romancer
 
mining an open field
littered with lies,
treachery, broken hearts,
and, careful to avoid
pitching headlong into
dank pits of despair,
romance novelist Vena Cava
holds high her
butterfly net of hope,
snagging, where she can,
 
    snatches of conversation..
    remnants of reconciliation..
    scraps of kindness..
    an affectionate glance..
    a warm embrace..
 
even plunging recklessly
into thorny tangle growth,
playing a writer's hunch
an unexpected, handsome groundskeeper,
 
    contrite, making amends,
 
might haul away emotional debris
creating an atrium of acceptance -
all parties willing to
set aside grievances -
with which Vena Cava
might conclude her
next work of fiction

STEPHEN KOPEL
SAN FRANCISCO, CA

Goose Flakes

The telephone rings late at night
and the beautiful woman I wish to be in love with
greets me with hello
making my heart go pitter patter.
Her words are punctuated by percussive raindrops
going pitter patter on the rooftop.
as she tells me excitedly she can hear a flock of geese
flying overhead.
The storm clouds are too thick
to allow the flock of migrating birds to be seen
but she holds the phone out the window
so I can hear them honking.
What is a flock of geese doing
in the middle of the desert?
What if the clouds part and reveal nothing,
but the honking continues
is there such a thing as geese ghosts?
The beautiful girl says good night
and wishes me pleasant dreams
as the rain slowly stops
and a gentle snow begins to fall
plummeting far to soft for either a pitter or a patter,
snow descending and covering the earth
in a magical blanket  
with giant flakes as big as goose feathers.

GARY EVERY
SEDONA, AZ
        

(In memory of the late Dave Christy)

Together

Cold as it was
death was bound
to happen -

so much binds
us together

even the worst

STEPHANIE HITESHEW
ELLICOTT CITY, MD

"....art is worthless unless it plants
a measure of splendor in people's hearts."
         
 TAHA MUHAMMAD ALI

Submitted by Elaine Shwartz

PAGE 4-5:                                 

SHORT STORY FEATURE        

Zorro
          I am homeless.  Let any statement I make here be prefaced by that fact. It colors my entire existence, not necessarily for the bad, either.  There’s a lot to be said for the rootless life.  More on this later.  This piece is ostensibly about a dog, or more exactly, my dog.  So let me get down to it.
          Zorro was my dog when I was a child. He was a Highland setter, which is like a bird dog.  A pointer.  He was bred to hunt ducks. He never hunted a duck. He was my dog and we weren’t duck hunting people.
          My mama’s boss, Senator Alexander, gave him to me. A magnanimous gesture but the Senator could afford it.  He was rich.  I named my dog “Zorro” because he was black. 
          Soon after I got him Zorro tore his lower lip open attempting to extricate leftover food from a tin can.  I cried piteously and begged my mother to take him to the vet but she refused.  We were too poor and he was “only a dog.”  But he was my dog and I loved him.  He healed but his lower lip remained pursed, dooming him forever to an expression of perpetual awe. 
           People used to make fun of him but I loved him anyway.  He wasn’t my dog; he was my friend.  Sometimes my only friend.  I could talk to him and he understood.  He understood more than English.  He understood emotion.  He was my best friend.
            I spent last night outside. I’ll probably spend tomorrow outdoors. I’m outside tonight. It’s cold but I’m full of coffee and I got a relatively warm coat. Got an extreme cold weather Army issue mummy cocoon sleeping bag. Before you shake your head and commiserate with me, understand, I like being outdoors.  I spent twenty-five years in state and federal penitentiaries, roughly half my life. The open air feels fine, cold or not.  There’s no one to tell me to turn off the light (there is no light). I smoke when I want to, piss on the ground, and lay low. I eat when I’m hungry and sleep when I get tired; that is my miracle. I ask nothing more and I get just that – nothing more. Nothing less but nothing more. Forever more. Bear this fact in mind – most homeless people are homeless by choice not by force. They choose an existence external to the bulk of society’s auspices. Some folks believe the homeless have been rejected by society. Actually the converse is true, society has been rejected by them.  The real question is “why?”
          I was fifteen when I first got in trouble with the law. In Virginia, you’re given three options. You can join the Army, you can go to jail or you can leave town. My mama opted for us all to up and move to New Mexico. If I had stayed in Virginia I have no doubt but that I would have ended up in the electric chair. I, personally, was happy and excited about the trip (it was to be by bus, a five day trek).  I had but one question – how was Zorro going to go? It came as the ultimate betrayal when mama said he wasn’t. He was only a dog. There was nothing I could say. There was nothing I could do. We left him there. We left my dog.                                          

          Many years later I had occasion to speak with my cousin Gregory Russell (he wasn’t a Downell, though they treated him better than they did me because was “full Black”) about Zorro.
          He hadn’t, as I had supposed, died of starvation without us there to feed him. He had become feral, peripatetic and almost wild.  He wandered the woods and back roads, banding together with packs of other feral dogs in loose conglomerations and affiliations of convenience. Although he ran with the pack, he was never the leader. Eventually he ran alone. (I’ll bet he was lonely. Probably he wondered where we had went. Dogs have memories – long ones. Their minds are comprised mostly of memory. That and instinct.)  Ultimately he was shot by a farmer for a raid on a henhouse. He died alone in the thick brush and was never found. He went back into the land; became a part of it once again. A Highland setter, for real now.  I felt I had failed him; betrayed him. I should have done something. What could I have done: He was only a dog and I was only a boy. I hoped he forgave me.
          I have nowhere to go tonight. One place is as good as another. Wherever I go, there I am. The world is my home. It just so happens that I like Ramen noodles. Good thing, too, as I eat a lot of them. 
          Everyone I know is gone. My mama is dead, my Daddy is dead. (He died of a gunshot wound and lung cancer, at age 53; the exact same age I am now. I beat him. I guess I won. It doesn’t feel like it.) Granddaddy is dead, as it Bama. One sister lies in Salt Lake City, the other in Dallas/Forth Worth. I’m in Albuquerque now but I could be in Anywhere, USA. Wherever I go; there I am. Everyone I ever knew has died or moved away. 
           Sooner or later everyone leaves.  Fate is funny and justice is ironic, no?
           I am Zorro.