicide by police, probably because they chose not to open certain doors. His mother and father went to their graves knowing that someone had gotten away with the murder of their son.)

He and his sister were variable antonyms.

Though both counted out their words,

only he tried to spell them.

She believed no tonic speech,

but the loudest of mumbles.

Neither realized the climactic impotence of words

in time.

After the shock of his terse death

she learned the language of gestures.

The parents still do not understand.

They seek words to trust.

We have tried, but

cautious eloquence does not fool them.

She will not talk to them.

She plans to survive.

© 1983 by Ron Bremmer

Bio

R. Bremner (AKA Ron) attends the Saturday Free Writes, which have provided much fodder for poems and stories. He has published in various poetry magazines and has 10 ebooks to his name. He lives in Glen Ridge with his lovely sociologist wife, Francesca, their brilliant son, and their excitable puppy.

Mirror

Marco Emiliano Navarro

I saw my fear in his eyes and couldn't take the pain.

The mirror was captivating, paralyzing.

He searches for more fear, lurking just past my shoulder,

masterminding a way to manipulate truth

for his personal strategy of feeling wronged.

How dare I. How dare I make him feel small,

make him feel inadequate. How dare I embarrass him.

I didn't realize my simple inquiries wielded such power,

such conviction, such distinction.

I saw my fear in his eyes and it scared me.

My soul lay bare, my guard released and naked,

determined to find solution and resolution,

but the deed is done.

His aim is to plunder, mine to dissuade.

I internalized his poison, ate it with such enthusiasm,

such voraciousness as if it were Thanksgiving's feast.

I tasted each scrumptious morsel of mistruth as if it were

soft and juicy fork-full of tender-roasted turkey, nestled

under homemade gravy, anticipating his dessert of discord.

I saw my fear in his eyes and recognized his intention.

I noticed his bullying ways. I realized my reactive state.

I saw my fear in his eyes and its transition to his

avarice towards me, his desire unjust, his crazed

paranoia, his compulsive nature to maintain, acquire,

collect, and discard but not forgive, not console,

not distinguish, not extinguish.

Now I know.

I know, now, that I saw my fear in his eyes

but its time has passed. Its thirst, quenched.

But his only grew, becoming more threatened.

Yet my light ensnared his venom, my inquiry highlighted

his inability, my request cowered his denial,

my flexibility swarmed his rigidity.

My fear morphed into deeper love of self, my will

and persistence for greater good became my shield.

I saw my fear in his eyes, but the reflection peering back

is no longer mine.

© 2014 by Marco Emiliano Navarro

Bio

Marco Emiliano Navarro has been a fan of poetry featuring wordsmithing, urban landscapes, wit, and sarcasm. His works have been published online as well as in print via journals, magazines, and newsletters. His book, Alliterary Sancocho, may be purchased online.

My House

by Mirela N. Trofin

I wonder what my house does

when I shut the door in the morning.

Does it watch intently when I back down the driveway

as I roll over the neighbor's lawn again?

Does it meet up with other houses to chat

have coffee, gossip a bit about that renovation

that expansion, that stripping, the new occupants

of the large house on the corner?

Or does it sit on a park bench, clapboards crossed

smoking a cigarette or two as it watches

passersby walk their dogs or yell at their kids?

Does it feel lonely and decide to expand

the tiny cracks in its walls or a small drip into large

bathroom leaks to call to my attention

my lack of attention, my neglect?

Whatever it does I know that once home

I still have to turn on lights, walk the dog,

cook, wash dishes and put out the garbage.

I wonder why it never occurs to it to help out.

© 2014 by Mirela N. Trofin

Bio

Poetry is my way to play with words and writing in English is my way to explore the ambiguity of this wonderful language. Let the words percolate and tumble and let's have some fun. Published in Quarto, Reflexions, Columbia Literary Review and Montclair Times.

BEGINNING..................ENDING

Johnnie Jones Tucker

I'm here Time to face myself and admit what I see

Is it a beginning?

Yes it is. Does it end? OH YES

Beginning... to accept my flaws, my defects, my strengths, my power

Ending... accepting lies; half-truths;

your shame; your guilt; your ohhhh so negative energy, and ways

Beginning...to ask for humility; to accept the love of my children, the joy of their presence,

Ending...my reaction to your abusive ways;

me torturing myself with your insecurities, your fears

Ending... being hurt

Beginning to respond to the light that's in me

Beginning to ask not just for revelation, but direction

Beginning to see you in a new light

Beginning to not like what I see

Beginning to see who you really are, nothing... without me

Ending...running after you; exhausting myself trying to keep up with you;

degrading myself; pretending to love you

Beginning...seeking God's face; to see there is so much more to me

Beginning...allowing myself to be touched, to feel

Beginning to live again; to reach out again

Ending being afraid

Ending... looking at me and not liking what I see

Beginning...to care for me; to cherish me;

to have respect for me; to like being me; toooo... love me

Ending...the neglect of my child, the harm with words from my mouth

Ending...blaming my mother, did she want to die and leave me so young?

Ending...being a victim

Beginning...to see I can't do everything

Beginning... to understand I can do all things

Beginning... to be swift to hear, slow to speak

Ending...this anger in me; your hold on me;

Ending... my calling your wrong right

Ending... my not wanting to see

Ending... walking in the way of the ungodly

Beginning...to see how you could sleep after causing so much harm...so much hurt

"for they do not sleep unless they have done evil,

and their sleep is taken away unless they make someone fall"

Ending...your attack on my children, when it's me you want to hurt

Ending... believing the lies... that I'm not worthy

Ending... telling myself that I can't

BEGINNING..................ENDING

Beginning to cherish my motherhood; to love my child; to accept her love,

to honor her strength;

Beginning to see her weakness; to see that she's just like me; to see that she needs me

Beginning to love it

Beginning to know that the Lord shall fight for me,

And I shall hold my peace

Beginning

© 2006 by Johnnie Jones Tucker

Bio

Johnnie Jones Tucker is a gospel singer, songwriter, writer of poetry, begins with a love of truth in words, is a bodacious woman with the voice to match. She has accomplished in her writings depths that few dare to enter. Her unbelievable contralto voice, peppered with mezzo-soprano mesmerizes. She quite simply engages you.

Where We Walked

Elizabeth Levine

Here we walked,

Looking for heroin,

Dreaming of who we might have been

And what is already lost.

The Mission district curls like a fist,

Waiting to strike.

The BART roars like a steel dragon of mistakes,

Shaking the cracked windows of

Widows who wear sombreros,

Waiting for their men,

Who grind these women into dust,

As farina.

Widow's ashes, like cinders of betrayal,

Burn the row-house steps,

Set fire to the morning.

Madrugada,

San Francisco stoops, like beige knees,

Cry out for Fridays,

Dream of check day, when money falls like rain,

And stars blink with abandoned possibilities.

Shedding only the promise of night.

Their sorrow resembles

Federico Garcia Lorca's Cry,

Los lagartos están llorando en el jardín. Siempre llorando.*

Noche tras noche

Hasta que también lloramos la misma canción de lamento*

Peruvian tamales, prison cells,

Echo of retribution from San Quentin.

The noise of keys and locked doors,

Smell of despair

Patient as death.

In the bail bond store on the corner,

Of misery and the familiar.

Babies weep for their fathers-

Sensing the violence waiting, always waiting,

Madrugada = dawn, farina = flour, los lagartos están llorando en el jardín. Siempre llorando = The lizards are crying in the garden, always crying. Noche tras noche = Night after (in search of) night. Hasta que tambien contemos la misma canción de lamento = Until we also sing the same song of lament

© 2014 by Ellizabeth Levine

Bio

Elizabeth Levine, M.A., M.P.H, is an M.F.A. candidate at William Paterson University, where she teaches Composition and Creative Writing. She is currently working on two memoirs, Onus and What Remains. Her chapbook of poetry, Before and After, will be published by Finishing Line Press in 2014.

O God! Give Me Great Fathers

Rashi Gupta

O God! Give me great fathers,

So that every daughter becomes a great mother;

O God! Give me beautiful fathers,

So that beautiful flower blossoms in every garden;

O God! Give me honorable fathers,

So that every girl becomes virtuous;

O God! Give me handsome fathers,

So that their daughters enjoy the beauty of freedom, not just the freedom;

O God! Give me lovable fathers,

So that every girl heart is full of compassion;

O God! Bless my fellowmen,

With three basic necessities of life;

Which they are deprived off,

Not, food, clothing and shelter,

But, love, beauty and respect.

© 2014 by Rashi Gupta

Bio

Rashi Gupta did her BA from Lucknow University followed by an MBA from IPM Lucknow. Her family had a political and literary background, from which she inherited her taste for poetry. She has a fair collection of poems. Currently she's content writer with Sharda University, Greater Noida, India.

After:

Laura Freedgood

(Author's note: In Memoriam: For Anne Miyamoto)

I would have called today

to tell you about the muffin

that lingered on my tongue

the way only pastry

made with butter can.

I would have called to tell you

how my downstairs neighbor

made phlegmy sounds

last night, keeping me awake,

sweats plaguing my sleep,

and you might have told me

about the woman in the apartment above

who vacuumed at 6:00 am,

her dog whinnying for attention

while you struggled for rest.

I would have asked

if you wanted

quince paste from the market

and your favorite dark chocolate,

an interlude of sweetness

from the insistence of pain.

We might have walked

outside, your small frame

on my arm, the slow movement

of your pace something

I wasn't

quite used to.

I might have made you

a small dinner

of salad greens

and artichoke hearts

while we talked of my poems,

and about the young actor

you wanted to cast

in your play.

We would not have mentioned

what was killing you,

as if it were a nuisance to tolerate,

but watched, instead,

the stars etched into the night

like sequins on your favorite silk scarf.

© 2104 by Laura Freedgood

Bio

Laura Freedgood has three chapbooks published: What I Would Paint If I Could (2012), Slant of the Heart (2010), and Weather Report (2007). Her poems appear in numerous journals and anthologies. Nominated for The Pushcart Prize, she won a three-year poetry grant from the City University of New York in 2005.

Unseen

Niraj Shah

Listless witness to the tic toc,

the moon's lit with the sun drop,

and in between, all my breaths weren't sought.

So I thought,

let me go into my soul,

into this is

where there is

somthin' cherished,

unshared, to keep its merits.

A dimension,

where nothing bad is mentioned,

and harmony

and peace

aren't far from me

to reach.

All I have to do is,

breathe.

So please,

don't ask me to open my world,

for, your words forwarded won't move you forward toward my soul.

It will remain closed,

it's one place I have complete control.

It's one place, I'm safe,

from your world.

© 2104 by Niraj Shah

Bio

This poem is on my website nirajshah.me

Under the Table

Gloria Perez

Under the table, I huddled, as a crippling and convulsing fear overpowered my frail,

teenage body. I took cover, in an effort to dodge the darting, stray bullets that

shattered the windows of my second floor apartment during the infamous Newark

Riots.

Under the table I remained, paralyzed with terror and confusion, not wanting to

believe the onslaught of chaos that engulfed our City. A city where, just days earlier,

I was happy and worry free. Minutes turned into agonizing hours and days of

haunting unrest, as national guardsmen, some seemingly not much older than me,

were strategically placed on our streets, in the hope of helping control what was an

out-of-control situation.

My city was under siege, the result of suppressed anger and hostility harbored by

many of its inhabitants, wanting and longing for change. The bonds of friendship,

once strong and solid, now questioned and invalidated, as race became the trump

card by which loyalty was measured and sides had to be taken.

Innocent passersby, clueless as to what was going on, finding themselves at the

wrong place at the wrong time, and forced to fend for themselves and for loved

ones.

Under the table, I covered my ears, in an attempt to muffle the deafening sirens—

the haunting wailing and screaming of young and old alike. The confusion on the

sidewalks, as looters took to the streets, helping themselves to what they could

physically carry and destroying what they could not. The dreams of business owners

and their employees reduced to ashes.

Under the table, clutching my cat, highlights of my short, teenage life flashed before

me, as I cried inconsolably. I cried for myself and for my city, for its perpetrators and

for its victims.

Under the table, I remained, sad, angry, bewildered and struck with the harsh and

sobering realization that my life and the lives of so many others would never be the

same again.

© 2014 by Gloria Perez

Bio

Gloria Perez has been writing poetry and short stories since grade school. She joined the

Write Group two years ago, frequenting mostly the free-write sessions. She both studied

and taught French and Spanish in Newark. She credits the Write Group, as well as her

daughter Dania, also a writer, with motivating her to further her writing.

Plays

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We have one play in the Sampler.

Frenemies (Heard Verbatim)

Susan Anmuth

Scene: Jelly, a 14-pound black cat with green eyes, hovering on the arm of a sofa. Tatiana, a 5-pound Yorkshire terrier with cataracts and bow legs sitting on the floor nearby. They are facing each other.

Jelly (matter of factly): I could kill you, you know.

Tatiana (puffing out her chest but visibly shaking): Mom would never let you.

Jelly: Mom's hardly here from no-sun to no-sun. And anyway, "mom"? She's no mom of yours. She's certainly no mom of mine. My mother had a belly you could knead while sucking all the milk you could grab. My mother had a tongue that cleaned me rough and spotless a hundred times a day. This so-called mother lets me fend for myself, lick my own self, get dust on my star-quality fur coat. And just try kneading her belly if you want to hear her shriek.

Also, my mother had substance. One growl and there's nothing my siblings and I wouldn't stop doing. This mother is a pushover.

But I digress.

I have motive, I have opportunity, and I have means. (Yawning widely to show all her teeth, and flexing her claws.) Why shouldn't I snap your little neck?

Tatiana: My neck happens to be my toughest body part.

Jelly: How about your jugular?

Tatiana: Why are you so mean, anyway? You get the yummiest food, no one ever forces you to leave the house, and that boy who pets you won't even look at me.

Jelly: First of all, don't be so moralistic. I am not mean, I am cat. Therefore, whatever I am is what I should be.

But since you ask, that's exactly the point. Here am I, perfect. Here are you, there's not even a word in animal or human language to do justice to your inadequacies. (Disgust in every quiver of her whiskers.) And yet the second she brought you home, she loved you the best. It's intolerable, and what's more, it's inexplicable.

Tatiana: I am insanely lovable. You and that boy are the only ones who don't get it.

Jelly: He's the only one besides me in this house with half a brain. Okay, I'll try to lay it out so even you understand my superiority.

You are but a floor being, whereas I am a trapeze artist. I could be in cirque du soleil. No surface eludes me. I sail right over your head to the rocking chair and rock so hard it scares you; you fall for it every time. Another thing. I eat my food from the table. It's true that mom — we'll call her mom for convenience's sake — puts it high to keep you from gobbling it. Doesn't that tell you that my wet, dead stuff is better than the kidney prescription stuff she's always cajoling you to eat? (High, squeaky baby-talk voice) Eat, sweetie, be a good girl. Just take a few bites for mommie. I eat better because I am better.

Then there's my ethical superiority. For instance, you claim to adore mommie, but I'm the one who actually looks out for her. I help her write essays by sitting in front of the monitor or, when her sentences really stink, walking across the keyboard. I nose open the bathroom door whenever she goes in, to make sure she's doing the right thing in there. We all know how forgetful she can be.

Moving on, I'm inherently fascinating. My interests are catholic. I see glory in a mote of dust, stalking opportunities in a Q-tip. I find the Q-tip no matter how deeply they bury it in that can. I carry my enemy delicately between my teeth into the bathtub and defeat it several times before pushing it down the drain.

You, on the other hand, have no talent at all. You are boring. You have no interests beyond what mom's doing or thinking of doing or thinking of thinking of doing.

Above all, above all, I am the epitome of elegance, grace and — did I mention this before? — above all, cleanliness. I piss and shit in a box, and, just to note parenthetically, the next time I look, my minions have cleaned the box. You don't use a box! You pee on pads that litter the house. Sometimes you don't even bother to use them. I have to paw beside your puddles so mom knows they're there. You are disgusting! Your tongue hangs out. Your eyes are gluey. You don't shit in a box!

One more unappealing characteristic: you're such a little wimp. I remember the second day you were here. You were drinking from the water bowl in that slurpy, sloppy way. I pretended to be examining my territory behind the fridge, one eye cocked on mom, then snuck up and nipped you on the butt. Then raced off before you even knew what bit you! Mom said, "Bad cat," but I could tell she was laughing.

Do you think it's a coincidence that I have a sudden yen to crowd you out of whichever doggy bed you're snoozing in? So I overflow the sides a little. More of me to love.

I'll admit it's fun to wrestle. Especially once I realized that you have no teeth.

Tatiana: You know what? None of anything you say matters. She belongs to me. I don't have to be clever or agile or young or anything at all. I just have to be.

Jelly: That's my point. And that's why some day I'm going to kill you.

© 2014 by Susan Anmuth

Bio

Susan Anmuth lives in Newark, New Jersey, with her son, Ethan, and their cat, Jelly. At age fifteen and ½, her Yorkshire Terrier, Tatiana, died on May 12, 2014. Even Jelly is bewildered.

Author Listings

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Here is a list of authors published in the Sampler in the order of appearance.

Essays

Nick Ingoglia: At the Wall, I Remember, I Remember

Martha Moffett: Queen of the Fabricated Memoir

Carl Selinger: De-rek Je-ter

Jenny Ross: The Perfect Loogie

Fiction

Josie Zeman: The Waitress Sighs

Hank Quense: Gundarland

Sister Mary: Richard Herr

Joe DelPriore: Parasol

Brian Montalbano: Excerpt from Into the Lion's Mouth

Eveline Speedie: The Bird Lady

Lynne Rubin: The Test

Rosa Soy: Excerpt from Guava Road

Jeanne Margolskee: Fossils

Memoir

Marcia Mickley: My Mother Had Hairy Legs

Birgit Matzerath: Discovering the Music in Me

Jacqueline Stearns: The Wallflower Diaries: Chapter One: The Pink Rose

Donna O'Donnell Figurski: Colorful Roommate

Nancy-Jo Taiani: Snowman Competition

E. Bette Levin: Frank Sinatra Brings Brotherhood to My High School

Toby Stein: One Night

Harriet Halpern: I Wanna Hold Your Hand

Carney W. Mimms: Call Me Siggi

Steven Trombecky: Lotteries & Rag

Poetry

Ron Bremmer: A Trial of Languages

Marco Emiliano Navarro: Mirror

Mirela N. Trofin: My House

Johnnie Jones Tucker: Beginning.....Ending

Elizabeth Levine: Where We Walked

Rashi Gupta: O God! Give Me Great Fathers

Laura Freedgood: After

Niraj Shah: Unseen

Gloria Perez: Under the Table

Plays

Susan Anmuth: Frenemies (Heard Verbatim)

About This Book

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Please let us know how we did with this book. Your opinion can influence what we do in the future.

Did you enjoy the works in this book?

Did you read the entire book or only selected sections?

If you read only a section or two, which ones did you read?

Would you like to see another edition of the Montclair Write Group Sampler?

Please email your opinions (good or bad) questions and/or answers to hanque (@) verizon (dot) net

This book is published by Strange Worlds Publishing. This is Strange Worlds' first foray into multiple-author anthologies. Usually, Strange Worlds concentrates exclusively on humorous and satiric fantasy and scifi novels from the strange mind of Hank Quense.

