Perpectives - September 2015

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Perspectives Where inanimate objects have their say—September 2015

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Perspectives September 2015 Inside 3 The Founder Has Her Say 4 Meet the Authors

Animals/Insects Bee 12 Solitary Bee | Dennis Tr ujillo Coyote 13 Coyote Owns the World | Tr istan Mar ajh Dog 14 A Rat’s Tail | Ushnav Shr off Dog 15 Down Boy | Car l Palmer

Food Tomatoes 11 Tomatoes | J oan McNer ney Candy 11 Candy Comes Alive | J oan McNer ney

Other Tree 6 Deciduous Strength | J acqueline J ules Woodpile 7 The Woodpile | Ron Riekki Fairy Tale 8 Once Upon a Time | Sophie Paulette J upillat The Earth 9 Nature | Sophie Paulette J upillat Kitchen Drawer 10 Comeuppance | Linda Casper

Perspectives Magazine ISSN: 1920-4205 Frequency: Biannually Publisher | Designer: Monique Ber r y

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Special Notices Perspectives has one time rights. See website for subscription details. No photocopies allowed. © andreiuc88 | DollarPhotoClub

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The Founder Has Her Say I’m thankful to the writers who submitted to Perspectives Magazine! I didn’t believe it would have enough pages — it engages at least half dozen stories or poems. This publication has five new contributors: Dennis Trujillo, Jacqueline Jules, Linda Casper, Ron Riekki, Tristan Marajh, and Ushnav Shroff. I enjoyed your submissions and hope you’ll consider writing for Perspectives again.

The content was supposed to be about inanimate objects. But I decided to allow animals to have their say after watching the new television drama series Zoo. It’s such an interesting twist—this time the animals fight back. I trust you enjoy the stories and poems. Please remember to leave feedback for the writers. And then pass around the publication. After you finish reading the magazine, why not try your hand at it? Until next time, keep the mind wondering and the keys clicking.

Monique Berry

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Meet the Authors

CARL “PAPA” PALMER Carl "Papa" Palmer of Old Mill Road in Ridgeway VA now lives in University Place WA. He has a 2015 contest winning poem riding buses somewhere in Seattle. Carl is a Pushcart Prize and Micro Award nominee. MOTTO: Long Weekends Forever carlpalmer.

LINDA CASPER hails from Yorkshire and, after a long career as a high school teacher, she has recently begun to write and has had many short stories, poems and travel articles published. Linda has a keen interest in gardening and is a judge for Yorkshire in Bloom.

TRISTAN MARAJH resides in Toronto. He can be reached at

DENNIS TRUJILLO from Pueblo, Colorado, is a former US Army soldier and middle/high school math teacher who happens to love poetry. Most recent selections are forthcoming or already published with Atlanta Review, Ascent, Agave,THEMA, 3Elements Review, Your Daily Poem, Kind of a Hurricane Press, Slap the Carp, and Fat Damsel. He runs and does yoga each morning for grounding, focus, and for the sheer joy of it.

RON RIEKKI'S books include U.P.: a novel, The Way North: Collected Upper Peninsula New Works (2014 Michigan Notable Book), and Here: Women Writing on Michigan's Upper Peninsula. His play “Carol” was in The Best Ten-Minute Plays 2012, The First Real Halloween was best sci-fi/ fantasy screenplay for the 2014 International Family Film Festival, and his story "The Family Jewel" was selected forThe Best Small Fictions 2015. Twitter: @RonRiekki.

JACQUELINE JULES is the author of the poetry chapbooks, Field Trip to the Museum, published by Finishing Line Press and Stronger Than Cleopatra, published by ELJ Publications. Her poetry has appeared in over 100 publications including The Potomac Review, Soundings Review, Gargoyle, Main Street Rag, Christian Science Monitor, Innisfree Poetry Journal, Red Booth Review, Gravel Magazine, OffCourse, Third Wednesday, Imitation Fruit, Connecticut River Review, and Pirene's Fountain. She is also the author of 30 books for young readers including Zapato Power and Never Say a Mean Word Again. You can visit her online at

JOAN MCNERNEY’S poetry has been included in numerous literary magazines such as Seven Circle Press, Dinner with the Muse, Blueline, Spectrum, three Bright Spring Press Anthologies and several Kind of A Hurricane Publication. She has been nominated three times for Best of the Net. Four of her books have been published by fine small literary presses.

From an early age SOPHIE PAULETTE JUPILLAT pursued her love for writing and music: she wrote her first poem when she was eight, and has been writing poems, novellas, novels and plays ever since. She started composing at the age of 13 and now has 30+ orchestral works of all genres under her belt. She studied writing and music at Rollins College. Sophie’s poems have been featured in Scriblerus (Greenville's Literary College Journal) and The Halcyon Magazine. Her prose poetry epic was one of the works presented in Festival Writer. She can be found on Linked In, Facebook, Google+ and Soundcloud.

USHNAV SHROFF’S work has featured in a number of publications and international anthologies including Phenomenal Literature, The Hindu, Reading Hour and The Free Press Journal. He began writing from the age of nine. Apart from short stories, he delves in poems and book reviews. He is currently working on a novella and occasionally writes at https:// Contact info: https:// or

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Deciduous Strength By Jacqueline Jules Never having seen buds unfurl in the spring, I was so anxious as a sapling, that first fall, losing all my golden leaves. More accustomed now to naked winters, memories of prior frosts withstood bolster my bare limbs, shivering in gale force winds. April has arrived bearing flowers before. I will await her return with faith.

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The Woodpile By Ron Riekki For a woodpile, like a mother, the return of a son means the return of everything.


’m almost dead. Except summer is also dying. So I’m coming alive. The first day of fall is when the trees fall. At least here. It is where everything turns autumn and life becomes plummeting. Leaves plummet. Rain plummets. Tree trunks plummet. Night plummets. Night after night after night until snow plummets and then the world is happy when I am full, when my stomach is nestled with wood. Ladislas is back. Their son. My son. He’s back from tackling the Navy. Back from enlisting in football. Back with his back looking thick as elm. He picks up the axe at my side and, even at 5’7”, he looks like a buzz-cut Paul Bunyan. I can hear him. I hear ecstasy. I hear the beautiful falling of axe. There is a reason a woodcutter saves Little Red Riding Hood. There is a reason Jesus was a carpenter. There is a reason why wood and good are only a letter apart. There is holiness in the forest. The Druids knew this. I listen. There is an art to warmth, its letters even hidden within the word. He returns with dozens of babies for me, countless children, a family of logs that mean happiness for this family, for me, for the winter, for God, the ramifications of heat reverberating to happiness to all within its reach.

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I can hear him. I hear ecstasy. I hear the beautiful falling of axe. There is a reason a woodcutter saves Little Red Riding Hood. There is a reason Jesus was a carpenter. There is a reason why wood and good are only a letter apart.

Once Upon a Time By Sophie Paulette Jupillat Once upon a time, you read me as if I were your soul, my child. You grabbed me with your grubby fingers, same as your grandfather and grandmother before you. Your hands cradled my leather-bound body, my pages sighing in relief as dust blew off of me. My fragrance of tempting secrets, stories long forgotten, musky beige pages Made you close your eyes and smell me as a flower, Rather a dried flower--- a carnation of the spirit. You read out loud from my very entrails, even as I perceived yours, seeping from your smiles, Your excited hands, your squinted eyes, your questions, Your insatiable thirst for imagination. You leapt into me and ricocheted back into your brain, your hands tracing drafts of stories you wanted to write and could never tell to your family. Once upon a time, you spoke to me as a friend, and you told me when Johnny beat you up, You whispered to me how you loved that girl, who broke your heart three years later in middle school, You giggled to me how silly your latest story was, and how you longed to publish it when you were an adult. I stared back gently, my words a lullaby to you, my cursive sprawl a tapestry of comforts for you to remember, to remember forever. I opened up at the pages you liked best, Pages crinkled by your fingers, pages marred by your thumb prints, Rapunzel, Puss and Boots, they were our merry companions. Once upon a Time you spoke to me. Then Times ago, you put me in the attic, I cannot breathe. I have not breathed well since you stopped asking questions, since you stopped seeing the world through me. You are unhappy, and I, I wait for you, for becoming your daughter’s Once upon a Time.

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Nature By Sophie Paulette Jupillat The humans, they don’t know how to be. They cannot understand me because I am, and cannot die. So they destroy me, by trying to live better. They pollute my waters, destroy my forests, eradicate my animal kingdom, And I can do nothing. They think I retaliate against them through my hurricanes, my tsunamis, My volcanoes and earthquakes, thunderstorms and tornados. But, my foolish humans, I create as much as I destroy, and it is the way things are. I am balance, my seasons are a balance of life and death, While these humans destroy and cannot stop. I will keep watching them, my deluded well-meaning bipeds, They will be a part of my ecosystem and create and destroy themselves out or not. I will be here, to see the verdict of their choice. I cannot die, I am eternal in the legacy the human race makes of me.

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Comeuppance By Linda Casper


he treats me no better than a waste basket. No, that’s not true; she lines them with a scented, polythene bag. I, on the other hand, have been neglected. I feel dusty, sticky and downright uncomfortable. There’s a piece of Lego sticking into me although her youngest child is eighteen. The incessant sound of ticking and a random beep keeps me awake at night. Hasn’t she seen those decluttering programmes they have on the telly? I’m not one to complain, you understand, but my neighbour told me he’s been divided into compartment with each type of utensil allotted a place of their own. The utensils on his left side may be rather higgledy-piggledy, but his contents are regularly used, cleaned and carefully returned to their rightful places. Here we go again. Hey, no need for that! I try my best to stay tight shut but she yanks me roughly. More coins that can’t be used in this country and don’t buy much in their own, small batteries which will never power anything again and letters, receipts and out of date coupons. However, this time she gets her comeuppance. Her rough treatment of me causes some of her pending post to slip out of my grasp into the cupboard below which houses the pots and pans. The only way she’ll see that letter from the tax office again is if she fancies a poached egg.

I’m not one to

complain, you

understand, but my

neighbour told me he’s been divided into

compartment with

each type of utensil

allotted a place of their own.

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Candy Comes Alive

Tomatoes By Joan McNerney

By Joan McNerney

I am sitting in the corner of Best Foods in a gleaming row among my fellow tomatoes.

After bathing in bubble gum, Mary Jane unties ribbon candy from bags of chocolate kisses.

We were never exposed to toxic sprays or cheap fertilizers. We grew up in fine “organic” communities.

The sky is colored with yellow, pink & blue cotton candy clouds. Marshmallow chicks hide behind spearmint leaves.

High above the common rabble produce, many of us will go on to Harvard or Yale.

Jelly beans sprout along fields of candy corn.

I am a red-blooded American tomato with no “identity crisis” about whether I am a fruit or vegetable.

Caramel apples, lemon drops, orange slices are stacked for sale at Lolly Pop’s juicy fruit shop.

So what if my price tag is high! I am jammed packed full of antioxidants… no lingering on the vine for me.

On big rock candy mountain, Mary Jane wanders with sugar high stars. A sign warns her that sour gummy worms wiggle underfoot on the trail.

Gourmets can check out my label and find me vitamin rich, au natural without preservatives.

Thirsty now, she sips some root beer barrels at Snickers Bar.

Feast your eyes upon me. Take note of my rosy glowing skin sans poisonous additives.

Black licorice fills this night with confectionary glow from one big banana moon pie.

Go ahead, get fresh, pick me up and devour a few juicy nibbles. Don’t you adore me now?

Mary Jane covers up in her old sticky wrapper and drops off to sweet dreams.

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Solitary Bee By Dennis Trujillo My home is a hollow reed— no noisy hive and social life like my colonized cousins. I don’t make honey, but I pollinate with passion— especially shy wildflowers on banks of snowmelt streams. In my secret world the mantis is a god, spittlebugs a source of laughter, and powdery moths beings of nightmares.

I don’t make honey but I pollinate with passion— especially shy wildflowers on banks of snowmelt streams.

I’m not prone to tantrums like my over-worked relatives though once I scolded a daddy longlegs. If human, I’d be the person who paddles a kayak on a pristine lake at dawn. To me all blossoms are holy— thistles surprise me as much as stars.

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Coyote Owns the World By Tristan Marajh


ll I do is walk around by myself, nose down and minding my own business. I avoid facing off with you. You might think this is a gesture of deference, but here’s a secret: it’s repulsion. Yes: disgust. Yet I’m the nuisance, you believe. I’m the sly devil, trickster, the Wiley E., lock-up-your-daughters Coyote. Me. Not Raccoon, with the robber’s mask and crazy grin on his face; spilling your organic bins and spreading the mess for you to behold in the morning. Not Moose, standing in your way on the roads, big dopey grin on his face, threatening both your lives should your car collide with his backside. The few coyholes down south that attacked you gave us all a bad name. I’ve never attacked a human. But you attacked me. I’m the trickster, you say, yet you tricked me. You snared me, beat and branded me, shoved me in a cage to tear off my hair. For winter fashion. But I escaped. You have not, nor do you seem to want to. You are threading dark and murky waters, humans; a selfish ecosystem. This is your world. Money taints the air around you like a sick fog; stifling your spirits, making you spineless. And yet, you say, you need it to survive. Survive?! Most of you don’t know what true survival is. Among you I have seen every demented offspring of fear. I saw how those portions of Earth you call nations are formed and how you let

it dictate your emotions and desires. I saw how some of you will die or kill for it, thinking it’s the best damn place in the world. I trot across those borders yet you have to stand in long lines of mistrust; remove your shoes and belts then stand in another line to show fellow humans little dark-blue pocketbooks that say nothing about your personality. And your faiths. They are responses, rebuttals, retorts to the one preceding it. What playthings you all are, for the confused deity you created. But no; I’m the one who can’t be trusted. Not Squirrel, who scratches your ceilings and leaves half-eaten apples on your windowsills. Not Skunk either, who has no qualms about dousing you with the fragrance of sweat-sock extract. Your fellow fellows have it right. Those who were pushed out and corralled. One Life; one and the Same with the Earth. But still, you separate yourself. You believe that you are top of the food chain, oh omnivorous apex predators, yet those beneath you get the last laugh – or burp. Those you don’t see. You – and the animals you consume – your eyes will all bulge out in terror like a fish’s, as you suffocate without the quiet exhalations of trees and grass. Worms will burrow through your rotting corpse. And more trees and weeds will rise and flourish upon you, triumphant. And still you say: you are on top of the food chain! Ha ha! Fool chain, maybe!

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A Rat’s Tail By Ushnav Shroff


go by the name of Rocky these days though I was born a Scamper. Back then my fur was fresh, teeth sharp and ears for other dogs to be jealous of. The humans who I stayed with were as much a delight for me as I was for them. I licked them to my filling, ran around with them in the day and lazed near their bed stand with one eye open at night. They were my friends. But, it was their son who was my best friend. I never complained in front of him because it felt like a duty to look over him. He was my pup. But, they left me after they found out that I had a cat for dinner. It was unfortunate that it had to be the family cat, but hunger is blind. Maa got very angry that night. I yelped in surprise when her hand rose to beat me. Scampering away from her, I had to jump the stairs, two at a time, until I had the comfort of kneeling under master’s table. Later, I heard them fighting, the might of their words increasing as each night passed. There was some talk of a new woman too. Pappa and Maa. They were like papaya and custard apple. When the papaya gave me the blue pills, custard apple sneaked in and took them away from me like a sponge. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out the custard apple wanted me to hear Papaya swaying in the wind. Wanted me to listen to the seeds of hatred growing in the family garden. The one that Maa planted. She was a blooming eucalyptus tree and I was the sapling of lemon hiding under her bosomed but dissented branches. I knew they didn’t want to leave me on the streets, but it looked like they had no other option. I’d like to think I left on my own, but the truth was they just closed the door on me when I

went to lighten myself that evening. That was harsh, especially for a dog. The next week was even harsher. Everything was new. But, for me to meet little master and play with him again, I had to survive. Like a peasant controlling a flock of sheep, I used to mislead my victims into thinking that I was their only hope. An enthusiastic light in this bleak world. I allowed them to get close to me, try to get them to know me better. Then, I often killed them. Never did I play with my food. That was a strict no with me. You will still find their skeletonshalf-rotten and half-buried- if you search and dig properly. Rats, cats and the occasional fox. I never met the little master again, which was utterly sad. He was the essence of innocence and one of the very few who actually got delighted just staring at me. The others just did because they had to or because they thought they’d have a good chance on the mistress by getting familiar with me. I shall never forget him because I shall never see him. Traffic weaved the city into something more magnificent, as red lights went green and an orchestra of cars left a lane, hurrying into another. She saw the dog lying on the road, squalid like the footpath besides him. It was an everyday sight, but the dogperhaps for lack of warmth- kept trying to pull his tail towards himself. Averting his eyes from the lady with a pink bag, he lifted his eyes and squinted at her. Pulling out his pink tongue, the mongrel tasted the air. As flies hovered over him, Laxmi noticed that the tail was nothing but the sad remains of something magnificent. It looked like a rat’s tail now; very thin and tiny.

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Down Boy By Carl Palmer On this hot northwest day my man takes me for a walk to a secluded section of the park, a clearing overlooking the pond surrounded by bushes and reeds just off the well-used path. He glances down when I whine at the arriving long legs of a sleek blond haired trophy breed. Her leash held in the hand of a magazine model also with long legs under her white Marilyn Monroe dress, paired apparitions ignoring us two stunned males. Staring, our imaginations running wild, as the show dog takes interest, allows me a good look and a sniff while her mistress smiles approval, nuzzles in against my best friend, grants him the same thrill for less than a heartbeat, then leave us there breathless sharing the same thought, What a pair of bitches.

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Calling for Submissions Trainless Magazine is an online literary magazine focusing on travel and the unique ways of learning about different cultures. We publish 12 issues a year, with fiction and nonfiction pieces from both emerging and well read writers. Please submit work between 500 and 2,000 words through our submission manager at: article/submit.html. Kristyn Bacon, founder and editor

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Perspectives SEPTEMBER 2015

Come back. You never know whose shoes you’ll walk in next!

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