The Plume the literary magazine of
Keystone College La Plume, Pennsylvania
April 2012
The Plume Editorial Board Michael Baldi Heather Clark Erin Collins Louise Cortazar Megan Duffy Macaulay Glynn Steve Keating Patricia Kinney Kelly Langan Samantha Lorenzetti Katherine Miraval Michael Rossi Leigh-Ann Sjogren
Faculty Advisor Dr. David Elliott
All works used with permission. Authors and artists retain all rights to individual works.
Submissions to The Plume are welcomed from students, alumni, and employees of Keystone College. Please send your poetry, prose, articles, and artwork to: The Plume, Box 305, Keystone College, One College Green, LaPlume, PA 18440
Contents Front Cover: Photograph by Pat Rokos Henneforth Design by Leigh-Ann Sjogren Breaking Stone Patricia Kinney 911 Macaulay Glynn Wisconsin Michael Baldi The Tea Party Louise Cortazar Tears Samantha Lorenzetti Uprooted Cecelia Blue A Short Walk from Home Lisbeth Herr-Gelatt Mr. Sandman, Bring Me a Dream Leigh-Ann Sjogren Connections Cecelia Blue Photograph Pat Rokos Henneforth The Old Mine William J. Palumbo A Lifelong Pursuit Louise Cortazar Opportunity Kelly Langan Untitled Michael Baldi Untitled Macaulay Glynn Homage: Doo-Wop Erin Collins Shades Patricia Kinney Off River Street Steve Keating Photograph Natalie Wentz Walking to Work Bob Perkins
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This is just to say Megan Duffy The Lover Within Katherine Miraval Halt Diane Starkey Summer Cecelia Blue Eat Me Lisbeth Herr-Gelatt September Macaulay Glynn Mimi Erin Collins European Rush Louise Cortazar Friends with Benefits Patricia Kinney Untitled Samantha Lorenzetti The Traffic Sarah Langan Photograph--Toe Shadow Pat Rokos Henneforth To Go Again Heather Clark Comfortable Darkness Michael Rossi The Toilet Whisperer Leigh-Ann Sjogren Hair Forever Samantha Lorenzetti
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Breaking Stone My father‘s hands were rock hard from years of work on Ford engines. His grimy fingers threaded bolts, rough palms forced pulleys free. The grease stains were permanent, etched in cracks of old calluses like stories on stone. I always watched my father‘s hands, steady when he chopped wood for the house, flinty when his fist struck the table as he yelled at my brother. I never saw him touch my mother with those tough hands turned pliable like oiled leather when he sealed gaskets and screwed spark plugs in place. One day, he leaned over the body of my brother in a cold white room. I hid behind him, my mountain, shale standing with rigid shoulders and stiff legs. He whispered two words when he broke, My boy, and I never thought I‘d see him stroke my brother‘s bearded face with the back of two granite fingers that shook when he reached out, chipped when he caressed a cheek, crumbled when he withdrew them. --Patricia Kinney
1
911 The first time, I was ten. I had to run away to clear the screams from the receiver while my sister bled into a towel and our dog, now a strange animal charged at the door with murderous intent. The second time was never dialed but the cordless phone found a new cradle in the thick marsh of the pond out back. Marble-eyed sunfish observed as I was sent with snorkeling gear to search till dusk but found only nests of dirt. Last time, a drunk motorcyclist looked up at me from his back as blood clotted like wax on his swollen head. My own voice sounded unfamiliar spelling out the road name under pooling lamplight. --Macaulay Glynn
Wisconsin A husky farmer crashes his van— His hands are cracked and callused. They still grip the steering wheel in a secluded ravine, where the frozen hands wrap around him like a relentless weed. In sleep, the body stops moving. The brain never will. A yellow flower sprouts from Soil and fertile rust in a secluded ravine --Michael Baldi
2
The Tea Party Come, eat in my kitchen I‘ve microwaved a plastic hotdog I‘ve baked a plastic egg hard-boiled a leg of chicken and baked a plastic steak Teddy, you‘ve devoured the entire meatloaf! Lion, you haven‘t touched your pie! You two need to quit your bickering before you make the baby cry When the steaming whistle doesn‘t blow I turn the burner down and take the kettle off the stove to cease the silent sound My guests will never ask or know how I cooked the birthday cake in with a bowl of fish and corn crammed in the microwave I pour the empty kettle into the tiny cups filing them with hot nothingness before we drink them up Over nonsense conversation, the company is great while Tiger sneaks an extra sweet dessert onto his saucer plate We blow the steam that isn‘t there and clink to make a toast We slowly sip on nothing air with friends we love the most --Louise Cortazar
3
Tears I am head first for my car when math lets out climb in drop down and reblend with my fingertips the makeup back on my face. Not until the moisture cracks into my eye do I breathe for the first time The art in the gallery makes me cry, because I get it. The self-mutilating youth in novels for english class, because I don‘t. Out loud when a classmate speaks of human right during history lecture. Staring into a bright sun, the frozen particles of winter‘s tundral winds, soul-inspiring documentaries, at home for 8 bucks a month rush salty streams over the bumps of my cheeks. Tears for any sake in the wake of a human soul tears, a medium for a temperament, is something you can put your fingers into. --Samantha Lorenzetti
Uprooted Your skin against My skin Is coarse Scratchy Bark, and it peels as you crunch against my freshness. Your unnatural flesh Flaking off in chunks. Your heaviness splitting me; Grinding into my spirit(while I resist)
I want to spit. --Cecelia Blue
4
A Short Walk from Home A small ocean of fur foams and ebbs at my feet. Stagnant and still, I am happy to see it. Tails slapping against my knees, wild waves grow and retreat, grow and retreat, ripples become currents across the surface. Deer startle and leap. Rabbits race like sailfish across the foam. Roiling amongst the green and brown waves I am buffeted, towed, something nibbles my heel, I am pushed every direction, to rush closer and away Closer. Away. Closer. Tugged with the tide towards the distant shore of home I feel the current dragging at me Resist, flow, Resist, flow. My port is waiting. I rely on the forgiveness of the sea, beach myself upon the shore, calmness claims me. Tomorrow the sea waits, to make this captain a shipwreck flecked with gold grasses, dragged by the wild returning tides: Three fat Retrievers my tugs, a churning Jack Russell, waves in the meadow. --Lisbeth Herr-Gelatt
5
Mr. Sandman, Bring Me A Dream "But I blew out all of my candles, Mommy!" Elizabeth protested as she was tucked snuggly under her thick, floral print blanket. "I want my wish!" "Maybe the Sandman will bring you a good dream, Lizzy," her mother suggested. She neatly flattened the blanket over the wriggling child and leaned in to kiss her forehead. Lizzy pouted and furrowed her brow. She didn't want just any wish. She wanted her wish. "Didn't you know?" Mommy asked. "The Sandman is a professional wishmaker. He crafts them out of sand and sprinkles them in your eyes as you're falling asleep. Then he whispers sweet little nothings in your ears and everything you ever want becomes reality. When you wake up, his gifts to you are the memories of your adventure and your wish come true. But he only gives these gifts to good little girls who go to bed on time." Lizzy's eyes lit up in wonder. Completely captivated by Mommy's creative tale, she wriggled under her sheets one last time and buried her face in her pillow, eager to fall asleep for all of the goodies the Sandman promised to bring. "I love you, sweetie." Mommy began to close the door. "I love you too, Mommy!" Lizzy squealed. "Quick, close the door! I want to see Mr. Sandman!" Mommy chuckled, whispered "good-night, my angel," and gave the door a quiet click shut. Lizzy felt like hours had passed as she tossed and turned. Her excitement made her heart race and gave her the energy to do anything except sleep. However, that didn't stop her from trying. She attempted everything from counting sheep to forcing herself to snore, but nothing seemed to work. A cold draft eventually disturbed her from her futile sleeping campaign and she poked her head out from her pillow and covers. The curtains at her window waved as a breeze flowed onto her room. "No wonder I couldn't sleep!" she muttered to herself and threw her blankets off of her body. She stomped over to the window, officially in a bitter mood for potentially being robbed of her chances as at wish come true, and put her fingers on the pane. As she was about to slam it close it, her eyes met the two, blank, white eyes of a near ghostly figure in the shape of a nude, grown woman. Her endlessly black skin smoked off of her silhouette as the breeze wisped past. "Are you Mr. Sandman?" Lizzy asked curiously, completely convinced that she was dreaming, as no such creature existed in her real world. "You can say that," the woman answered. "Are you ready?" "Of course I'm ready! I already made my wish and blew out all of my candles!" "Your mother must be proud of you," the Sandman answered. She held her hand out for Lizzy to take. "My Mommy is always proud of me," Lizzy said. "She told I'm the best daughter in the world this morning! She also told me you were going to come tonight and grant me my birthday wish tonight." The Sandman remained silent and waited for Lizzy to take her hand. As soon as the child did, her body evaporated into a pool of white light that collected in the
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Sandman's palm. She smiled into it and balled her fingers into a fist to hold onto it tightly. On the street below her, red sirens flashed and wailed as large red trucks pulled up to the house. The Sandman peered back into the window to see black smoke filling the room, and Mommy kicking in the door to find her daughter's body in the bed. She howled in sorrow as the flames from an electrical fire rushed into the room after her, devouring everything in its wake. The firemen swarmed into the room after her, combating the flames and dragging her to the window. No one noticed the Sandman. No one could see her. All that was evident of her ever being there was the hollow sound of Mommy's shrill mourning voice, which lingered in the night sky. -- Leigh-Ann Sjogren
Connections Not wanting to become lost around the edges, Eyes kept wide, I chew on metallic memory Crossing the tops of my ―L‘s‖ like ―T‘s‖ crossing my legs and feet, digging deep into the groves of a hardwood floor, Now I‘m seeing you from beneath And there are your eyes, all dewy and earth. That dark. And rich round. Fluttering. Filtering out the echo, That sounds around your face; static along the edges. --Cecelia Blue
7
--Pat Rokos Henneforth
8
The Old Mine The old mine is boarded up now, Weathered pine and rusted iron bolts Stand guard as gatekeepers to the lair Of a forgotten age. On warm summer days, we as Children, would explore the mine, Going as deep into the earth As our courage would allow. We played for endless hours Among the timbers, cracked beams and Rusted rails, searching for remnants Held captive in the silent dust. Old tools, mold-ridden leather belts, or perhaps An old pipe, pitted and still stained with the odor Of tobacco—one an old miner smoked while he Worked beneath for the means to live above. The years pressed on and eventually we bid The mine farewell, as old friends sometimes do. But it still remains—alone—an abandoned scar Upon the earth. The old mine is boarded up now. --William J. Palumbo
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A Lifelong Pursuit Little Girl admires her attire in a full-length mirror With no intention, she's Mother's reflection pearl necklace doubled-over and still down to her hips bright red color drawn imperfectly outside the lines of her lips Inexperienced little hands In a crown and long, drawn-out gown she waltzes and twirls in a room without sound pleats and then curtseys A little surprised the dress is a bit over-sized a strap slides over the side of her shoulder She wants to be older taller, wiser, lovelier She's chasing her Mother
Young Lady Covers her eyes to cry in her bedroom mirror She's hoping her father don't hear her She must stay, she's misbehaved snaps her necklace, name engraved Over-shades her eyes with blue and black All down her cheeks, mascara tracks Generous hands apply a supply of powder and dyes wiping the streaks from beneath her eyes After clipping her faux diamond earrings she throws on a jean-skirt and leggings sliding in a push-up and half-shirt She climbs out the window behind her She wants to be older fuller, prettier, rebel more She's chasing a boy
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Bride stares into her own eyes in a vanity Searches for reassurance and clarity Closing her eyes, a gentle touch from the side Mother's reflection appears from behind Looking toward her approving her touch has always been soothing Reassuring hands she straightens a crease in arm of her sleeve then kisses her daughter's rosy cheek Mother is doting, the bride is glowing still knowing she may not want this She wants to be careless, freedom and independence She's chasing happiness
Old Woman Pinches and pulls her face, shiny and taut Paints on a thick layer of camouflage straightening time's lines with a jar of youth lotion weekly injections of expensive youth potion sweeps a deep pink on the concave of her cheeks Retouches the grays every few weeks Unsteady hands spritzing too much from a floral scented pump through the fine white haze her gaze adjusts to a photograph that's attached to her looking glass Three by five black and white, a glimpse from the past Sighing and realizing she was happy once She wants attraction, love and innocence Time is chasing her --Louise Cortazar
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Opportunity It chokes her, reaches up from the depths of her gut and wraps its dead hand around her fragile neck. She can feel the hand touching her at all times waiting for an opportunity to cut off the air supply and blood to her brain; it's waiting to finish her. Today, she felt feisty. She grabbed that dead hand and bent back its fingers in an attempt to release herself from its grip. It let go of her neck and latched on to her face. Its palm smashed her nose into her skull. Reeling in pain. She could feel the blood dripping out of her broken nose. Two dead fingers pushed hard into her eye sockets. She was sure that the pressure would make her blind. The pain made her vomit on the floor. The desire to feel allowed her to struggle next to the mess and continue wrestling the hand that had been choking her for so long. She had been strangled, punched, slapped, and stomped on. The unrelenting hand kept returning to her neck, throwing her around a little, not allowing her to reach catharsis. It wouldn't let her take control. She'll feel contented when she's ready. She's got to lay down and let it take over, whatever it is. It won't release her until she knows that it will always be lurking, ready to grab her by the throat and slam her weak body on the wooden floor just when she forgets that it's there. --Kelly Langan
I used to be young but now I‘m old. Older than the moment and the new day‘s intentions. I used to be free but now I‘m confined by the lines my Crayola strokes used to recklessly ignore. I used to be handsome but now I‘m homely for impure decisions cause fungus to grow. I used to be blinded But now I‘m deaf. I can finally see our world but refuse to hear it calling. --Michael Baldi
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I can tell you with the utmost certainty I will absolutely never appreciate the subtle nuances of kitchen jokes nor find use for the ―What Men Want‖ section of Cosmo, but what I really want explained to me is why people are up in arms about the ―violation‖ of constitutional church-and-state separation in relation to insurance contraception coverage while in other news: republican presidential candidates are publicly stating they believe pregnancy as a result of rape is a gift from God. --Macaulay Glynn
Homage: Doo-Wop Sundays are the nights we drive back in time, to a place long forgotten by most. The sweet sound of doo-wop wafting through the air, blending in with our smoke and breath, sets the mood for our journey through the unknown roads in an abandoned town. The black sky framed by dead trees and frost provides our light and conversation. In circles we go but when the music ends so does our journey, back to reality, back to life. --Erin Collins
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Shades I found a pair of shades today above the visor in my pickup-the black lenses scratched, nosepiece smashed-- silverframed wrap-arounds I picked off the ground the night they took my brother away in a bag. I put them on then, tried to see the crash through his eyes, the scattered pieces of chrome, stains on the road, the dark washed in rotating lights- red, white, blue -the people like vultures crowded behind police lines. I put them on again today, saw the gray ground, rain soaked windshield, a washedout world, and the only face I saw reflected was my own. --Patricia Kinney
Off River Street In dirty Wilkes-Barre, crowded basements and red brick walls Casing in heat and sweat of cold October – house party at Maritza‘s. And you can‘t walk. And you can‘t breathe without spilling a drink or pissing someone off. I stand lighthouse – anchored in the middle of the room in seas of drunk. I hold my warm beer up to the light and let fluorescence shine through green glass, beckoning the cold into the warm. Calling strangers to the shore. I drown in waves of sound bleeding from the stereo. And I can‘t walk. And I can‘t breathe. Someone is singing about a home they know somewhere. Lyrics out of lungs. Lyrics out of head. Lyrics out of heart. --Steve Keating
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--Natalie Wentz 15
Walking to Work Standing on the deck I gaze down toward the valley below the College shrouded in mist at this time of day Little to no sound in the air The house in which I live was built before the war, before the school itself, although it is hard to tell now but for the main beam hewn by axe in the damp, field stone cellar below It probably also did not have a deck back then I finish my last sip of "Foglifter" coffee somewhat apropos as the landscape below begins to clear I wonder what it was like back then the Academy, and its students Time to go to work I say! I drop down through the meadow connecting to the deer path through the brambles and under the low white pine where they bed for the night, startling a yearling nearby I head east on the old trolley bed to what is left of the station, where students, now long gone, once began and ended their school days I follow the trail, in a similar direction to that of the students back then winding below hemlock and pine following the water down through the ravine, to where it feeds the Mighty Nokomis Unlike the direct route from the station, mine now veers west, headed downstream along the upper bank the College now becoming visible through the trees,
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I cross the bridge, suspended between past and present I‘m not from here, but am somehow connected to its history --Bob Perkins
This is just to say I locked the door that had the note not to I forgot you lost your key and won‘t be able to get in Forgive me I didn‘t mean to it was automatic and force of habit --Megan Duffy
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The Lover Within The Lover within me wants to leak into your mind Know what you think Get to know your soul She longs for the feelings of being trusted again The lover within me would like to be loved by you for life To feel without blame, without guilt, without fear She yearns to change her dark days to light Spread her winds and mourn without melancholy The lover within me would like to feel your arms around her fragile body See your smile as if you provoke her eyes, Making her eyes look away with shyness She longs wants to be seen innocent again The lover within me wants it all strangely to disappear All fears, our mistakes, and confusions Suddenly the unexpected Magic, every guilt is gone She then opens her eyes and she looks And she looks No blaming, no yelling, I‘m not letting go If you love me so, forgive me Forgive me for loving you so --Katherine Miraval
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Halt Heartbeat you are the only constant thing I have right now Your sound travels to my ears This is how I know you are beating faster Slow down I will say But the only thing that slows down Will be the time And the movement of my tongue It slows down to a halt My words are now overpowered By my lack of control for The only constant thing I had Now it‘s gone and for once I am speechless. --Diane Starkey
Summer It was like running very slowly through town. ‌lazy lights Under the big tree You and me, We caught fires in our hands And almost always set them free. --Cecelia Blue
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Eat Me Alice got too big for her britches. I got too big for my pants. Alice grew by feet and by inches, I grew by rhyming and cant. When Alice grew too big for her britches Shunning demands of society bitches. I gobbled it down with the smallest of glitches, Battering it in with cannons and switches. I carried the weight like an ant. Yes, Alice grew too big for her britches. I grew too big for my pants. Alice grew too big for her dresses. I grew too big for my bra. Alice learned to roll with her messes. I learned the power of awe. Alice stayed willow straight, I grew big boulders Hanging like weights from my linebacker shoulders Knowing my back would ache when I‘m older, like Atlas who carried it all. Yes, Alice grew too big for her dresses. I grew too big for my bra. Alice grew too big for her slippers. I grew too big for my shoe. Alice deleted her carbon footprint. My foot prints crackled and grew. Alice slipped between bunny and cat, Unreeling story whilst mad hatter sat. I spewed bad rhyme, the deliverance pat Never once wondering where I was at until the audience grew. Alice grew too big for her slippers. I grew too big for my shoe. Alice touched the lives of millions. I touched the lives of three. Alice, released to the theatre for billions, doesn‘t got nothin‘ on me. Alice, commercial, won‘t know satisfaction Of filling small bellies or turning their bath on. She‘s too young to know that with strength and with passion She can outlive her much abused fashion. But this is one thing we both know: If you don‘t eat it, you never will have it, until you try the gateau. --Lisbeth Herr-Gelatt
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September She let me watch the footage, explaining what was happening. My mother didn‘t believe in censorship. A cousin was on an inbound flight that morning but with childlike reassurance I didn‘t worry. Thankfully, I was right. I watched with curiosity as little black dots threw themselves from blown-out windows. That afternoon I stood on the front stoop and jumped a few times as the chestnut trees watched. When Sunday brought church school, I told my teacher I would have jumped too. ―That,‖ she said, ―Is a sin‖ and I wondered what kind of God I was supposed to love. --Macaulay Glynn
Mimi I‘m a baby, a big, striped, hairy, fat baby. Pushed around in a pram, wearing a bonnet. I don‘t mind. I‘m a bunny, a big, striped, hairy, fat bunny. With two sets of ears and a long tail. I don‘t mind. I‘m a cat, a big, striped, hairy, fat cat. Who never gets to be a cat. She wants me to be a bunny or a baby. I wonder what I‘ll be today. -- Erin Collins
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European Rush Goodbye to the mountainous valleys, vanishing into the clouded horizon. Farewell to the airy blue skies, disagreeable and unpredictable as they are. They succumb to a warm rain, strangely symbolic to an overhead cry in seeing me off. The Glockenspiel belts out its last whimsical song and the twirling statues make their final performance. The winds have settled now, with a falling of thick droplets. A divine peace has overcome me. Auf wiederzehn mein land. I shall not soon forget the aroma of your flowery yellow fields, your furtive pastures and the clement breeze that sweeps over them. O' how this historic land has awakened my senses and enlivened my very being; in a way the first perfumes of spring brings bounty in one's step. The distance between us will become great but your memory lives on in my forethought, that I may recall your every detail. The vast hillsides and secret gardens are never far from my dreams. I have memorized every twist and turn in the stone walkway to my Hostel. I can relive the fierce winds whipping against my face within the crest of the Bavarian Alps. I can will myself back to this place, reliving the breathtaking expanse at the brink of a mountain and standing against the powerful winds to absorb the descending view. I take in the iridescent swirls of greenish blue water, and inhale the cool air rushing through this rocky landscape. I am in arm's reach of a cloud. My hand extends and glides right through it; a cold flight of air. I'll always remember touching the sky like this. I will not forget you. Aber vergiss mein nicht. I take a mental picture of the flushing waterfalls pouring beneath the Neuschwanstein bridge. How it rushes with such vigor and constancy to join the sparkling river. The foam collecting at descending impact and the misted vapor rising above to dampen my face. I close my eyes and breathe it in. The country has given itself to me. It is mine forever to hold. From its towering archaic empires, to its enchanting fairytale castles, down its babbling brooks that slide past echoing caverns, through its clandestine wooded paths to its candid mountain ranges, down Dachau's darkened hallways and through its haunted cement chambers. Tschuss, to my people.....Goodbye. --Louise Cortazar
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Friends with Benefits I stuck a fallen leaf in the crook of his ear after we made love on my porch in the afternoon. He smiled, touched it, struck a pose, asked, How do I look? We laughed all the way to his truck, arm in arm in the weak sun, and I watched him tuck it in the ashtray with tender hands the way you‘d put a child to bed before he said, I’ll see you soon. I waited for more that didn‘t come in casual words as he drove away. I stood in the drive, pebbles cutting bare feet, until he was out of sight. Autumn died while I waited, and winter winds blew in around us, howling songs over Christmas carols in my kitchen where I told him goodbye. He left with the usual words, a smile pasted in place, got in his truck, and I watched him press a leaf to his lips before he backed out. I turned away from the window, stared for a long time at the door, pictured how he pressed those heavy hands on it--on me--before he walked into the cold. --Patricia Kinney
No
such
thing
as time
only space, ways you fill it again
and
again
--Samantha Lorenzetti
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The Traffic The Kobra Kid sat in the backseat of the freak show owner‘s car, waiting. He remained still in the straitjacket that kept his claws and long, scaly tail tucked in. He hid the discomfort of sitting with his legs folded underneath him with ease. Not even his cool black eyes blinked. In fact, the only sign that he was alive was the pink tongue that occasionally flickered forth from the Hannibal Lector style restraint mask. They had been careful, but not careful enough. The freak show owner and his companion in the passenger seat babbled on about how much money they were going to make on ―the freak in the backseat.‖ A real showstopper, half boy, half cobra snake, complete with scales varying in color from tan to dark brown, retractable hood, tail half as long as his body, and venomous fangs. A real moneymaker, far too valuable to stick in a cage on one of the show‘s sixteen wheelers. That was your first mistake, the Kobra Kid thought. You won’t be alive long enough to get rich off me. They were lucky they had successfully captured him. If it hadn‘t been for the syringes full of enough morphine to take down a family of five, they would have both tasted his fangs. But he was patient. Their time would come. The Kobra Kid had been on the run since he was just a baby. His mother, a lover of snakes, welcomed his… condition and loved him as much as any mother would. Her only mistake was breastfeeding him. Once his fangs had come in, the venom waiting to burst out of them, she was a goner. Her last words to him were, ―I love you, my little neonate.‖ Things were hard for a while, after that. His mother had kept him a secret from her family, and his father… he wasn‘t even sure what that word meant. He‘d had nowhere to go. He wandered around the streets of his neighborhood, lost and innocent. Once people started trying to kill him, he wisened up and hid, stealing for food and other necessities. Fortunately, if he was really hungry, he could live on the diet of a snake, swallowing rodents whole and whatnot. The only rule he had was keep running and keep hidden. Forests were the easiest places for him. There were rocks, trees, and holes for him to hide in, plus ample hunting ground. He liked to stay in them as long as he could. Only when he met an animal he couldn‘t fight did he leave. He had a few barely-there scars from bears, mountain lions, and wolves that become less noticeable as he shed his skin. Humans, however, were no problem in hand-to-hand combat. It was only when they had weapons that they posed an issue. The freak show owner cursed suddenly. The Kobra Kid shifted his eyes to look out the car‘s windows. The other show trucks and caravans were stopped on every side of them. Through the front windshield, he could see other cars, packed together and barely moving, as far as the eye could see. Stuck in traffic. The Kobra Kid‘s lips twitched into a smile beneath his mask. They were in for a long ride. He thought of these two men in front of him, how naive they were. Just because they had managed to hunt him down in what had been his current desert dwelling and capture him, they thought they were his masters. The Kobra Kid‘s eyes narrowed slightly, not enough for a human to notice. He had no master.
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―You‘re pretty quiet back there,‖ the show owner called back to him, looking into the Kobra‘s snake eyes in the rearview mirror. ―What‘s the matter? Cat got your tongue?‖ He and his companion burst into laughter. Soon, you will be the quiet ones. The two men went back to ignoring the snake-boy. He made sure they weren‘t paying the slightest bit of attention before he moved. Very slowly, so slowly as to not even disturb a crease, the Kobra Kid raised his tail inside the straitjacket and felt for the top buckle on the back of it. It slid open with ease. One. His tail moved down, unhooking the next one. The men were entirely unaware. Two. His tongue flicked between his lips. The car inched forward. Three. The men laughed in their disgusting, superior-than-thou way. Never again. Four. The Kobra Kid blinked. The final buckle slid open. Five. He felt the jacket loosen around his shoulders, but he didn‘t dare move. These men weren‘t as dumb as they seemed. They were most likely armed, but their overconfidence in their restraining abilities left them vulnerable. If there was a weapon in the glove compartment, both men would be dead before either had time to reach for it. The Kobra Kid used his tail to unbuckle the two straps behind his head that were holding the mask to his face. He left the third strap in its place on top of his head, giving the illusion that it still held him back. His tongue flicked ahead. The car lurched forward an inch and stopped. ―Man, we‘re going to be stuck in this traffic forever,‖ the companion said and fell silent. The owner huffed and honked his horn. ―Come on already!‖ He beat his hand off the steering wheel. ―Hey, snakey, ya think ya can speed things up a bit?‖ He turned to look at the Kobra Kid with a taunting smile. It was immediately wiped off his face. The snake-boy sat in his loosened straitjacket, black eyes narrowed, mask removed. His slit nostrils flared slightly, and his tail waved back and forth behind him. The freak show owner turned to his companion. The man‘s head bent back against the headrest, eyes staring at nothing. His neck was engorged, result of the snakebite on the other side. The owner‘s head turned shakily back to the Kobra Kid, his eyes wide in terror. ―No, please, don‘t!‖ His hand grabbled for the car door handle. The Kobra Kid‘s tail snapped around his wrist, his scaly body advancing. He pulled his arms out of the straitjacket and slithered the rest of the way out of it. His hood snapped to its full width, and his wide mouth opened, fangs flicking forward and practically dripping venom. ―No, please!‖ The owner moved his free hand to cover his face. The Kobra‘s eyes danced. He hissed and dove for the easy target. Sucker. --Sarah Langan
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--Pat Rokos Henneforth
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To Go Again I want to hear the words that I have been longing for since he passed. I want to take that short drive again seeming long as hours when I was young. I want to see that small area that took over so many summers with its small campfire pit, the hammock in between two trees, a simple camper filled with various fishing items, tackle boxes, pins, and memorabilia along with knick knack lighthouses and picture frames galore. I want to smell the fresh air with its magnificent aroma of catfish and bass, the different species of fish waiting for that floating worm to fall from the sky. I want to look at the view, and see all of the friendly boats relaxing in the dock. I want my gaze to lock on the little, red and white speedboat anxiously waiting for the man with the fisherman's hat to remove its cover and release it from its place. I want to feel the wind in my face as that same man drives the boat deeper into the natural beauty of this place that I have grown to admire. I want to tell that boat why it's being removed from its place in the dock for the last time, and why the camper, full of people it has known so long, is about to be inhabited by a family completely new. I want to tell it that the man with the fisherman's hat will never be back to claim it again and that Vermont is its new home in the yard of the man's son never to see Lake Wallenpaupack again.
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--Heather Clark Comfortable Darkness Tick Tock Accompanied by nothing else But mental images that Come Then go Everything black as it can be For as long as I want Pillow behind my head Blanket from feet to chin Closed eyes bring the darkness Allowing me to drift off --Michael Rossi
The Toilet Whisperer She of porcelain bones and toilet water blood. She who has risen above the tides of overflowing and the waves of backlog. She who is known as The Toilet Whisperer. They came to her, pleading for her assistance. By the time she reached the other side of The Village of Suite Eight, the bathroom was already oozing water. She rolled up her pant legs, marched in through the waves of resistant water, plunged, and the toilet obeyed. It cried, "Forgive me, ma'am, I knew not who you were! Had I known you were the PlungerBorn, I would have obeyed. Have mercy." And, by Odin's plunger, it quickly swallowed its vomitty mess and retreated into the darkness of the pipes. Both women offered themselves to her sexually, but she declined; she's married to her destiny. -- Leigh-Ann Sjogren
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Hair Forever I pulled a hair from my sweater‘s arm I forgot I had pulled from the attic. It was long and blond I had forgot I had and pulled by my sweater out from my head that I stored in my attic before I forgot I had. I pulled a hair before I sat, before dinner, surely I never had. Caught in the seam with the thread It was long, long and black. ‗Made in India‘ I had forgot to get back. -- Samantha Lorenzetti
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