Monday, August 30, 2010

Lakeview

Anthony Boudoin stood in the attic of his New Orleans home, less than a mile from Lake Pontchartrain. Having abandoned the hacksaw thirty minutes ago for the cordless trim saw, his forearms were burning. I didn’t charge da battree enough. It was over 90° and sweat was pouring down the back of his legs. His socks were wet. There was no way for him to get the bed downstairs otherwise. Doug wasn’t strong enough to help him get it down from the attic. When he finally had the headboard sliced in half, he called Doug to the bottom of the attic stair. He slowly handed the pieces down to him.

“Where do these go?” Doug leaned the chunks of wood up against the wall and examined them.

“Oin da batroom winda,” he pointed to one piece of headboard, “lawndry room,” he pointed to the other piece.

“We using nails or clamps?”

“Think we used all da clamps. I’ll go fine some nails.”

At the end of their street was a levee lining the 17th Street Canal. The canal drained water out of the city and into Lake Pontchartrain. It also served as a city limit, on the other side of it was an area of Metairie called Bucktown. Lakeview and Bucktown were bound to each other, connected by the Old Hammond Highway Bridge. There was little difference between the two neighborhoods. They were both pretty suburban, but also filled with seafood restaurants and boat launches. Doug even went to Catholic school in Bucktown. When he turned twelve, Anthony said he could try walking to school by himself.

Doug went to the kitchen and picked at the scrambled eggs he hardly touched during breakfast. His body was sore from boarding up windows. It seemed like yesterday there were more people staying behind. But now it was Sunday, a day before the hurricane would hit, and it was apparent that the neighbors were all gone. Standing outside, it was obscenely quiet. Houses crowded on top of each other but each one silent. Only one air conditioning unit humming in all of Lakeview, and it belonged to the Boudoin’s.

“Dougie!” Anthony grunted.

“Comin, Dad!”

In the yard, Anthony was holding the headboard over the bathroom window. He was standing in the flower bed. Doug picked the hammer up out of the grass and went to nail the board up. Two, five-inch long nails were poised in between Anthony’s lips and he leaned down to give them over to Doug.

Halfway through the second nail, Anthony started to shift. The board almost came loose “Dad, come on.”

“Ow! Ow! What da holy shit!” Anthony let go of the board, ran away from the flower bed, and started beating the leg of his blue jeans with his palms. Slapping himself, he wiggled his feet to get out of his loafers. His shoes off, he started pulling down his pants and making his way to the garden hose. Doug spotted the raging red ant pile under the window, ants pouring out of the injured dome. In his boxer shorts and socks Anthony started hosing his legs to get the bugs off. The bites were already turning red. Great. Dis is great. What a fun way to spend da starm.

“Well, this is pretty sturdy. Look, it’s stayin up with just one nail,” Doug showed him. The kid was a master at harping on the positive. As long as he looked on the bright side, it helped Anthony to look on the bright side of things, too.

In his dripping wet underwear, Anthony was unamused. His socks were getting muddy.

Doug tried again, “At least the neighbor’s aren’t around to see you.”

“Fine. Least dere’s dat,” Anthony conceded and went into the house to change.

“There’s bite spray in the medicine cabinet,” Doug said over his should as he finished nailing up the board. He threw the hammer in the grass and started picking up potted plants. He put them in the laundry room along with the doormats, the windmill garden statue, and the American flag that usually hung by the front door.

“I look like da goddam chicken pox.” Anthony returned to the porch.

“Does it itch?”

“Not wit dat medicine oin it.”

“That’s good.” They methodically went to the swing that hung under the old oak. They unhooked the swing from it’s chains and moved it into the laundry room. Without the swing, the chains hanging from the tree limb waved in the air. Anthony grabbed one and threw it up into into the air, it wrapped around the limb and fell back down towards the ground. Anthony grabbed the chain again and threw it up and around the limb, shortening the chain each time. Doug helped with the other chain. Once they didn’t hang low enough to be in arm’s reach, Anthony decided it was safe enough. “That’ll be a pain in the ass to get down later.”

“Hey,” he warned.

“Sorry, pain in the butt.”

Last night they discussed what had to get done today, and there was no room for thought. They just did what they had agreed upon. When they were finished in the yard, Doug would start cooking the food in the fridge. What was left in the freezer was now defrosting in the sink. Anthony would pack ice chests with the food and fill the sinks and bathtub with water. “Didju see what dat sign say?” A block away was a girl’s Catholic high school, it had been in the neighborhood longer than any of the houses. Now, there was a large, painted sign hung over it’s doors.

“May God bless you and keep you.”

Anthony nodded, “Of course. Dat’s nice.” He nearly said that Doug’s mother had gone to school there, but as usual Anthony didn’t mention her. It was hard enough just sending Doug over to see the sign at all.

“How does God keep people?”

“He keeps em.” He cleared his throat and tried again, “Like he protecks ya. Keeps ya close ta him.”

Doug went through the drawers in the kitchen looking for the apron-potholder drawer. Anthony was a sucker for reorganization, he optimized cooking time by rearranging drawers depending upon what he was cooking, how it needed to be cleaned up, and how the leftovers would be stored. Every couple days, Anthony would pull out two drawers filled with utensils, phone books, dish towels, pot-holders, coupons, coffee filters, or other junk, and switch their places. The cabinets in the kitchen had been unrigged since 1978 so that the drawers could be pulled out of their cubbies and put in another. This also meant that if you pulled on a drawer too hard, you’d end up dump the contents all over the kitchen.

From a junk drawer Doug found a plastic hair barrette. He held it up quizzically for Anthony to see. “That was your grandmotha’s” Anthony lied. He always said girl-things in their house belonged to Doug’s late grandmother, but most of the time they were things that belonged to his mother. Barrettes, finger nail polish, rainbow shoe-laces, eye-liner, charms for bracelets. There were too many places for these tiny things to hide. When a person grows up somewhere, they get themselves in every nook and cranny. Anthony usually left the things where he found them, although he never imagined his daughter ever coming back for them. Of course, if Janine ever cleaned up she’d be back for more than just her old Bonnie-Belle lipstick collection.

Dinner was ready. Doug fried trout for his Dad, but he had baked himself fish-sticks. Well, he’s no Justin Wilson, but at least he’s book smawt. “Look what I saved from the weather,” Anthony put his soccer ball on the kitchen floor.

“What’s the rain gonna do to that?”

“Hell, it’ll float ova ta somebody else’s yawd.”

“Oh, yeah,” Doug put the ball in the corner. “Thanks.”

“We got any tawtaw sauce?” Anthony opened the nearly empty fridge.

Doug helped him find it. “What do you do when the power’s out? Just read?”

“Yeah. Didn’t you say ya got homewerk? Do dat.”

“What are you gonna read?”

“I read tings. I’ll read dis,” he lifted up a cereal box and pretended to think it was interesting.

When Doug rolled his eyes he didn’t know he looked just like his mother. “But what did you do before? What did you do last time the power was out.”

“I contemplated da wonders of da whirld.” Actually the last time the power went out, Doug was at school and Anthony had just gone to eat lunch uptown. “Dis trout is purfect. How’s ya processed fish produck?”

“Much better than trout,” Doug covered his plate in ketchup. “What happened to the ant bites? Did they all go away?”

“No, most of em look like pimples now. Dey got all da way up ta ma belly button. Dey weren’t foolin around, doze tings were gonna take me down just fa standin on deys pile.”

“Did you know that when it floods, ants survive by piling together in a big ball, all of the ants hook to each other. They just float around in this big ant-ball. Until they find land or something to climb up on.”

“Dey’d climb up on a person, too?”

“I guess so.”

“Dats why we don’t go in in da flood.”

Full Story Continues HERE

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

Author: Sarah Rae

I am originally from New Orleans where this story is set, and I too failed to evacuate during Hurricane Katrina. Another excerpt of my novel thesis Charity was published in Southeastern Missouri State University’s Big Muddy issue 8.2. I received my Masters of Fine Arts in creative writing from the City College of New York. My work has also appeared in Inscribed Magazine, Oracle Stories & Letters, Big Muddy, and Ramble Underground.

Saturday, August 28, 2010

Gumbo

GUMBO

We went to a hole in the wall café.

No tourists, but two dozen locals.

This was my first time in New

Orleans and my host promised

me some authentic food.

We caught up on old times as

we waited. When our food came

my friend held up his hand to

stop me from taking a bite. With

his fork he took a generous mouthful.

His eyes immediately glazed over

and his hands began to shake.

Tears splashed down his cheeks,

and his nose began to run. He

gasped several times; beads of

sweat popped out on his nose.

He blew like a dragon breathing

fire.

He stayed that way for more than

a minute; I was becoming quite

concerned. He finally shook his

head to clear his eyes, and he

uttered, "Oh, that gumbo is good.”

________________

Author: Mike Berger

Thursday, August 26, 2010

Tea and Sawdust

Tea and Sawdust
By Sue Ellis

Kendra hoisted herself into the cab of the log truck with difficulty, thinking for the hundredth time that she should've stuck to waiting tables. At thirty-eight, she couldn't leap up the cab's steps with the same vigor she'd displayed at twenty-five.

She'd met Ray at her old job at Patsy's Diner. "Kendra, you ought to get your CDL and haul logs like I do. You're a capable woman. Plum Creek Paper is looking for drivers and they pay more than what you make here."

So she'd done it, that audacious thing, and now she was a local legend, as fearless as the men on the narrow mountain roads. She was lonesome, though. Men loved to socialize with her, but strictly as buddies. She'd drunk her share of free beer on Saturday nights, and got slaps on the back that had nearly knocked the wind out of her, but that had been it.

Her friend, Beth, owned Mountain Traders, an outpost of naturopathic remedies billeted alongside feed sacks, wire fencing and salt lick blocks. "What you need, Kendra, is a love potion."

"Oh yeah?" Kendra rolled her eyes at Beth. "And who in hell would I give it to?"

"Ray."

"Psshh. Ray's my friend. Besides, he's almost ready to retire."

"So? A little maturity never hurt a man. He's almost as tall as you, and he respects you. You want to be alone your whole life?" Beth scrawled a recipe on scratch paper and shoved it at her:

Aphrodisiac Tea - Small slice gingerroot, 5 whole cloves, 3 cinnamon sticks, 5 peppercorns, 3 dried saw palmetto berries. Steep in two cups boiling water for three minutes. Strain. Add milk, honey and pure vanilla extract.

As they waited in queue at the mill the next afternoon, Ray accepted Kendra's offer of tea from her thermos. He doubtfully sloshed it around in his mouth before spewing it out on the ground. "That's the shittiest stuff I ever tasted, Kendra. What have you got mixed up in there?"

"A love potion."

Ray snorted as he hitched his suspenders and started to walk away, but then he stopped and stood perfectly still, his head cocked to one side. When he turned back to Kendra, he had a bemused expression on his face. She wanted to sink into the ground. He knew--plain as day, that she was six feet, three inches of longing and that he was her best hope. "Maybe I'd better try another taste, then," he said.

____________________________
Sue Ellis lives and writes near Spokane, Washington, but she's got roots in The South and still speaks with a nasal twang, especially when she's aggravated. Her short stories, essays and poems have appeared at such places as Christian Science Monitor, The Shine Journal, Flash Me Magazine, Dead Mule School of Southern Literature, and Wild Violet.

Wednesday, August 25, 2010

Hot Diggity Dawg


Hot Diggity Dawg!

By Cappy Hall Rearick

We hold these truths to be self evident: that every mother’s spaghetti tastes better than anybody else’s, and that every hometown has a hot dog dive serving up the best hot dogs on the planet.

No argument on the spaghetti issue, although honestly, MY mother’s spaghetti can beat YOUR mother’s spaghetti. Also, the Dairy O hot dogs in my hometown, Orangeburg, South Carolina, really are the best anywhere.

It’s only natural for folks to claim their hometown eatery to be better than anybody else’s because being loyal to hot dogs, apple pie and barbeque is the American way. Nowhere is that more true than south of the Mason-Dixon Line.

In Orangeburg way back when, there were two hot dog dives, one with curb service and one without. The place on Broughton Street was truly famous for hot dogs served to you in your car. They were ugly dogs, but who cared? A Julius’s hot dog, even today, can bring to life saliva glands in a corpse.

In Babe’s hometown, DuBois Pennsylvania, folks show up at Bailey’s when they crave a taste of yesterday. Nailed to the walls are hundreds of football, basketball and wrestling team pictures. Some of them go back as far as the forties and fifties. Bailey’s sells all manner of fast food, but their made-to-order hot dogs topped with their secret sauce, is why people keep coming back for more. I have to admit, Bailey’s puts out a pretty good of a hot dog, but … they are not as good as the ones served up at Orangeburg’s second most famous place to bug dogs: the Dairy O. It’s impossible for me to pass through the burg without stopping for one.

In Hendersonville it’s Hot Dog World, touted to be one of the best restaurants in North Carolina. I know a fellow who, when on vacation in the mountains, heads for Hot Dog World before he unpacks a suitcase. There was even one couple who actually hosted their wedding reception at Hot Dog World. (I didn’t make that up.)

Close to Duke University in Durham, Pauly’s Dogs rule. Each one, created by Pauly himself, is named appropriately. The Southern Belle is the standard h.d. with mustard, catsup, onions and Pauly’s special sauce. Aunt Jamima is a breakfast hot dog topped with maple syrup, and Cap’t Crunch is topped with you guessed it. Somehow I doubt he’s ever offered one named Fido.

St. Simons Island’s hot dog claim to fame is called Hot Dog Alley. The owner set up his business on a corner fifteen years ago, a cart on wheels often seen at county fairs and flea markets. I call them Roach Coaches, but that’s just me. He eventually bought the building on that same corner next to an alley and voila! Hot Dog Alley was re-born. A pretty good dog, but not great. But tmy opinion is jaded due to my past eating experiences at the good Dairy O in Orangeburg, SC.

Walterboro South Carolina has Dairyland and my kids, raised in that small lowcountry town, claim it to be the very best. Ehhh…

When I was a student at USC in Columbia, South Carolina, we used to go to the old Sears store in Five Points where we gobbled up the best slaw dog ever made. Sadly, the little annex hot dog joint that was hooked onto the big Sears building has been gone for more years than I can count. Only the memory of that special taste is left. But oh, what a fine memory it is.

I am on a quest to find out where the best hot dogs can be found. Tomorrow, I am going to Hendersonville to chow down on a recommended one from an appropriately named place: Piggies. I am told it is so good you won’t want to stop with just one. We’ll see.

In any case, as we approach the Fourth of July, America’s official National Hot Dog Day, I hope you’ll stop for a moment and think about that special dive you knew as a kid, the one that floods you with memories of days gone by. And by all means, stick to the July 4th menu by cooking up a bunch of dogs. Serve them to your kids and grandkids while telling them about that special place in your old hometown that served the best hot dogs on the planet.

I dare you to name one of them FIDO.

Monday, August 23, 2010

The Art of the Fried Green Tomato













The Art of the Fried Green Tomato


Ripe tomato seeds

are the sweetest sip of fruit—

a Southern girl’s pomegranate.

But summer means

green kisses cast iron

and the contents of a drippins cup.

This is no time to cut away skin.

Keep the flesh intact.

Keep the seeds

shining in the slices.

Against the knife

green and yellow

make stained glass

in this holiest of rooms.

Bathe the thin rings of un-ripened

in buttermilk.

This is no time for fine flour—

no tea party manners in this breading

but cracked grit against softness:

corn meal and black pepper.

Do not lick your fingers.

This is prayer:

bare feet pressing cold tile waiting

‘cause the oil does not yet smoke.

Bubbles hover as if in sap

or glass.

No violin can play sweeter

than the sizzle batter

in hot oil.

The golden brown and green is glorious:

the shades of backyard in July,

my eyes,

my mother’s smile,

the gloss of tender grease.

___________________________________


Author: Molly Meacham

Molly Meacham is a member of the Speak'Easy Poetry Ensemble in Chicago, IL. She and the ensemble have performed in Germany with Marc Smith for the Bertolt Brecht festival and at the Munich Literature Haus. Molly has performed across the US and in Australia. She has written and performed in a commercial for the Big Ten. She was also a finalist for the Write Bloody publishing company for manuscripts. She spends the rest of her time as a Chicago Public School teacher.

Saturday, August 21, 2010

Chickadee














CHICKADEE
by
Bettye H. Galloway

"What kinda chickadee you got out there in the bushes?" asked the carpenter who was building a deck on my house.

"Chickadee?" I asked. "I don't have anything living out there."

"Yep, you do," he responded, "I been seeing him for a couple of days! He's bright red and must be scared of me, 'cause he hides when I'm around, but I've seen him several times."

I thought no more about the conversation, but several days after the carpenter left I was in the backyard when I saw a glimpse of red. I
remembered what had been said, and I sat quietly in the deck chair and watched. Soon I saw a patch of red and green feathers slowly exit the
bushes and start scratching in the grass at the edge of the wooded area. When I moved, he quickly eased back out of sight. I looked in my pantry and found a package of un-popped popcorn. I filled a bowl with water and took it with the popcorn to the general vicinity where I had seen the fowl. Placing them on the grass, I softly called, "Here, Chickadee, here Chickadee," and went back into the house. I watched through the window until I saw him gingerly ease out to the corn and water. He was a beautiful gamecock and became "Chickadee," the name the carpenter had first given him. I left the corn and water each day, and in a few days he would appear even when I was sitting outside on the deck. As time passed, he would appear as I waited quietly with the food. He would bravely get closer and closer to me, and one day he accidentally brushed my ankle. The next day he actually came to my ankle, and from then on every time I walked in the yard, Chickadee walked beside me brushing against my ankle.

Chickadee was a beautiful bird--he arrived at my house from God knows where--with red and green and black feathers that glistened like they were freshly oiled. He lived in my backyard and patrolled the perimeters constantly. When I opened the door to go to the mailbox, the security chime would alert him, and he would sail around the house to walk with me to the street, and then he would return to the backyard. When I left for work in the mornings, he was on the crest of the roof, Dog Patch style, watching as I backed out of the driveway.

Since owning a rooster was illegal in the city, I was afraid one of my neighbors would report him to the Health Department, but they all seemed to enjoy his low-key crowing every morning from his perch in the magnolia tree. He made friends with his neighbor, Annie, a huge black fuzzy dog who was always within her fenced back yard. They would "talk" through the fence, and Chickadee would crawl through the fence and share Annie's food. One day I saw in the yard a blue fuzzy bear that I knew was Annie's toy. I was puzzled because Annie never came into my yard. I picked up the toy and tossed it over the fence. The next day, I again saw Annie's blue bear in my yard. Puzzled more than ever, I once again tossed it over the fence. The next day I looked out and couldn't believe my eyes--Chickadee was coming through the fence pulling Annie's toy! Chickadee was gorgeous, but he was a thief!

Our town offers a welcome service--citizens can rake leaves to the curb, and the city workers come by with a gigantic vacuum cleaner and suck
up the leaves and trash--no bagging. Consequently, I would rake leaves onto an old sheet, drag it across the yard, and empty it at the curb. Chickadee, at my ankle as usual, would watch every move I made. After several trips with the sheet, as I started to the curb to empty it again, he hopped upon it; the movement, however, caused him to fall off. The next time I pulled the loaded sheet toward the curb, he once again hopped upon it. I moved it very slowly until he got his sea legs, and he rode it all the way to the curb. From that time on, he was a regular passenger on the sheet. I was unable to get a photo of him on the sheet because the moment I stopped pulling it, he hopped off.

Chickadee was a grand friend over the course of several years. He never made demands and only expected his daily popcorn and water. His constant presence against my ankle told me that I was loved and the love was mutual. He would look at me with twinkling eyes, and if birds could smile, he did. He would never occupy any of the birdhouses or cages I bought for him, always preferring the limb on the magnolia tree that overlooked a transom window. He would sit on his limb, watching through the window as I worked on my computer in the den. He was always there.

He was always there until the day I came home to find only a pile of feathers under the magnolia tree and a trail of feathers across the yard.

It was a lucky day for the chicken hawk. I hope he enjoyed Chickadee as much as I did. I have lost many human friends and relatives, but I did not cry for them. I cried when I lost Chickadee.

__________________

Born, reared, and educated in Oxford, Lafayette County, Mississippi, Bettye Hudson Galloway is retired from Mississippi state service (primarily from the University of Mississippi) and as the executive vice president of a drug testing laboratory. .

The Bubbacracy of Bonneau

The Bubbacracy of Bonneau

An opening day in August, this August, should be a bit more primal. Modern technique for the kill is ill suited to a pre-dawn that is already in the eighties. Cammo gear is hot. Perhaps we should just go Tarzan, loincloths in jungle pattern. Even so I’d wear my snake boots.

I walk down the dirt road in the darkness, shotgun in the crotch of my arm. A flickering light draws me closer, to see shapes emerge, shapes soon to dissolve into the woods. Painted faces offering a silent stare, an occasional white grin, a scene surreal as if I’d wandered into Kurtz’s compound. Apocalypse here.

These men are primal in a way we should not forget. They are hunters of sustenance, killers of food, with weapons that descend from slings and arrows to buckshot and bullet. Where high dollar shoppers and chefs elite bestow the virtues of organic, here is as organic as it gets. You hunt to eat and you eat what you kill. This day will not end in a cabin with catered meal and single malt scotch. It will end in the hutch out back, with a knife in hand, carcass on a hook and beer.

Junior killers come in tow. Some get low stands, others first blooded will strike their own spots, already seasoned in the ways of the woods. Imagine the conversation with your friend from New York, describing lessons learned since childhood; the significance of the turned leaf, the print on the ground, following a blood trail, or try to describe the smell of a snake, before you see or hear its warning. It is a comforting lesson, when talk turns to global economic collapse, to know a country boy will survive.

Few are fully awake. Conversation is muted, mostly cracks aimed at the poor aim of the man who missed the last deer of the last season. His name is Bubba. In fact, you only need one name to enter the circle. A smirk outsider might say the nomenclature has gone little further than the gene pool. But in these small few hundred acres being hunted, this kingdom for a day, being greeted by the name makes you a member. The Bubbacracy of Bonneau.

A man of scraggly beard and beer belly puts a cup of coffee in my hand. There’s no question of cream or sugar, it is black and strong against the tongue. It is a stripped down essential. There is a brief circle before heading into the woods. In the darkness they assume a timeless look. These are the same men of later day who fought in the nearby swamps with Marion, they charged at the bloody Wheatfield at Gettysburg. The family names of men from such southern towns are found on the still crosses in military graveyards wherever this country has done battle.

Into the dark woods, we went down different paths, each to a spot picked days if not weeks before. Scouting for sign and traffic through the dense brush, tree stands went up, locations spotted, fields of fire confirmed. I knew the path, but walked slowly seeking the carpet of pine needles for silence. The moon was but a crescent, like the little sliver on the flag above the palmetto. It lends little light, but somehow above the trees it seems to follow, with either a wink or a grin, depending on how you look at it.

Deeper, step by step, I reached to my brow and felt a cut as a reminder. I’d walked this path at the same time two mornings earlier, when there was no moon, to get my bearings. It was just about here, where a forgotten ditch yanked me down, rattling my teeth on landing and pitching me forward off balance. My head stopped me, against a tree. That morning I rolled to the side with a silent curse as the warm blood mixed with the sweat, a taste of iron and salt on my lips. As I lay on my back I heard the sound of a deer snort, then break through the brush. This morning I wasn’t going to make the same mistake and stepped slowly down, patting the tree that cut my head and pulling up to the other side.

The stand was close. A tall hickory was already dropping nuts on the ground. I felt them underfoot then touched the rough bark of the tree. There’s nothing like a nice piece of hickory. I shouldered the shotgun and climbed up, settling into the stand, the tree and the moment. In the darkness all you have are the sounds of the woods, different with the approach of dawn from those of the evening. The light comes gradually and adds another sense. The test is to add neither sound nor movement to that of the awakening world.

A head emerged from a deer track that runs perpendicular to the path running in front of me. Eight points above wary eyes that seem to look both ways. He doesn’t look up. My view is down a barrel aimed just behind his shoulder. The tip of my finger tickles the trigger, a caress like the touch on a nipple.

Behind me I heard a whippoorwill.

© Batt Humphreys
Do not use without permission from author

_______________________________________

Batt Humphreys is the award winning author of Dead Weight - reviewed by the Dew on August 3, 2010. Review can be read HERE.

Below is a YouTube from Batt discussing Charleston's role in Dead Weight and the second clip is his recent GMA Early Show interview.



Watch CBS News Videos Online

Dead Weight makes network television debut
Dead Weight, the true crime story by first-time novelist Batt Humphreys, made its network television debut on The Early Show on CBS the same week the author was honored at three national book awards ceremonies during Book Expo America (BEA) in New York.

Thursday, August 19, 2010

Death of a Dove

Death of A Dove

The knock came at six

the sun was setting, blinding rays and the bird got confused

the window was a mirror and

his reflection was a she-bird lover, then himself, then a cold, unforgiving

hammer to the head.

Professional mourner

I found him still breathing,

eyes open in the grass

wings clutched together

blue, white, grey-flanked feathers cradled

in a bed of cut grass pilings, freshly stacked.

His dove heart beat strong, urgent

a drum-beat procession

and he looked the part of dove: white feathers starring in our sentimental love

songs to the last,

and I moved him

to the shade

under a tall pine tree

to hide him from the vultures and

the needles held him close, shielded his wings from the sand and dirt;

I knew I had killed him, and I left the window

marked with his smear, his blood stain and feather tip stuck

a note in the glass to other birds, other humans

visitors: a dove died here today:

he had grey wings and blue and white feathers and funereal black eyes and

that’s all we know but

we mourn him, we do.

_______________________________________

Author: Eva Gordon

Bio: Eva Gordon is a freelance writer and editor. She is currently an MFA student at Spalding University, and she holds a BA in Fictin writing from Eugene Lang College at The New School University. Her poetry appears in the Spring 2010 issue of Prism Review. Her new book, a guide on writing children's books, will be published at Christmas 2010 by Adams Media.




Monday, August 16, 2010

A Pinch of This, A Dash of That

A Pinch of This, A Dash of That

Macon, Georgia 1964

He saw him coming around the corner and ran excitedly to meet him as the car drove up to the house. His small group of rag tag friends took off after him like dogs after a fox. It seems like they ran to everything and everywhere back then. The red Ford Galaxy that rolled to a stop was dusty and hot. When the boy rested his hand on it without thinking, he jerked it back and shook it.

It was sunny, cloudless and blistering hot with the temperature hovering in the mid nineties.

“Careful, you could fry an egg on there son” his dad said with a tired smile. He slowly uncurled his stiff legs out of the car, grabbing his lunch pail on the way out. He shut the car door, and then like so many times before, opened it back up and then shut it again so it would catch this time.

Exhausted, he stood there, still grinning at his only son.

“Yes sir! I sure could!” the boy said grinning back, rubbing his hand casually and acting like it didn’t hurt.

“Daddy, guess what?” he all but shouted it.

“Well, let’s see Jimbo….I dunno….what?” he said while looking around at the sea of faces that had run panting up the driveway and gathered around. “Looks like somethin’ big though, something real exciting”, he smiled.

As he waited for the answer he sat his aluminum lunch pail down with a clank, leaned his hip against the car and crossed his arms. At 40 or so, his dad was still in great physical shape. He had been a Marine in the South Pacific during WW2 and was now a brick mason by trade.

Big arms, wide shoulders, bull strong. He was damn impressive, especially so for a boy who wanted more than anything in the world to impress him. Years later, the knees would finally not work anymore and the back would betray him but those days were a long ways off though for the man who leaned against that car on that day.


“Yep, we’ve been racin’ all day and I won every race, all of ‘em! Long races and short races, all of us at once and head to head races. And I won ever one of ‘em! I beat ever’body!” He blurted out.

Several boys had looked down or sideways quickly. His dad’s tired smile never changed or faltered though.

“Well, sounds like you boys have been busy today,” he said and looked away from his son to scan the crew cut boys gaggled around in a bunch. They all looked stamped out of the same machine, white t-shirts, blue jeans and Converse tennis shoes.

“Also sounds like we got the next Jesse Owens here, huh?” he winked this at his son and then glanced around at the boys gathered in a semicircle. His eyebrows were raised dramatically for effect.

Jimbo’s grin faded and then froze into a stiff little smile when his dad said that. He felt a sting from the light hearted mocking and maybe felt a little betrayal too.

Bradley Deskins from over on Merrimac Drive, the next street over, took a half step forward out of the crowd. He was a chubby kid, constantly beet red in the face.

“He ain’t that good Mr. Wilson.”

“Beat you didn’t I?….Beat ever’body.” It was him against the world now.

“Yeah well, you won, but our race was right down to the wire.” Brett Parker chipped in. A small kid whose furry little burr haircut always had a little wax on it to make it stand straight up in front. “It was really close.” He looked up at Jimbo's father with sincere and serious eyes.

“I won by at least 10 yards Brett”, Jimbo said with a sigh and a spit.

“Yeah, but you jumped the dang gun in our race…..” mumbled Davey Fredrickson. His voice started out excited but trailed off quickly and he began studying his shoes.

“Ha! He did not Davey!” laughed his best friend Rick. “But, Mr. Wilson, he actually did cheat when him and I raced”, then he poked his friend in the ribs.

“Aw heck, I beat ya’ll! Beat all of you. Heck, I even beat my daddy a week ago, didn’t I daddy?”

“Okay now, alright then, that’ll be enough of all that. Well, listen here you little troublemakers, I have to get cleaned up……you too Jimmy……it’ll be suppertime soon” his father shook his head and he picked up his lunch pail.

After about four steps towards the house though, he stopped and looked back.

“Hey boy….before we go in….how ‘bout a quick rematch? You and me. We’ll just go down to the corner, around the big pine tree, and back. What’cha say there Jesse Owens?”

The small crowd of boys looked at each other wide eyed, then erupted with hoots and yells. It’s a scene that both father and son would never really forget. His dad un-tucked his work shirt, hitched his dusty work pants up, rolled his cuffs and toed the gravel with his work boots. Then they both crouched on an imaginary chalk line.

Rick, who would call the start, stood off to the side and looked very official. Next door, Mr. Bettencourt had just gotten home from work and was standing by his car watching it all unfold. His brow was furrowed and mouth slightly open as he looked on very confused.

The little group of boys was all fidgety and waiting anxiously for the start, like it was an event at the upcoming 1964 Summer Olympics.

The boy had never wanted to win a race so badly in his life, before or since. He was mad at everyone, including his father and determined to rub it in, show them all. He looked to his side quickly and his dad wasn’t smiling anymore, he was just looking straight ahead with no expression. A drop of sweat ran slowly down from his sideburn.

Jimbo looked straight ahead now too, digging the toe of his tennis shoe into the loose gravel and waited.

A dog barked from somewhere a long way off, stopped and then barked once more. It was suddenly very quiet.

One of the boys couldn’t help himself and said in a hushed tone, almost a whispered prayer in fact, “Beat him, Mr. Wilson…oh please, beat him.”

“On yer Marrrrk……Git settttt…….GO!” Rick said loudly, delivering the start perfectly.

As they both came blasting off the starting line, another wild cheer went up from the boys. Down the road they went, father and son. Oblivious to everything and everyone but the hot road in front of them and each other.

At thirteen, the physical gap was shrinking quickly between father and son. Youth and all its advantages would certainly be a deciding factor here. The father was already behind but not by much.

The boy pulled even farther ahead about two thirds of the way to the turn and then he used his hand to slingshot himself around the big pine that represented halfway. He was catapulted forward on his way back to the finish, legs moving like pistons and arms pumping.

He never heard him coming, didn’t know he was even that close.

His daddy was just there suddenly, just off his right shoulder. As he pulled even, the boy looked over quickly with big eyes, but his dad just looked straight ahead. Emotionless, relentless and driven, he pounded forward like a freight train at full throttle and edged ahead.

As they got closer to the finish both had naturally started to tire and slow down from the blazing start. The father still forged ahead though, seeming to be unstoppable now, inching ahead more and more.

With only forty yards or so left to the house and the ragged little crowd yelling them back to the start line, the father’s lead was at least five feet ahead. The boy dug down and reached for whatever he had left but knew there wasn’t anything there.

Then like a switch had been thrown, by some miracle, the boy began to gain on him. With only twenty yards to go they were, just for one precious split second, shoulder to shoulder. Only then, did the father look over at him and only then, did the boy know.

When it was all over there were claps on the back all around, while they caught their breaths with hands on knees. The father got a drink out of the garden hose. It had been a heck of a race, everybody agreed.

Eventually, the boys had finally started to drift away as another summer day was ending. Everyone headed home to chores and suppertimes of their own.

It was just the two of them now, still sweating but much more relaxed. They leaned on the Galaxy and looked at the evening sky. The boy was chewing on a blade of grass and he was lost in some thought, watching a beautiful plum and orange sunset.

“Daddy?” he asked quietly, matching the peaceful dusk sounds around them. An early cricket or two, some cicadas in the backyard oak trees and a mournful dove high up somewhere were about the only noises. It was very still, a summer evening of heavy air and warm quiet.

“Yes?” he answered, breaking away from the spell the sunset had also been holding him in. He cocked his head around and looked at his son.

“Why’d you do that?”

“Why did I do what boy?”

“Let me win like that?” he asked in a deeper voice, a voice that he really didn’t own yet.

“Because I knew you’d get the message anyway, without me rubbing your nose in it.” He looked hard at his son. “Because I knew you could figure out who won, without having to prove it in front of your friends and then have you listen to me crow about it afterward. Nothing worse than a braggart boy. If you’re good at something, you don’t have to tell people such.” He looked away then and spit. Then spit again.

The sky was a dark purple hue now, deepening and turning to black with each passing moment. A few early stars could already be seen.

He looked at his father, understanding lesson and message both.

He scooted over a little closer to his father then, not feeling like he was thirteen anymore. He didn’t want to be older or stronger or faster right then. He just wanted to be picked up and given a ride on his father’s shoulders. Once more, like he used to……just once more.

That part was confusing to him because he was far too old for that anymore.

He leaned over on his dad a little but didn’t say anything. The cicadas were really going now.

“Well, c’mon boy, let’s go get washed up. I don’t know about you, but I’m starvin’.” he smiled, loosening up on the reigns a little. “You know, you are gettin' pretty fast, but still not faster than your old man.”

He grinned and ruffled the boy’s hair, then slung a strong arm over his shoulder.

The boy answered by putting an arm around his father’s waist and hooked a thumb on one of his side belt loops, like he had so many times before. It wasn’t a ride on the shoulders but it was good.

The father thought that it was probably impossible for him to love the boy anymore than he did and wondered why life always went so damn fast when you didn’t want it to.

They walked like that all the way up to the house without saying another word.

End

_______________________________________
Author: Jim Wilsky

Bio- Jim J. Wilsky has had a lifelong passion for writing and storytelling. He has written over 200 fictional short stories in the genres of mainstream, suspense, westerns, crime and historical fiction. His work has appeared in online magazines such as Mystercial-E, Boston Literary Magazine, Hardluck Stories and Amazon Short Stories, as well as several print anthologies, including The World Outside My Window. He is supported and strengthened by a wonderful wife and two beautiful daughters. http://word-counts.blogspot.com

Saturday, August 14, 2010

The Hound of the Hadleyvilles


The Hound of the Hadleyvilles

Sonja Condit

Think of all the useful dogs in the world. Guide dogs, bomb-sniffing dogs, search and rescue dogs; even dogs that sniff out prostate cancer or predict their owners’ seizures. Just last week I heard of a perfectly ordinary dog who jumped into a swimming pool and dragged a baby out of the water. Practically any dog will alert its owners if strangers are at the door. Not our dog. If he can even bother to drag himself to the front door, all he does is give the visitor a good sniff, flop his tail a couple of times, and go back to bed.

Wilbur – not our fault; that’s the name he had when we got him – is a whippet: like a greyhound, but half the size. He is beautiful, a silky black brindle, with a gorgeous physique: elegant face, deep chest, tiny waist, slim muscular hips. I’ve heard that people get to look like their dogs after a while. Let’s just say, I’m still waiting. I take him for a walk most days, not because he really enjoys being dragged out of bed and marched around the neighborhood, but just to keep him from turning into a complete mushroom. We have a one-mile circuit, which is much exercise as he can stand. And yet, his muscles look like they’ve been drawn with a fine-point pen. If you could bottle his metabolism, you’d make a fortune.

Today I gave up any hope of Wilbur ever being useful, even in the most minimal way – by protecting me against wildlife. He’ll probably chase a squirrel if it comes too close to me, and even a cat if it isn’t too big and scary-looking, but real wildlife? Forget it. Until today, when we met a snake.

The first part of our walk is a cul-de-sac with only three houses. We walk opposite the houses, next to a bank of dry earth covered with pine mulch and dead leaves, home to snakes. There are always a couple of holes in the bank, but up until today I’d never seen a snake, except occasionally laminated to the asphalt; roadkill doesn’t count. As we walked past this afternoon, we saw a black rat snake, a lovely creature, three feet long, with a diameter of an inch. Wilbur and the snake saw each other and both of them panicked. Wilbur ducked behind my legs, and the snake curled itself into ess-curves and hissed. The tip of its tail flickered among the dry leaves, and it looked and sounded just like a rattlesnake: a fascinating display. While I watched the snake, Wilbur peeked out from behind my knees from time to time, quickly ducking back to safety as the snake changed direction in its esses.

Eventually the snake gave up on trying to chase me away. Rather than heading for one of the holes, it slithered up the bank into the roots of the white pines. Wilbur and I continued on our walk, and as we circled the loop of the cul-de-sac, in a minute or two we were back at the same spot. Wilbur insisted on pausing. He stretched out his long neck and sniffed where the snake had been; every now and then he twitched his whole body backward eight inches. He stood with his head down, panting, his thighs tight and trembling. I shook the leash. “Come on, dog, let’s move.”

One last time he snuffled through the leaves, tracing the snake’s passage. Then he stuck his nose down one of the snake-holes and whuffed. I shook the leash again. “Move, dog!” He gave me a particular look, and I relaxed the leash. He squatted, positioning himself with more-than-usual care. His tail stuck straight out at, quivering, parallel to the ground; and he filled the snake’s hole with a steaming pile.

The he looked up at me, whuffed again, and led me up the cul-de-sac, prancing, with his tail carried high. Useful? Maybe not. But if I ever need a snake evicted, Wilbur’s the dog to do it.


_______________________________
Author Bio:
Sonja Condit Coppenbarger is a musician, writer and teacher in Greenville,
South Carolina. She plays bassoon with the Hendersonville Symphony, and
teaches at North Greenville University and the South carolina Governor's School
for the Arts and Humanities. She is a student in the MFA in Creative Writing
program at Converse College.

Wednesday, August 11, 2010

Uncle John's Skillet

Uncle John’s Skillet
© Nita Risher McGlawn 2009

Southern girls know how to appreciate fine china, crystal, and sterling flatware. It’s in the DNA. These things are passed down generation to generation like crowned jewels. Being “registered” with a china pattern is a right of passage. But just as important, if not more so in daily life, is a decent seasoned iron skillet. No self-respecting GRIT (girl raised in the south), will attempt cornbread without the right accoutrement.

After being feted with bridal showers galore late 1974, I came into possession of several small iron skillets, each worthy of cornbread for only two. Immediately after marrying my Bama petroleum engineer, we moved SOUTH of New Orleans to Plaquemines Parish, tiny skillets in tow. For those of you unfamiliar with the below-sea-level territory, it was the stomping grounds for the infamous Perez family and political machine. Oranges, abundant seafood, perfect duck hunting, and roadside honky-tonks are available every so many years, as long as a category 3 or higher hurricane hasn’t ravaged the pencil thin piece of low land between the Mississippi River levee and the salt marsh. Oil and sulfur are understood. Scattered along the pot-holed highway trucks touted “colossal shrimp.” These could be had for one dollar a pound with heads on, two dollars sans heads. Let’s just say, I was a frequent customer. I began learning how to cook a la Louisiana style. I needed a bigger iron skillet.

On one of our trips to Shelby County, Alabama, to see hubby’s family, I was lucky enough to spot the perfect skillet, hanging from a nail. Beneath the weathered, rustic “well shelter,” was an enormous iron pan. The tin-roofed well shelter, once used to cover the water well, was no longer used for this purpose, but to give refuge to the dogs and cats in the yard. It also made for a great catchall area to store stuff. I quickly questioned my new mother-in-law about the skillet. It had belonged to Uncle John, a long-gone bachelor relative from way back. I pictured him as a Renaissance man, since he owned such a wonderful piece of kitchenware. I later saw pictures of a handsome man, sitting on his porch with handlebar moustache. I vowed to make Uncle John proud if I owned this skillet.

I manipulated my way into pan ownership and took it home to Buras, Louisiana. After years of Alabama weathering in extreme temperatures and conditions, it was in dire need of re-seasoning if it was to ever see a decent pan of cornbread again. I lovingly researched the seasoning method and completed the process. In reality, it took years of regular use to get the right patina.

This January 19, I will have had the skillet for 35 years of married life. Where I go, it goes, with the exception of two postings in Indonesia and one in Muscat, Oman. I couldn’t chance disappointing Uncle John with a skillet MIA in Asia. The forged piece of iron has made culinary history with exquisite jambalaya and shrimp Creole. It makes a perfect roux, and as they say in South Louisiana, with a good roux, you can go anywhere, gastronomically speaking. On Thanksgiving and Christmas, the skillet cooks the perfect pan of cornbread for our family Southern-style dressing recipe.

While my children haggle and debate over Oriental antiques and rugs procured overseas, I secretly wonder what will become of one of my most prized possessions. Having only sons, I fret, knowing neither of them are rabid cooks and can’t appreciate the importance of this piece of ironware. Perhaps I will donate it on my deathbed to a museum. It is certainly worthy.

A Sunday Afternoon


A Sunday afternoon

Strawberry plants indignant, straighten their skirts;
I push them aside despite the excited blushes.
Sleepy young berries look up pouting green,
smiling, I tuck them all back into bed.
Quietly I move away, pacing myself
to the sounds of their little snores.

______________________________

David Dumais was born in 1965, Has received academic awards for his Artistic talents, has had short stories published and illustrated in an anthology from Antarctic Press. Artist, writer and poet, David puts his heart in all his works believing his best pieces share an emotional canvas. David lives with his loving wife whom he has adored since Jr. High and his son who is growing up too fast for his liking and should slow down.

Monday, August 9, 2010

Imagine

Imagine

(Ars Poetica)

The Poem

waving its white-tipped crest

from the sure

line of mountains

sitting with the blue-green blades

of Kentucky grass

on the sidelines of a football

game of tag

the poem's white flag

circling your backyard

in the dark

one million fireflies

decorating the night air

like Christmas

lights warm the windows of

home

is the smell of garlic

a cabinet above the stove

and the recipe for

The Poem

taped to the door.




_________________________________
Author: LeeAnn Patrick

LeeAnn writes: "My Name is LeeAnn Patrick I live with my husband, five children and one grandchild in King NC. Most of my poetry involves my family as dedication, subject or inspiration. After finding the market for teachers non-existent, I found a part-time spot at a retail store. My work has appeared in tinfoildresses and The Saint's Placenta."

Sunday, August 8, 2010

Our good friend Poopie strikes again!





Poopie, at Pecan Lane, takes the most wonderful photographs of rural Tennessee. Every couple of months I use some of her newer ones to liven up the Dew pages. Even a journal dedicated to the written word can use some pretty pictures to go with the words!

Idg

Saturday, August 7, 2010

Whomp!

WHOMP!

By Cappy Hall Rearick

Just when you least expect it, life can sneak up on you and whomp you upside the head.
You can be sitting around doing nothing, or busy doing something when it happens. You might be simply enjoying the fact that you live in a world of faithful friends who love you, family that accepts you warts and all, or that basically life is good.

Whomp!

Email comes from a friend, the one who, when she lived next door to you years ago, cared about the children at her school who were starving for knowledge even more than their bodies were hungry for food. She was the one who was spontaneous and alive at our dull neighborhood parties, the one who could bring a smile to the grumpy old man on the corner who yelled at kids, kicked dogs and wore a scowl befitting an ogre about to eat the rest of the neighborhood.
She was the one who loved Knock-Knock jokes and laughed out loud even when they were not funny, who opened her home on Thanksgiving Day to someone she had met on the street only the day before, the one who didn’t judge people and never got the hang of disliking anybody. She was the one always up for a new adventure, for another chapter in her book of life.
Whomp!

The latest chemo drug failed. New tumors are growing. Surgery, radiation, chemo won’t do any good. There are no options.
Whomp!

Her humor is still healthy as a horse. “I asked the doctor,” she writes, if I was now expected to just sit here until I pop. He mumbled something about drugs that would keep me pain-free (before I pop).”

Because she is an intelligent woman, she considers pursuing experimental drugs, homeopathic remedies and such, but in the end decides to spend what time she has left with family and friends. “Due to the growth pattern of the first alien tumor, I expect that time will be closer to two months than six.”

Whomp!

My friend is the one who haunted the internet for days only a year ago until she found me again, the one who wanted to email, share stories about her son and new husband, and to hear everything about my children and family. Although I didn’t know it at the time, she needed a dose of my humor; today I need a dose of her joie de vivre, her exuberance, her whacky way of looking at life.

She says that she feels more at peace than she has in a long time. I can almost hear her laughter as she writes, “I know where I’m headed and I promise to put in a good word for you!”

Whomp!

The summer has been hot and I have whined about it until everyone I know is sick of hearing it. Babe’s recent knee replacement surgery has made us much too aware of the unreliability of our bodies as our lives move toward to an eventual end. But summer heat gives way to crisp autumn air that cools the body and calls for open windows that freshen the house; knees get replaced with titanium and perform better than ever. And life, as we know it, goes on.

My friend’s plight, my former neighbor with the wonderful sense of humor and a storehouse of real courage even in the face of hard facts that can’t change, makes me incredibly proud of her while making me ashamed of myself for whining.

She ends her email with what I know she hopes will bring a smile rather than tears. “Keep sending me good jokes. This one is from my sister after I asked her where my ashes should be scattered. She said, ‘By the pond in the garden, Silly. That’s where everyone croaks!’

And then … “I love you SO MUCH and I treasure the time we got to spend together.”

Whomp!

___________________________

Cappy Hall Rearick
www.simplysoutherncappy.com
www.lowcountrysun.sc
http://todaysdeepsouth.blogspot.com
"My greatest fear is that there is no PMS and this is just my personality."
_____________________________


Penguin Audio Excerpts for Summer

From Penguin - "Allow us to complement your summer days with comedy, adventure, romance, and fantasy. We've selected four audio books perfect for summertime listening. Two will soon be adapted for movie screens and the TV screens in your homes! Check back each week for a new audio book excerpt, featuring the opening passages of the following four audio books sure to make your summertime listening more fun."

Go HERE to enjoy some of Penguin's Audio excerpts! These do change often and you can set up alerts to be told when new books are up on their site.








Wednesday, August 4, 2010

Charm and the Southern Male


CHARM AND THE SOUTHERN MALE

By Carol Laurin

It is generally assumed that all Southern men are charming, but that is not actually the case. Most are merely polite, although in today’s world that will certainly pass for charm. They softly call you “ma’am” and open the door for you or help you pick up the books or packages that you dropped. They give you that gentle deference that says, “Yes, indeed, I certainly noticed that you are a woman.” But that’s not charm.

No, a truly charming Southern man is a dangerous creature who doesn’t come with a warning label. It would do no good. The more you were told to keep your distance, the faster you would run toward him. We want what we shouldn’t have, what isn’t good for us. But the danger here is not a deliberate intent to cause harm. In fact, it is just the opposite. These men are honestly born with a deep appreciation and affection for all women, regardless of age. They truly love and are fascinated by women. They often have no idea of the havoc they wreak.

First the way he looks directly into your eyes. Then that soft drawl, spoken in a voice that is warm and masculine but not too deep. It has a cadence too, a strong, pulsing rhythm that lulls your senses and weakens your ability to think. At times the sound will drop to almost a whisper. His head will lean gently toward you, making you feel like you are the only woman in the world. You can feel the warmth of his body from two feet away and his scent, clean and definitely male, drifts toward you. Those eyes that twinkle at you, the innate flirtation that comes as natural to him as breathing, the implied sexuality – if he has a dimple, may God have mercy on your soul.

Your heart will beat faster, your breathing will become shallow; you may feel lightheaded or slightly anxious. It all flows over you like warm honey and you don’t care if you drown in it. If every fiber in your body yearns for him, you are in serious trouble. And when the time comes and it’s all over, you will remain under that spell to some degree for the rest of your life. It becomes a part of who you are.

Someday I will sit on the porch of an old folks’ home, rocking quietly in the shade with a smile on my face and a distant gleam in my eye. The nurses will whisper to each other and wonder, “What in the world is she thinkin’ about?” And in my mind’s eye will be that long, slow, sweet memory of a charming Southern man, the softness of his voice in my ear and the heat of his touch on my skin. And as long as I can remember him, I may be old, but I most certainly will not be dead.


BIO -

I am proud to be both a native Texan and a southerner. My family has been in Texas since 1836 and in the South since before the American Revolution. After years of writing only as a hobby, and doing a lot of technical writing as part of my job, I am currently working on a novel.