Thursday, May 27, 2010

A Pleasant Repast


A PLEASANT REPAST

After the War of Secession, the South was hurled into an incredible poverty that lasted well into the next century, but the Everette family hardly felt the difference. They were as destitute now as they were prior to it.

Ellis set his feet on the cold, bare floor and crossed the room to look out the window. An orange glow lit up the eastern sky while the brilliant edge of its source broke over the horizon.

He pulled on his boots and walked past the kitchen where his stepmother Leanne, only months older than his own fifteen years, rolled a glob of biscuit dough in her floured hands. His father brought her home a few months ago, only two weeks after burying his second wife whose death had been a bit more mysterious than his mother's had been.

Ellis leaped from the porch without touching the stairs and proceeded out to the corncrib to check on his trap. The night before, he filled a bucket three quarters full of water and sprinkled some cotton-seed meal on top. A satisfied grin crossed his face when he glimpsed a lump of wet fur bobbing in the murky liquid. Leaving it for the time being, he went back to the house to rouse his three little brothers for a squirrel hunt.

No decent family would consider a hunt of any kind on a Sunday, but the head of the Everette clan never imparted much respect for the Sabbath.

The boys returned early with half-dozen squirrels on a string. Ellis held it up for his Leanne to see through the kitchen window.

He put his brothers to work dressing them while he returned to the corncrib. He lifted the large, limp, wood rat by its tail letting most of the water drain off before he wrapped it in an old piece of burlap and carried it back to where the boys were working.

“Where'd you get that? It's huge!” exclaimed little Ambrose.

“Yep! Just the right size, I'd say,” grinned Ellis.

“For what?” asked Abraham.

“For the King, of course. Only the best for the King, right?”

“Oh, no!” Abraham gasped. “You're not gonna give that to Daddy to eat, are you? What if he catches you?”

“He's too drunk to catch anything, the old bastard.”

“Yeah! The bastard!” aped tiny Andrew, and clapped his hands together.

The boys burst into laughter.

Leanne popped her head out the door. “Y'all quit that dirty talk!”

Ellis quieted the little ones and lowered his voice to an intimate level. “Listen, y'all. Don't let Leanne know what we're doing. She's so scared of him she'll blow the whole thing to kingdom come, even if she knows he's got it coming! And we all know he's got it coming, right?”

The boys nodded unanimously.

“Then, y'all just hush up about it and let me handle it.”

After a little while the boys finished cleaning the game and Ellis took it inside.

“Here you are, Leanne.” She bore a black eye from his father's last drunken tirade. Each time he saw it he felt as if a scab of stifled anger was being picked at and afraid that one day, the festering rage beneath would explode.

“Now, you make sure Daddy gets this big one.” He handed the rat over separately. With the head and tail removed, it was nearly impossible to tell the difference between the rat and the squirrels.

“This big one here has more fat on it. That makes it the most tender and we don't want him raising sand over how tough the meat is, right?”

Leanne agreed.

________________________________

“I'm sick of waiting on that old buzzard.”

“Hush, now. He's gonna hear you,” hissed Leanne. Ellis knew the dance he was doing around his father's patience was becoming dangerous. He glanced over his shoulder at Leanne. The split in her upper lip intensified the ever-present pressure inside him.

The temperature had risen to more than eighty degrees with an equally high humidity and it was still morning. If Ellis didn't know it was mid-October he'd have sworn it was July. He clucked at the mule and adjusted the buckboard's position under the shade of an ancient oak to keep the family from wilting.

Finally, Kyle appeared dressed in his Sunday best. His hair, slicked back with oil, was nearly as glossy as the high polish on his black leather shoes. Ellis knew his father wouldn't be accompanying the rest of the family to Sunday Services today. And, he suspected, neither would the recently widowed Mrs. McNeil.

Kyle climbed onto the seat next to his oldest son. “Okay, boy. Let's go,” he ordered.

Ellis snapped the reins and took a quick glance at his father. The flesh had returned to his old man's long bones and the dark, leathery tan acquired while serving two years on a South Alabama chain gang had faded. Ellis remembered feeling as if he was beginning to serve his own sentence when he and his young brothers were returned to their surviving parent and his mother's murderer.

“You can leave me at Odell's,” said Kyle. “I don't feel like listenin' to no preacher hollerin' and bangin' his fists this mornin'. Gives me a headache.”

Apparently, the new widow didn't give him a headache.

Odell Carpenter was a local entrepreneur who opened his juke joint on Saturday nights and sold the product of his homemade distillery during the week. Odell didn't observe the Sabbath either. He was open any time day or night. Kyle was one of Odell's regular customers in the old days and as his newfound albeit short-lived, passion for religion cooled, it came as no surprise to anyone to see him resume his patronage.

“Haw, Jake,” Ellis called to the mule as he yanked on the reins to make the sharp left turn up Odell's drive.

“You can drop me here,” said Kyle. “No use trying to beat Old Jake up this hill.”

Ellis choked back a groan. He knew the widow woman must be nearby.

“And,” Kyle added as he hopped to the ground, “You don't have to come and wait for me after church neither. Only, make sure you come back to pick me up for supper.”

Ordinarily, Ellis would have resented the disruption of his afternoon and the imposition of an extra trip, but today he was happy to oblige his father.

___________________________

Leanne set the food on the table and the platter of meat in front of Kyle.

“Hmm, squirrel. Ain't had none of this in a while,” Kyle said, as Leanne selected his portion and finished filling his plate with vegetables.

She set the plate down in front of him and said, “The boys picked this one special for you.”

Ellis felt his heart pound in his throat but managed to keep his expression flat.

Kyle looked at each of the boys. Then, his gaze settled on Ellis.

“Where'd you get 'em?”

“Back up in them pecan trees near the road,” said Ellis. His voice belied his anxiety.

Kyle picked up his fork and tore a piece of the roasted flesh from the bone. He chewed. He swallowed. He paused for a few moments.

The boys held their breath.

“That's the best squirrel I ever had,” said Kyle, and nodded at Ellis.

Ellis beamed. He glanced around the table at his motherless siblings and battered step-mother and thought the only thing that could make this meal better was if his father choked on it.

__________________________________

Author: Aimee Dearman

Aimee writes: "I am a nurse and mother of three. My work has appeared in Tom’s Voice, Joyful! online and Menda City Press. My first novel, Closing The Door, is under review and I am currently drafting my second, Blue Dirt Filling Station, a fictional memoir based on my days as a gas station attendant at the only service station operating in the black in Blue Dirt, (fictional
town) Alabama."

Monday, May 24, 2010

Journeys of the Heart


Journeys of the Heart

By Cappy Hall Rearick

“You may forget the one with whom you have laughed,

but never the one with whom you have wept.”~ Kahlil Gibran

I’m a sentimental fool and I don’t care who knows it. I even cry when The Star Spangled Banner is sung at sports events. Television public service announcements featuring homeless, abused dogs and cats? I have to tie myself down so as not to rush to rescue every one of them at the local shelter. A family is reunited after forty years of separation, and I figure they are deserving of my joyful tears.

Unlike some people I know, I’m not embarrassed to admit that I have sat through the ultimate chick flick more than ten times, and this sob sister cried from beginning all ten times. When Bette Midler, aka C.C. Bloom, sings The Wind Beneath My Wings she may as well be crooning that tune especially to me.

Go ahead and laugh if you must, but there’s nothing wrong with a good cry. For me, it is the best way to cleanse the clutter from my soul.

My empathic penchant for sad movies, especially with heroines who die, started in 1946 when Mama took me with her to see the movie, Sentimental Journey. She was out and out crazy about John Payne, and since her heritage was Irish, she thought of Maureen O’Hara as the sister who managed to make tracks out of the Mississippi Delta and head for Hollywood for fame and fortune.

I was only six-years-old but I clearly remember that day at the movies. Mama started sobbing five minutes into the film and I, being a kid lacking the capacity to understand her tears, cried along with her. She would pull two Kleenex tissues at a time out of her pocketbook, hand one to me and then blow her nose with the other.

Mama adored going to the movies and it didn’t much matter what was showing. She loved good drama, comedies and musicals. Whatever was playing at the Carolina Theater (with the possible exception of anything in the Roy Rogers genre) was a movie she was more than willing to stand in line and pay her twenty-five cents to see. For a lot of years, I went with her.

We saw Pinky, Johnny Belinda, Imitation of Life and Little Women together, tearjerkers, every one. For years after watching Edward G. Robinson in The Woman in the Window, I would wake up screaming, having dreamt of being stabbed to death with a pair of scissors.

But Sentimental Journey was the film that set the bar for Mama and me. For the rest of her life, if that movie were mentioned in conversation, if she heard Peggy Lee’s recorded version of the song, or even saw it performed on television, Mama would look over at me and give me a knowing smile. That long ago day in the theater when I was a child continued to be a shared moment that lingered between us for over forty years.

Once when I was living in California, she sent me a newspaper article someone had written about the movie. It was little more than a blurb, but I still have it tucked away in my memory box, yellow now with age. I remember opening the envelope and lifting out the two-inch square news clipping. I read the heading first: Sentimental Journey, and then I perused the short note she had written to me: “Saw this in the paper today. Thought of you.”

It was some years later that Mama died, and shortly after that, the ultimate chick flick tearjerker Beaches was released. I went to see it one afternoon all by myself figuring anything with Bette Midler in it would be funny and a surefire way to lift my sagging spirits.

Just like Mama did in Sentimental Journey, I started sobbing five minutes into the film because Beaches was pretty much an updated version of Sentimental Journey. John Payne or Maureen O’Hara, long past their prime, did not portray the characters, but the plot was familiar. The heroine died, leaving behind loved ones who would never again look at each other knowingly while remembering a shared experience from their distant past

As for me, the greatest dissimilarity in the film, aside from the actors, was that my mother was no longer sitting next to me handing me one Kleenex after another and whispering, “Blow your nose, Honey.”



Thursday, May 20, 2010

Audio Book Excerpts from Penguin

Penguin is sharing some extended excerpts from a few of their audio books - 2 that the Dew just happens to have reviews on! So I would like to share these with you.

The Help was reviewed on December 14th, 2009 and My Name is Mary Sutter will be reviewed on June 30th, 2010.

As much as I love reading and turning pages, you can't beat an audio book for commuting or long trips!










Heirloom Treasure

Heirloom Treasure


By Jane-Ann Heitmueller


To some they seemed just scraps and pieces Grandma tucked away

deep in her bag of remnants from our families’ work and play.

A plethora of textures, colors, patterns, sizes, shapes,

from Grandpa’s tattered overalls, to Aunt Sue’s flowered drapes.


She kept my sister’s red plaid dress, my brother’s checked pants,

the satin dress my mama wore to her first high school dance.

Saved were old worn out tablecloths and faded aprons, too.

That scrap bag held a rainbow filled with yellow, green and blue.


With patience and rare diligence she worked her skillful art,

as Grandma cut and placed and stitched each precious fabric part.

She labored on through summer’s heat and fall’s fast ebbing light,

determined to complete her task by Christmas morn so bright.


Each square reflected cherished years…

Sweet memories to share…

Grandma’s heartfelt and special way to show her love and care.


--------------------------------------


Inspired by, and dedicated to my dear friend and amazing quilter, CLK.


Monday, May 17, 2010

Penguin is turning 75 and look at what they're doing to celebrate!


Expand your home library with the very best of Penguin!

Enter for a chance to win the complete set of Penguin 75 Books.


Penguin 75 titles
See the complete set
of 75 Books here »


Review the list of Penguin 75 titles, and tell us, in 250 characters (or less), which is your favorite and why. All entries are due by June 25, 2010 11:59 EST. One Grand Prize Winner, and five runners up will be chosen on or around July 12, 2010.

________________________________________
  • The summer-long celebration of the Penguin Anniversary will kick-off at Book Expo of America when the Penguin Anniversary-mobile (a Penguin-orange Mini-Cooper with the Penguin logo) will appear on display.
  • The Penguin Mobile will be touring throughout the US to increase awareness of The Nature Conservancy, and promote literacy. It will be appearing at bookstores across the country and will be bringing some of Penguin’s well-known authors to anniversary parties at bookstores in their hometowns. Starting with Garrison Keillor (Lake Wobegon Days) in Edina , Minnesota , on June 13, and ending with Melissa Bank (The Girls’ Guide to Hunting and Fishing) on Long Island on August 8, this summer will be a nonstop celebration of literacy, conservation, and Penguin Books! Other bestselling authors hosting parties include Sue Monk Kidd (The Secret Life of Bees), Jan Karon (the Mitford series), Michael Pollan (The Omnivore’s Dilemma), Geraldine Brooks (March), Kim Edwards (The Memory Keeper’s Daughter), Janice Y. K. Lee (The Piano Teacher), William Kennedy (Ironweed), and Nathaniel Philbrick (In the Heart of the Sea).
  • At each anniversary event, a set of 75 of the most iconic titles from Penguin Books will be donated to a local library or literacy group. Each author will sign the Penguin-mobile as it makes its way across the United States , and the summer’s events will culminate with a party at the New York Public Library in September.
  • When the celebration is complete Penguin will auction the car with the proceeds going to the New York Public Library. Penguin will also be donating sets of 75 books to numerous U.S. military bases in Iraq and Afghanistan .
  • As part of the anniversary celebration Penguin is proud to support The Nature Conservancy and their “Plant a Billion Trees Campaign.” Penguin Books was an original supporter of the campaign at its inception in 2008. So far, more than 5.5 million trees have been planted in Brazil ’s Atlantic Forest .
  • In honor of Penguin’s Anniversary, readers can visit Penguinbooks75 which launches today May 17, the online hub for all the activities going on. This site includes exclusive material such as: an artifact gallery, an interactive timeline of Penguin’s history, a blog for the tour called “Follow the Car”, and a countdown of the top 75 Penguin books. The site will also include an essay called “The Original 10” with information on the first 10 Penguins. The site will also feature the “Penguin Inks” series and spreads from Penguin 75 edited by the acclaimed Penguin Art Director Paul Buckley.

Take a look at the 75 top Penguin Covers

Handed Down


Handed Down

He knew it would be waiting for him even before he hobbled, cup in hand, onto the cracked concrete porch. The fog in the hayfield looked more like smoke and he half expected to see confederate troops emerge from the haze looking for able bodied men once again. That’s what Buford always said he expected to see in the morning, and with a hundred memories of army-issue boots, ancient Woolworth pjs and a cup of steaming coffee at dawn, he had no reason to doubt him.

Squirrel, guinea, and fox roamed beneath that fog in a slow notion of movement, small rustlings offsetting the stillness of the acre. People in the city don’t get movement you sense rather than see. Be it on sidewalks, in shops, movement is anything but minimalist. He remembered early on, when he first had to seek it out. He stared directly into the center of the wooded scene, looking for some sign of life, and failed. It was a stillness that implied lots of things, or rather let you infer them. How death can be a calm and natural thing, for example. Living in the country, you get accustomed to it. You tune your eyes and ears. You tune your mind to it. It sits like dew on the hay, and it floats like leftover fog all the way up to your doorstep. He wondered if you were fool enough to move from the city and live out here, amongst the silence of it all, you could lose your mind, all nice and peaceful.

He figured he might as well get on with it. Plopping himself down into the indent in the creaky wooden rocker left by Buford’s butt, he closed his eyes, took a breath, and waited. He would wait until he sensed the angel out above the field, wait until he could begin to feel it between them, that silver filament connecting calm wings and his aching back. Only then would he open his eyes and search for it above the fog. It would be there, somewhere, waiting for its prey to make a move. It always was. He would feel the tether between them softly manifest as the sun struck it, and he would wonder who was being held by whom in the thick scent of dawn. He didn’t know why he performed this ritual, and in fact wished he would quit it. The connection was no comfort out here. On the contrary, it was an irritating reminder. He didn’t know how the creature on the other end felt, but to him the line pointed out the difference between beauty and contrivance, between that which belongs and that which is simply in over his head. The hawk had shown up shortly after his move from Minneapolis to the house, picking up where his grandpa left off, as if macabre birds and 100 acres of ennui were clearly stipulated in the last will and testament. But in fact it wasn’t a simple line that bound them, if was more akin to a web, an invisible latticework of hillside, flight, bedrock and limestone, and his own pitiful figure staring out over cups of bad coffee, trying to make it all work in the mind of the city.

With so little distraction here, it felt at times like it was something simple, blank pages layering and layering, to become something daunting. Addition as the foundation of calculus, the science of propulsion, leading to travel beyond the stars. Simple, isolate decisions that take you further than you expected to go. And some mornings it seemed hopelessly convoluted from the start—a Zen riddle about the reason the seasons change. Six years of porch sitting and he was still no closer to understanding. A while back he thought he was on a trail. He had started to believe the answer lay in Eastern philosophy, in Lao Tzu, in the process of trying to understand it, instead of some cumulative answer. But that was before, before the hospital and the bills. Before the arguments and the mood swings. Pondering’s the indulgence you’re allowed before duty calls. At some point, after you’re done trying to be clever, you break the soil and get the feed. You give her her divorce when the simple life is too clean and Eden doesn’t have enough smog. You watch her go like sticks downstream, before getting your ass back to work. There’s no shame in it. It is simple and solid and real, the kind life that make grandparents what they are today—the salt of the earth they’re buried in. There is nothing wrong with ending a day on the porch, breathing clean air, feeling a day’s work in your joints, and watching the stars wake up. Nothing wrong with starting over that way. It’s good enough, good enough for anyone.

Maybe it’s not the space, he thought, but the air, the distinctly southern wind that was starting to pick up, carrying aloft wet stone and deer sex all the way to the coyotes in the hollow. The same wind that levels mimosas and barrel-chested oak whenever it got angry. A wind that’s seen more in six years than you ever will. You can spend your time studying it, looking for a way in, just to spend twice that realizing that if there is one, it’s something reserved for folks born and bred. If you’re smart you skip the shame and move straight to depression. Not the kind on TV, the one that leads to therapy and mother’s little helper. The kind that feels like nothing at all, the non-negative nothing reserved for eastern trances and the space between planets they don’t yet have a word for. It’ll take a few more generations before this kind of nothing has a word for it. A few more uncovered diaries from settler life, maybe. Roanoke.

Watching the bird circle for the tenth time and hang suspended against the flow, he recalled the first time he became consciously aware of the south. It was in a story, “The Turkey” by Flannery O’Connor. He recalled how very South it was. It wasn’t until he made Tennessee his home that he realized how true south it was, not some overblown Hollywood idea of it. The story had unsettled him in his uptown efficiency, striking a chord echoing back to childhood visits to the very house he now tried to make his own. Simple, isolate decisions that bend a life full circle. Reading it, he felt like O’Connor herself had peeked through his window and taken notes on his naked life. He felt like the boy in the story, an unusual child, he considered himself. He said it out loud to the hawk, who pretended not to hear. But no one would shoot this bird though, and he wouldn’t have it stolen from him by chaw-spitting men who always outflank. The story touched a sense of helplessness he hoped would fade with adulthood, a fear of falling that burns under the radar and everywhere you don’t look. Living alone out here, it’s never far away. You fall out here, you pick yourself up or add to the corn field. Fall when no one’s around and you test God’s kindness or at least his willingness to pay some attention.

He set down his empty cup and lazily tried to rub the ache out of his knees. Age. In the city it shows up in accomplishment, as complexity you get to advertise. By 30 you have this. By 35 you’re here. Make it to 50 and you better have your portfolio well diversified by choosing one from column A and two from column B. There age means layers of small victories before time stretches you smooth again into the end. Moving here, he couldn’t help think he’d rushed himself down the timeline a bit. The way he figured it, he must be pushing about 110. And what to show for it? Success out here seemed about maintaining. Count yourself lucky another day the sun decides to rise over you. Each time it does, it’s all new, and you just start all over again. That hawk never forgets how to catch those mice, even when they learn to run from stumproot to mole hole in a zigzag. That hawk learns when the prey learns. If only he could learn something he could put his hands on, claim some small victory. That wasn’t too much to ask. Hell, they seem to happen to most everybody else. Most times it looked easy. Even in that turkey story the words didn’t seem forced at all, like some hole in the brush just opened up for O’Connor and there it all was sitting in a nest, helpless and perfect for the taking. Like what lay inside was perfect and would never stop hatching.

Maybe it’s just different for some, he thought, for the unusual children all grown up and finding ourselves out of their element. The picture is strange, and it doesn’t stop changing. Don’t focus on the picture. He wished he could see it that way, maybe do something with it. If someone in Hollywood said that, they’d think it was genius. Maybe it was the same with the hawk, the handed-down haunting angel over the hayfield. Maybe he just keeps his eye on the frame, takes in the whole picture and works with what’s there today and tomorrow and the next day—the mice, their habits and holes, the feel of the wind against his chest to keep him right where he needs to be. The picture changes, and he still goes to bed full. The picture changes and he finds a mate who thinks the same way and ends up with a future that is perfect and hatching and never discovered by the likes of those who think about it too damned much. Sounds like a pretty good way to be.

From inside the house, he slowly returned to his throne, surrounded by his vast inheritance. Concrete porch. Empty cornfield. Life handed down to a life. Looking up at the floating legacy he could do without, he saw the picture already changing in itself. Small victories no will see. Born and raised or in from another planet, you learn to use what you’re given. A gun in the nightstand. All the silence you need. You take all the layers left behind and reduce them down to action—simple, isolate decisions anyone in his right mind would understand.


____________________________________________

Author: Michael K. Gause

Originally from Kingston Springs, Tennessee, Michael K. Gause now writes in
Minnesota. His first self-published chapbook, The Tequila Chronicles,
received honorable mention in The Carbon Based Mistake's 2004 Art Exchange
Program Contest. His second, I Want To Look Like Henry Bataille, was
published in 2006 by Little Poem Press and to his knowledge hasn't won
squat. He is the creator and host of The Dishevel'd Salon, a monthly
gathering of artists in the Twin Cities. His website is
www.thedayonfire.com.

Friday, May 14, 2010

WIld Onions


Wild Onions

By gina below

The vibrant green of the early spring grass was a sight for sore eyes after the long wet winter and the pungent smell of the wild onions made me smile. It took me back so completely to my youth and the countless times my siblings and I had played in the fragrant spring botanicals and clovers. I could not stop myself from scanning the ground for a lucky four leaf clover. But my eyes were drawn to a more impressive sight, one much more treasured by me than any four leaf clover would ever be.

He lounged on the sloping grassy hillside, the breeze moving his dark hair, the sun warming his beautiful face. I slowly took in the sight of him, appreciating the natural grace that emanated from him even in rest. He supported himself on one elbow; his long Levi clad legs stretched out and crossed at his booted ankles, his back to me and his eyes scanning the woods just beyond our pasture. “Come sit beside me” he said in his deep southern drawl never turning his head and I laughed. He waited until I had ungracefully lowered myself beside him to say, “You know I can always feel you” and then he handed me a small bouquet of wild flowers that he had been gathering in anticipation of my arrival. I smiled at him and his thoughtful gift, yes I knew very well what the air felt like when he was near. “More than likely you heard me lumbering this way” I said with a laugh as I placed a hand on my ever increasing belly where our child grew beneath my heart. He smiled and laid his hand on top of mine, even if he had heard me he would never say. Some things are better left unsaid as my Mother use to say. Tact is a dying art, and a good man knows when to not say some things.

We watched the trees move in the breeze and the clouds that floated above them for long comfortable silent moments before I succumbed to the warmth of the sun and the weariness of my body. My eyes slowly closed and sleep descended upon me. The seconds tick by into minutes and the minutes turned into an hour, and the fluttering of my eyes brought with it bright sunshine and the realization that I had been sleeping. I turned my head to look into his beautiful blue green eyes, “I fell asleep” I apologized. “You were tired” he corrected. The thought of moving did not appeal to me so I didn’t. “Did I snore” I asked? “Not much” he laughed, and I knew this probably fell under the category of questions I most likely did not want to know the answer to, so I smiled my concession.

There were countless other things he could have been doing, I was moved to know that I had taken priority, and he had stay to protect me while I slept in the sun with the wild onions and clovers and the feel of spring surrounding us. He handed me the bouquet of wildflowers that had slipped from my hand while I slept, now held together with a long green wild onion artfully knotted. He was in no hurry to be anywhere but where he was and we watched the clouds float across the sky as the afternoon shadows grew longer. His natural grace showed as he rose to his feet and he offered me his hand and gently helped me to my mine. We headed home through the late afternoon sun and the wild onions.

Tuesday, May 11, 2010

A Particular Love

A Particular Love


By gina below


She never once condemned him for the life he led, the places he had been or the things that he had done. This was not a lifestyle that she would ever have chosen or understood, but she would easily cross the borders of one to the other without even a ripple in the cosmos. She would bravely walk into the darkness that he had chosen to live in and sit down beside him and smile, hold witty conversations with the people there, and then get up to leave taking his hand beckoning him to follow her away from this cave of despair. Sometimes he would follow her into the light, but most of the time no. But she would always return time after time, into his world, his reality. She was so far removed from this, naive with a strange innocence, he was sure she had no idea what she was doing, but every time he needed her, there she was, laughing at something he said, smiling at him, talking to these people like there was nowhere else she would rather be. She was totally immune to their charm.


It had been such a gradual thing for him; he had begun to look for her when she was not there, wonder what she was doing in her world, stand at the edge of his dark world and look into hers just for a glimpse of her and just to hear her laugh, call her just to hear her voice. He missed her when she was not with him. But not once had she asked him to change or leave his chosen profession, not once. But when he had asked her, she left everything she knew to be with him. She had just taken his hand and jumped, with no questions asked.


It could not work, this particular love. Odds were stacked against them. She was too young, he was too jaded. She was too inexperienced, he had seen too much. She had her dreams, and she had no clue at the demons that chased him. But she was everything he had ever wanted and when he looked at her and heard her laughter, he had hope. He had thought he was too far gone for hope; it was a foreign feeling for him. He wasn’t entirely sure what to do with it. But here it was living and breathing inside him and every time he heard her voice it grew. But he had no right to ask her to stay. She had no idea what she was in for with him. This was no kind of life for her.


His demons were dancing in his eyes as he had contemplated on how to tell her he was leaving. It would hurt her he knew, but it was for the best, he would hurt her eventually anyway. He was prepared to walk away clean, but you just couldn’t walk away from someone like her clean, you always left something behind. He held her one more time in the fading light of the evening and she looked up at him with concern in her eyes. She had read his mind; she knew exactly what he was thinking. He tried to look away but her eyes held his and then she said, “I’ll take whatever you can give me,” She did not smile, she was sure of her words; she knew exactly what she was saying. She laid her head against his chest and listened to the beat of his heart. In that moment, in that heartbeat of time he grabbed the lifeline she had thrown him and held on tight. His cool demeanor belied the turmoil that raged inside him and he could not stop himself from saying, “It’s too late, I can’t change.” She nodded her head as it lay on his chest, but all she said was “Okay” and she continued to hold him.


He remembered sometime ago praying for this, he could not have known that she had prayed for him as well. He would take it for the gift it was for this moment in time, and she stayed. He had warned her, but she stayed. She stayed and she loved him, and she laughed with him, and she was quiet with him, and she hoped with him.


Then one day he had looked up and he was surrounded by light, the darkness had fallen away piece by piece, the unsavory characters that had been such a part of his life had skulked away, and there was just her and the life that they had made together. New people and friends of fortitude and morality surrounded him and he was surprised by how this had happened, but he was pleased. He had not realized this had been the life he sought and desired a life with her, a life of theirs. Theirs was a particular love.


___________________________


Author: Gina Below



Sunday, May 9, 2010

A Vidalia Onion Patch


SIMPLY SOMETHING FOR MAY

A Vidalia Onion Patch

By Cappy Hall Rearick

For any Georgian worth his salted peanuts, the merry month of May means one thing: a new crop of Vidalia Onions. Doling out last season's leftovers that hang in a knotted-up pair of pantyhose in the garage becomes yesterday’s news. Settle for Texas imports? Not gonna happen. This is the time of year when the often overlooked great state of Georgia moves front and center to become Old Glory's Star of the Month.
At my house, when that sweetest of the sweet, oval-shaped bulb comes to call it's almost like a national holiday. Life as we normally know it comes to a screeching halt while Babe pays tribute to the forty-pound box of onions taking up space in my pantry.
As soon as the truck rolls into town from Vidalia, Babe is there to greet it. A proud picture of a Pennsylvania Yankee turned Georgian, his mission is to be the first person on St. Simons Island to bite into the onion that puts Georgia on everybody's mind. Standing at attention next to the produce truck, he could not look more Southern if he wore a Robert E. Lee hand-me-down uniform.
As soon as Babe, aka Onion Man, crunches into that first Vidalia of the year, it is as close to a religious experience as a grown man can have while chomping on onions. His white bread sandwiches are stacked with thick slices of Vidalias and slathered with way too much Dukes Mayo. When he takes that first bite, he makes the kind of noises more appropriately heard in the X-rated section of Blockbusters.
"Why don't you simply describe how it tastes using words, Babe," I suggest. "Those sounds of yours are making me blush."
He closes his eyes and allows his head to move from side to side ever so slightly. I pay close attention so as not to miss the only bodily movement he makes before he drifts off to Zen City.
I love to cook, but while Babe is enjoying his certifiable craziness, he allows onions to claim squatter's rights to my kitchen, and I'm almost afraid to go in there. The other day while he and an onion sandwich were tripping down the yellow brick road, I sneaked in and opened the pantry door looking for peanut butter. What I saw nearly gave me the vapors.
"Babe, this onion obsession of yours has to stop. You didn't just jump over the edge, you have pole vaulted into overkill. I'm looking at a stockpile of Vidalia mustard and more green and yellow Vidalia pickles than we'll ever eat. I ask you, do we really need six varieties of Vidalia Onion catsup?"
I counted twelve bottles of Vidalia Onion salad dressing before the thought of intervention became more than just a possibility.
"You need help, Babe. It is time for you to bite the bullet instead of the onion.”
“What are you talking about, he asked.
“Get on the patch," I told him.
His eyelids flickered as he slowly turned to meet my gaze. He was back from Oz and appeared to be conscious. The hand holding an obscenely thick onion sandwich, moved from his mouth. His head tilted slightly in my direction. I leaned in closer so as not to miss it when he agreed to my suggestion. When he opened his mouth, three days of stored up onion breath smacked my kisser like thrust from a B-2 Stealth Bomber.
Only then did I fully realize what his obscene sounds had been all about. It wasn't the real Babe moaning with pleasure; it was only his mouth protesting too many onions.
"That particular Vidalia Onion sandwich you're eating," I said while backing out of range of his toxic breath, "has been hiding in Aunt Piddy Pat's root cellar since Sherman lit up Atlanta."
With a raffish grin on his face, he gave me a mock salute before crunching down on another bite. Grinning with his mouth crammed full, he said, "I have one thing to say about that, Miz Scarlett."
"Well, fiddily-dee, Mr. Rhett. Do tell."
He held up the sandwich. "Vidalia breath is a Southern secret weapon to keep the Yankee carpetbaggers from returning. So hang on to your Confederate dollars, my ageless Southern Belle, 'cause the South's gonna rise again."

Thursday, May 6, 2010

Snakebite



Snakebite

“Quit yar snivellin',” says Hote, as we survey the body of Uncle Jack, lying there in the field in broad daylight. “Ain’t as if he ever been any good to ya’ll.”

Me an Hote met in the Ole Yaller Bar on Millers Road. They have this speciality, half beer, half cider. People drink it mostly ‘cos it’s a cheap way of getting drunk, but Hote says it’s like me, half bitter, half sweet.

“Don’t ya s’pose ya’d be cryin’ if he was your only relation?” I ask him.

He frowns. “Don’t know. I ain’t got no relation.”

“Really?” I watch as he checks Uncle Jack’s wrist for a pulse and puts his ear to Uncle Jack’s mouth to check for a breath. Finally he folds the old man’s hands across his chest.
“He’s dead alright,” Hote says, straightening up. “Prob’ly a snake got ‘im.”

“Do ya s’pose I can still live here?”

“Well that depends on old Jack’s circumstances. And how fond of ya he was, of course,” says Hote. We both know what that means.

“Hote,” I say.

“Yes’m.”

“I don’t s’pose ya’ll would like some relation?”

“Well now, I don’t rightly know,” he replies, but I can tell by the smile in his eyes he don’t mean it. He don’t know I seen him throw the snake, and I, for one, ain’t tellin’.

______________________________

Fiona Mc Cashin lives in Ireland, where there are no snakes since St. Patrick chased them off the island over 1000 years ago. She does, however, live near a zoo, which she often visits for inspiration for her short stories. She also collects Christmas decorations.

Monday, May 3, 2010

Celebrity Night


Celebrity Night

Author: Melanie Browne

----------------------------------------

It was celebrity night at Harvey’s. They have the spiciest hot wings in town.

Bette Midler was our hostess and sat us at a table covered in plastic and grease.

Our waiter came to our table with a couple of menus and some crayons for the kids.

“I’m Elvis Presley, may I take your drink order please?”

“I thought Elvis was dead?” My daughter said flatly.

No, m’am he’s very much alive, I’m him, as you can see, I’m Elvis.”

“Did you know Elvis died on the pot?”

“I told you, I’m Elvis. I’m not dead”

We ordered the wings and Elvis brushed his arm against my bosom as he placed

the wings on the table.

“Can I get you anything else?” He asked us.

“Can we get some more blue –cheese dressing .” I asked him.

“Absolutely.”

**

“Honey, Elvis touched my boob, on purpose!” I told my husband.

“Why are you trying to make me jealous?” He grumbled.

“I’m not, I’m just saying I didn’t appreciate being felt up by some stranger claiming to be Elvis at a hot –wings joint.

“I understand.” He said, dumping his hot wings in Ranch sauce.

“Well aren’t you going to kick his ass or something?”

“Later. I promise.”

**

Elvis returned with the check and some peppermints.

“Ma’am, if you wouldn’t mind feeling out, I mean filling out this service card and dropping it into the box by the cash register out front I would surely appreciate it.”

I grabbed the card while hubby figured the tip.

**

Question # 3

“Who was your server?”

ElVIS “BOOBY FREAK” PRESLEY,I wrote in capital letters.

**

We walked toward the front when I walked back to the table

And added a few hearts, and XOXOXO.


____________________

Dr. Earl, Me and the Pot Roast Makes Three

Dr. Earl, Me and the Pot Roast Makes Three

By Mellie Duke Justad

To this day I can’t look at a rump roast, pot roast, or any other big ole piece of meat without thinking of my in-laws, the Claytons. I can still hear my husband’s words that sticky afternoon. “How bad can it be, it’s only for eight days?” Eight days. Two days longer than it took the Lord to create the earth. Three weeks shy of celebrating our first anniversary with most of our newlywed kinks worked out I saw a tremendous knot looming on my horizon.

It was coming back like a double root canal, that first meeting with Todd’s parents, Earl and Edna Clayton. I hadn’t laid eyes on his Mama and step-father since our wedding day and for good reason. The first time we met, Edna greeted me with an enthusiastic, “Want to hear me cluck?” She didn’t wait for my response and began clucking, her cackling reverberating throughout the sanctuary. Once the initial shock wore off I hate to admit, she certainly sounded the part. Looked it too, with her fiery-red chicken’s comb hair piled high, her tiny beady eyes, and pointy beak-like nose. She continued, flapping her elbows and scratching her clunky orthopedic sandaled feet on the vestibule floor, digging at imaginary barnyard corn kernels as a crowd of curious guests encircled.

“She might come in handy when it comes time to dig the rice out of the carpet,” whispered my tickled bridesmaid as I stood flabbergasted behind my veil at my newly acquired “side-show” mother-in-law.

Flabbergasted soon turned to loathing as Edna clucked on right through to the reception with not so much as an intermission.

“Most unusual entertainment I’ve ever seen at a reception,” I overheard one of my guest giggling as I peered from my new perch, the champagne fountain.

Todd adoringly watched his mother erratically pecking at beer nuts from a bowl, repeatedly bobbing her head down and up for anybody who’d look.

I wasn’t amused. Nor was I thrilled when she performed her version of the ever popular “Chicken Dance” song with the band on stage. To my horror she completed her act by grabbing the microphone and taking requests. The reception finally over, she bid me goodbye not with words but with a loud high-pitched squawk that would rival any rooster announcing the crack of dawn. With my luck, she’d purposely molt and toss her own feathers at me instead of rice.

“Isn’t she something?”

I smiled and nodded silently. It was my first lie as a married woman.

My father in-law, Earl wasn’t a clucker, but he was a talker.

“Wanna know how much virgin timber I could fall in a week?” asked the woodsy Pacific Northwester.

A simple question, but it took him an hour to get it out as he stretched every single word as if he was engaged in a taffy pull with the English language. My poor Mama spent over an hour pretending to be enthralled in a thrilling conversation on the importance of weed whackers. Slight in stature, a retired lumberjack, stubborn, and able to climb a three-hundred foot redwood tree with nothing more than a rope and a pair of boots, he commanded quite a presence. He showed up in a red plaid flannel shirt, a clip on tie, and a bedazzled, rhinestone belt buckle which read, Earl. Paul Bunyon meets Elvis Presley.

“I didn’t marry very well did I?” I whispered to my sister, Kim as I threw back another shot of whiskey focusing albeit tipsy on my new extended family--- the logger and the mother-clucker.

In a southern woman’s home the success of a visit is largely determined on how much weight she can pack on her company in a week. Hence the more weight gained the better the stay. I promptly went out to buy a bathroom scale and a seven pound pot-roast.

The first days were uneventful. I was content in the kitchen busily cooking three squares daily putting Paula Dean to shame, plying Edna and Earl with a plentitude of Southern fried chicken, biscuits, gravy, and cobbler. Earl couldn’t get enough of my biscuits eating them morning, noon, and night. I was pleased as I saw him loosening his infamous rhinestone “Earl” belt buckle as his pot belly began to expand. Conveniently I needed no alarm clock to remind me to get up and in the morning as I was awakened at daybreak with loud, raucous cackling from the back porch. Yes, “Cluck Fest 2000” was in full swing. My neighbors were not quite so appreciative. By the third day it was beginning to wear thin.

“They can’t be up already?” I yawned the sun just coming up. “

“It’s the coffee,” said Todd, as he readied himself for work. “They drink it all day long,” he laughed.

“I’m aware of that. Who do you think is serving it?” I asked sarcastically?” as I slid groggily out of bed. “I’m going to slip them some decaf today while they’re not looking. Maybe they’ll take a nap,” I said, splashing cold water on my face in our bathroom. “They’re in their eighties, aren’t they supposed to take naps?”

The crack of thunder and flash of lightening brought Edna running inside from the porch. I heard the tinkling of raindrops followed by a sudden heavy onslaught of gushing water. Florida weather. Sounded like the rainy season was beginning early.

That morning there was a storm brewing and it wasn’t just on the outside. Todd wasn’t gone two hours before the roof in the living room began to leak. Heavily.

“You better get a bucket, dear,” Edna said in her faded housecoat, coffee in hand as the water stain on the ceiling began to broaden like a wide mouth bass.

Frantically rushing through the kitchen I couldn’t find a bucket and settled for my ten gallon lobster pot instead. When it began to run over, I announced I was going to call Todd, but I wasn’t quick enough for Earl who had already ascended the ladder to our attic crawl space before you could say “downpour”.

“I’m just g-o-n-n-a check it out for myself, he declared, slowly stretching that sentence to maximum capacity while stuffing another cold biscuit in his mouth.

Edna and I watched. I could hear him rambling around overhead. Edna sensing my anxiety said proudly, “Don’t worry, Earl can fix anything.” Two seconds later there was a loud “thump” followed by an earth-shattering “crash” as soaking-wet pink insulation and crumbled bits of drywall plummeted down onto my living room floor. Earl’s foot followed next. I looked up in total disbelief as he worked his leg back and forth several times, cussing, before he was able to break his leg free from my “man eating” ceiling. Edna and I stared at the crater-sized hole above.

“Oops” Earl muttered. It was all he said, even to this day. As Edna tried to free Earl by shoving his foot back up through the rafters I called Todd deciding this was one of those little family things he shouldn’t miss out on.

“Why did you let him go up there!” he yelled on the phone.

“Like I had any choice,” I screamed, noticing for the first time the ugly stain on my white carpet littered with sheetrock. “You better come home! They’re your folks!”

“ I have a meeting this afternoon. I’ll try to get off a little early, I promise. Why don’t you be a good little wife and take them sight-seeing,” he said.

“Now that they’ve seen the inside of my attic it’s probably time to show them what else Florida has to offer,” I slammed the phone down wondering for the first time if I had what it took to make it to my one year anniversary.

Sightseeing! The Alligator Farm came to mind, I was willing to let them take their chances as I stared at the gaping hole. That evening neighbors dropped by in droves just to gawk at my unusual architectural wonder I later dubbed the “Earl Clayton Memorial Skylight” as the news swept through the neighborhood. The monsoon over for now I made the mistake of asking them what they wanted to go and see.

“I’ve just been dying to see the Monkey Jungle,” Edna replied excitedly, removing her hairnet.

Oh, God. Not The Monkey Jungle. It was over an hour south of Miami. Never having visited it, I didn’t know much about it except the obvious, it contained lots of monkeys. Making Mama proud I smiled the epitome of a true Southern hostess, and loaded them into the car. Edna could barely contain her enthusiasm as we pulled into the small parking lot. It was one of those old Florida attractions that was almost as old as the Claytons and like them, had seen better days.

As soon as we entered I discovered what made this place special as a huge orangutan scampered overhead atop what I prayed was very strong netting. The unique concept here is that the people are in the cages and the apes run free. Wasn’t so bad until the first chimp relieved itself on my head when I wasn’t looking.

“Oh, let’s h-u-r-r-y,” said Earl, enthusiastically. “The Gorilla feeding show is coming up in five minutes.”

As our friendly trainer Wayne asked for volunteers from the audience to assist him, Edna and Earl proceeded to volunteer me…for every show.

“Here, up here. Pick her. Pick her,” they both shouted from the bleachers as I dodged yet another monkey overhead with an eye on my crisp white shirt.

By the end of the afternoon, my shirt was soiled, and all the kids and their parents hated me complaining that I was getting picked every time, because I was.

It’s not fair,” whined one six year old who hissed at me as I walked embarrassed, down front again, Edna snapping pictures in between clucks and Earl cheering me proudly as if I was their little child.

“I get off at five,” Wayne winked, gawking at me hungrily in his cheap version of an Indiana Jones outfit, minus the whip, but sporting a huge banana. “You can help me clean out the chimpanzee cage. Not many girls get that kind of opportunity,” he bragged before slipping his phone number in my shirt pocket as I stood, helpless with an armload of Chiquitas.

It was at that moment I announced that I’d had enough fun for one day and had a pot roast waiting to be fixed. It was during the trip back up the road that Earl began to talk incessantly about shopping for shoes.

“Need me a pair of new tennis shoes,” he nagged repeatedly, as slow as molasses as Edna clucked happily out the window. I remembered Earl was a great hunter, but I hadn’t realized that he’d traded his shotgun for coupon clippers and was now on the hunt for bargains, able to sniff out a blue light special for miles.

“Got this shirt for a quarter at a garage sale,” he said, proudly pointing to the unflattering green plaid. It looked it. The rain had begun to come down again and I was beyond exhausted. Done. The thought of taking them shopping was the furthest thing from my mind.

Two miles from home, I was almost in the clear until we passed the sign—Swap Shop. The World’s Largest Outdoor Flea Market---All shoes $7.00. No use in protesting I counted ten and turned off the exit. I lost my sandals in the first hour as they were swept away by the rushing water that came gushing through the tents, but pressed on. You haven’t lived till you have put shoes on a fidgety old man who hasn’t changed his socks in a week. Another hour later we were loading my trunk with so much crap they had to buy a new suitcase to get it home. Once back, I walked silently to the kitchen, ignoring my new skylight, and took out the roast that like me had sacrificed itself for the Claytons. That roast had gotten off easier than me it was already out of its misery. Edna went to the porch to cluck. Didn’t know where Earl was. Didn’t care. I had just taken the roasting pan out when Earl sneaked up silently in his cheap new shoes presenting me with an oversized package wrapped in newspaper. What on earth?

“For all your Southern h-o-s-p-i-t-a-l-i-t-y,” he said, choking up. I almost felt guilty for wishing them maimed all afternoon.

I unwrapped it revealing a large brownish, stringy chunk of …meat?

“Got it off that guy selling meat from the back of his pickup. Remember? Eleven cents a pound.” he said shrewdly. “Can’t beat that with a stick.”

Precisely how this critter most likely met his end. The peculiar odor burned my nose when I sniffed. Hmm. Roadkill I speculated--- freshly scraped from his truck bumper.

“Well, uh, thanks Earl, but I already have a roast,” I said pointing to my USDA choice.

“Take it back and get your money,” he grumbled. “You got something better now.”

What could I do? At that moment I was conflicted between homicide and suicide. But ever determined, I smiled wrestling the monstrosity--- “Meatzilla,” who was the size of a hefty newborn into the only thing that would hold it, my ten gallon lobster pot and began to braise the hell out of it. Thankfully Earl disappeared again, but reappeared two seconds later with a blood pressure cuff in his hand. Now what?

“Not to worry. Dr. Earl is here.”

I’ve always despised having my blood pressure taken, but having it done while I was struggling with that big ole chunk of mystery meat wasn’t my idea of a good time. So as Meatzilla was noisily sizzling, its rancid steam swirling, clearing my nostrils, and engulfing the tiny kitchen Dr. Earl continued to pump his wicked cuff. The scenario reminded me of a bad horror flick---“Kitchen of Doom” starring Meatzilla, Dr. Earl, and me.

“Check everybody’s pressure back home,” he continued, my arm close to exploding, my eyes ready to pop as a defiant Meatzilla spat at me from the lobster pot. Earl finally got his reading replying, “She’s a little high. Maybe you should drop some weight.”

That’s when I slammed down my small pitchfork.

“I have to borrow a gallon of bourbon from the neighbor.”

I promptly ran downstairs did a few shots with my friend before calling Todd.

“If you aren’t home in twenty minutes there’s going to be lobster pot with your name on it!” An hour later, slightly soused, but with an improved attitude I returned home to find Todd with Dr. Earl at his side, whacking him in both knees with a rubber hammer. I could only hope he’d finish the exam by asking him to turn his head and cough.

Saturday, May 1, 2010

Writing a Bog in West Springs, SC

Writing a Bog in West Springs, SC

Lamplight.
Ink in a bottle
with a quill
turn upside down.
But a rusty bridge,
Thompson,
Night running
down the sky,
a tree in the bog.
Moonlight.

______________________________
Danny P. Barbare resides in Greenville SC. His poetry has recently been included in Breadcrumb Sins, Dew on the Kudzu, Penpoint View, The Boston Literary Magazine, and Poor Mojo's Almanac. He works as a custodian at a local YMCA.