Storyman 6

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ISSN: 2009-2369

SUMMER 2015

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Also by The Linnet's Wings: The Song of Hiawatha by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow: ISBN-13: 978-1480176423 One Day Tells its Tale to Another by Nonnie Augustine: ISBN-13: 978-1480186354 Randolph Caldecott's The House that Jack Built: ISBN-13: 978-1483977669 About the Weather. Spring Trending by Marie Lynam Fitzpatrick:ISBN-13: 978-0993049330 This Crazy Urge to Live by Bobby Steve Baker: ISBN-13: 978-0993049-0-9

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Published by The Linnet's Wings, 2015 All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the publisher.

Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior consent in any form or binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

Visit www.thelinnetswings.org to read more about our publication.

ISBN-13: 978-1515164586 ISBN-10: 1515164586

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Dedication For Gary Ross Cunningham (A writing buddy, and friend) RIP: Jan 2015

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TABLE OF CON TEN TS Summer 2015

INTRODUCTION Dedication iv Prologue: Summer Couplets by Ginger Hamilton, Oonah V Joslin, Marie Lynam Fitzpatrick ix Editor's Note xiii Epigraph: Stones at my feet by Bill West xvi

El Hijo 29 Cara Copiada 30 Ruego a Prometeo 31 Alfonsina y El Mar 32 CLASSIC THE LEGEND OF THE HORSESHOE by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe 69

WRITING SHORT FICTION Static bu Alison Moore 3 Jonathan Taylor in Conversation 9 A Questionaire Challenge by Bruce Harris 13

FLASH FICTION Zelda and the Kettle by Samatha Memi 39 Almost There b y Russ Bickerstaff 41 Me and Ernesto by Ken Rodgers 43 This Cockeyed World by Ross Cunningham 52 Sailing the Prairie by Bill West 56

SPANISH SECTION Spanish New World Poetry by Stephen Zelnick 17 Alfonsina Storni -- Critique and Translations Bien Pudiera Ser 18 Voy a dormir 20 Pasión 21 S Á B A D O 22 ESTA TARDE 23 Duerme Tranquillo 24 DOLOR 26 Fiesta 27 CANCIÓN DE LA MUJER ASTUTA 28

CNF The Unwilling Father by Kathy Buckert 37 MICRO His Candle Bright, My Fickle Flesh by Christopher Allen 46 The Ones by Tommy Dean 48 The Hideaway Bed by Shreyasi Majumdar 50 Sailing the Prairie by Bill West 55

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Managing Editor Marie Fitzpatrick Senior Editor Bill West Editors for Review English Bill West Yvette Flis Marie Fitzpatrick Writing Short Fiction Bruce Harris Poetry Oonah Joslin

POETRY Editorial, The Cat and the Moon by Oonah Joslin 58 The extraordinary, as usual by Tbomas Norman 1 A Hustler Takes A Night Off by Akeith Walters 61 Broke--20 by Joan Colby 62 Death Takes A Lover by Akeith Walters 63 Manna by David Jordan 65 Purple Kisses by Priya Prithviraj 66 Summer Meditation by Kathleen Cassen Mickelson 67 Raymarie by David Jordan 68 The Ring by Jo-Ann Newton 78 Sex on the Western Front by Ronald E. Shields 79

Spanish Marie Fitzpatrick Music Peter Gilkes Contributing Editor Martin Heavisides Consulting on Photography Maia Cavelli Consulting on Copy Digby Beaumont Web and Database Management Peter Gilkes

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The Book of Lascaux by James Graham 80 The Random Art of Beautiful Days by Ronald E. Shields 81 Making Bread by Breda Spaight 82 Pinocchio And The Talking Cricket by Thomas Norman 83 Bertha by Bob Beagrie 84 Fraud by William A. Greenfield 85 In San Angel by Mandy Macdonald 86 What Rose Wanted by Charles Bane, Jr. 87 Just by Jane Burn 88 Dunoon Ferry by Des Dillon 90 Where Have All the Flowers Gone? by Amy N Smith 90 Cassandra's Eyes by Lesley Galeote 94 SHORT STORIES Where Have All the Flowers Gone? by Amy N Smith 91 Cassandra's Eyes by Lesley Galeote 97 You'd Think We'd Know Better by David Robert Brooks 103 PHOTOGRAPHY C. Mannheim Beautiful Bay 70 My Girl Ginger 71 Little Jeau 74 Fall Pastures C. Mannheim 75 Ibidemimages@yahoo.com ART Art: White and Celestial by Nicholas Roerich 1 Man and Naked Woman by Ernst Ludwig Kirchner 6 A Young Woman Reading by Rembrandt, 1634 11 Cosmic Composition by Paul Klee 15 Figure of S.F.Petrova-Vodkin, the artist's father, on his knees from the back by Kuzma Petrov-Vodkin 37 Caliban by Franz Mark 45 Orphan Man with Long Overcoat, Glass and Handkerchief by Vincent Van Gogh 47 Self-portrait. Between the clock and the bed by Edward Munch 49 Schooner in Full Sail near a Lighthouse by Alfred Wallis 55 Cat Playing with a Toy Butterfly by Toyota Hokkei 57 Portrait ofW. B. Yeats by John Singer Sargent,1908 59 viii

A woman ghost appeared from a well by Katsushika Hokusai 61 Graveyard Motif by Mikalojus Ciurlionis 63 Lovers (The kiss) by Ernst Ludwig Kirchner 66 Morning Glory by Shibata Zeshin 65 Animal Destinies (The Trees show their Rings, the Animals their Veins) by Franz Marc 77 The Contented Mascot by Louis Wain 81 Illustration to 'Wooden Eagle' by Heorhiy Narbut 83 Maple Saplings by Tom Thomson 85 Flowers Against a Palm Leaf Pattern by William Glacken 86 How Sir Tristram Drank of the Love Drink by Aubrey Beardsley 89 Children of the artist by Boris Kustodiev 91 The Singing Lesson by Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec 97

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Summer Couplets by

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Angels tune harps to small bird's tweets While crows fix beady eyes on tasty treats MLF

Summer's musical number Knit through man made wonder MLF

Summer displays directions On footpaths of reflections MLF

Summer whispers during Mercury retrograde Communication errors will definitely be made GH

Happy is summertime all year round The present is where happy is found MLF

Summer's love is clear and bright It's communication at its might MLF

Summer creates scenes of fun and laughter Joy and love and happy ever after MLF

Summer sun beats down relentlessly He bakes the land and boils the sea GH

Summer scolds the pavement with its heat Folks show tanned skin from head to bare feet GH

When rag and bone men made their play Lads and lassies, well, they made hay MLF

The roar of May Bank Holiday Motorbike psychology OVJ

A churning sea now settles down For sun and fun as life rebounds MLF

The worker's role we celebrate Oh what fun it generates MLF

Summer clears away the cobwebs of my mind And exposes dark corners - what will I find?

GH

Summer came early and brought her toys to play Sunlight and heat, she builds throughout the day GH

Well done to Spring she cleared webs out, Now Summer calls: A bottle of stout MLF

Borodin conducted Liszt Later, Mercury composed work they missed MLF

I found in summer my life's refrain This kiss of joy brought many gains MLF xi

Exotic jasmine dances in on summer breezes She caresses my face - my soul she teases GH Sun scents sound, in air, so still And seeds beauty for one's mind refill MLF A tease, a dance, a summer breeze Enough to create hearts of ease MLF Those damned birds singing at the screigh of dawn Yawn yawn yawn yawn jaw breaking YAWN! OVJ That early ease bird song awakes Oh man oh man I LOVE summer daybreaks MLF What light thru yonder winder shines It is the sun? Yawn yawn!

OVJ Let me up and out there's road for action This day ahead brings perfecto faction MLF Summer days a freckled haze Hide from those ultra-violet rays OVJ Just great sun screen down in the shop It's sixty, seventy degree sunblock MLF

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Pond with Ducks (Girl Amusing Herself) by Paul Gauguin

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Editor's Note There's a clock that hangs on the wall of the café where I have morning coffee, its face is depicted in higher case Roman numerals, thick lines denote numbers that are encassed in a black circle, in the center of the art deco piece there are a number of smaller clocks of different sizes, each with different markings on their face, each painted in different colours. Time is created by a artist's vision to allow one to step into a perception of the is and was.

'I say seven and think it means something. The figure slides across the page or the blackboard or the sweet sky of the sawdust floor and though it tells me something like the cost of the joyride, or what filly to back, or how long more the journey, the immedate journey that is, it does not tell me what I need to know. Not that I know what I need to know. Not that I do, I am a woman, at least I am led to believe so. I bleed et cetera.

And those noises, and those emanations, and those come-hithers, and those coo-coos, issue from me faithfully like buntings. Not to mention the more bucolic sounds, the ones in sly reserve, the choice slushing of the womb which have ogled many another by means of gurgle, nuance, melody, ditty and crass babbling suppplication, A dab hand at it I was. As aforesaid I have met bards and knackers. Along the way-side. They told me many a tale, spun me many a yarn, swindled me as often as not. I bathed their feet, had ointments, mused, groped in the dark, looked up to the constellations, identified the Plough and the Milky Way, said most lachrymose things.

There are so many waysides that one mistakes them sometimes for the real route.'

So wrote Edna O' Brien in 'Dark,' a novella that was first published by Weidenfield and Nicholson in 1972 in the UK. An Irish woman writing of her time , stroking the page with immagination and musicality.

I picked it up in a market here in Andalucia, its cream pages now have a light tobacco colour. It has a huge voice, one that I recognise from growing up in her Ireland of the 60s. And it's a voice that I still hear today on the social networks as women dip back to feel their way through the day.

This book is still worth reading for the loveliness of the language and the snapshot of the times it inhabits.

I picked it off the bookshelf here just after fixing Stephen Zelnick's 'Storni translations on the page, and as I flicked through it I was caught in the similarity of the imagery, one prose, the other poetry, both women writing on similar topics. Both fashioning their patriarchal societies, to explain, to layer, to cut in and to cut away, and to show the rest of us how they saw it.

Zelnick's Storni's translations are beautiful, they define the heart and tone of a personality, and it's so lovely to meet her here on our pages and read his critique, and hear her wonderful voice. xiv

Time by Georges Valmier And writers write of that now which slips from under one as its stepped on, and from story one might know a contrast, understand a difference, find a feeling and even sometimes make a decision on needs and wants to maybe leave behind what's no longer required for how else will we really know what is wanted if we don't have a comparsion to note, to share, and what better way to discover than by reading a good story or poem.

We have a full issue of short stories, flash and micro fiction, cnf, interview, poetry, photography and art; we have work shared with us from the Writing Short Fiction web site as we continue to work with Bruce Harris to promote voice, underscore quality work and build readership. And as we link through the work at LW Bruce will compliment our contributors in a similar fashions with links from his site.

Thanks to everyone involved in bringing the issue home, for stopping to chat and share pleasentries along the way, for popping into us on FB for a minute or two, for emailing copy and correcting my mistakes, and for your patience, too, it's no small task and we appreciate your time, and its value.

My best, Marie xv

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Epigraph (For Ross)

Stones at my feet

by Bill West I tugged hope tight about me and went through streets marbled by moon stepped between puddles of memory searched for the lost and misplaced cast out into abandoned gloom.

I found a dead cat, a matchbox, a letter the annotated works of women, written on tombs a comb, my uncle's sideboard and his wig rakish atop a spittoon.

How I ached for all I had forgotten a kiss a touch a blow and how I grieved for lost hours lost moments tomorrows never known A wind drove me out from the city into gentle hills and fields to a wood where a stream lapped lightly and the stones at my feet and the stones at my feet were smooth.

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The extraordinary, as usual Obliterated celestial magnificence.

Earth turns, as usual Thomas Norman Art: White and Celestial by Nicholas Roerich

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Alison Moore was born in Manchester in 1971. Her short fiction has been published in Best British Short Stories anthologies and broadcast on BBC Radio 4 Extra. It is collected in The Pre-War House and Other Stories, whose title story won a New Writer novella prize in 2009. Her first novel, The Lighthouse, was shortlisted for the Man Booker Prize 2012 and the National Book Awards 2012 (New Writer of the Year), winning the McKitterick Prize 2013. Her second novel, He Wants, was published in August 2014 and described by Rachel Cusk in The Guardian as ‘brave and rigorous’

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STATIC by Alison Moore "After they were married, it drove Dorothy mad to find their things in bits all the time - the component parts of the record player all over the carpet, her music box disassembled on the sofa, the mess of stuff all over the kitchen table. She worried about small, crucial pieces getting lost - slipping down behind the sofa cushions, rolling under the fridge, dropping between the floorboards. She told him off for tinkering with things that weren't broken, things that weren't his, for having such busy little fingers."

ilfred takes the dirty teacup from the bedside table. Dorothy’s eyes are closed, but she is still awake, just resting. The gilt-edged, rose-print Duchess has seen better days. The inside is stained with tannin and the gilding is worn.

In the kitchen, he puts the used teacup in the empty stainless steel sink and stands for a few minutes looking out of the window into the back garden. They have lived in this house their whole married life.

From time to time, Dorothy has suggested moving - sometimes to another town or to the countryside, sometimes to the sea or even abroad. They could even travel, she said, now that their children were grown up and no longer at home. But he would rather stay where they are. He grew up in this town; he has never lived anywhere else in his life.

The things on the windowsill are Dorothy's. There is a small frame containing an old photograph of a woman. She is so familiar. She has been on the kitchen windowsill for forty years and he has no doubt looked at her every day, and yet he has no idea, he thinks now, who she is. She looks a lot like his Dorothy - perhaps he knew once that it was a favourite aunt or a grandmother, but if he ever knew he doesn't know now.

Next to the photograph is an empty vase, and a stone the size of his fist. He picks it up, weighs it on The Linnet's Wings

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his palm. It has a hole worn through the middle; it is like a cored apple. He wonders how it got there, the hole. Through it he can see his own hand, the naked pinkness, his life line and his love line.

Dorothy listens to a programme called Love Line on a local radio station. Listeners call in with their own stories about how they met someone or lost someone, with proposals and confessions, and then they request a dedication, a love song. Sentimental popcorn, says Wilfred. He is not one of the world's great romantics, says Dorothy. She used to tease him about calling in with a request for her, but she hasn't mentioned it in a while.

The radio isn't working properly. When he turns it on there is interference, white noise. He picks it up, takes it over to the table and sits down. For a minute, he just holds it, this beautiful, broken old thing, and then he takes a coin out of his pocket, fits it in the slot on top of the plastic case, and twists.

The case pops apart.

It is a lovely little transistor radio, a Constant, turquoise and gold. It is the radio Dorothy brought into the antiques shop where he used to work, asking if they did repairs. He wasn't supposed to, said Wilfred, not unless she was selling. He looked at the Vulcan 6T-200 she was holding, her slender thumb with its polished nail toying with the dial. It was foreign; he hadn't seen one before. He didn't know how it worked, what he would find if he prised open the case. But yes, said Wilfred, he could do it.

After they were married, it drove Dorothy mad to find their things in bits all the time - the component parts of the record player all over the carpet, her music box disassembled on the sofa, the mess of stuff all over the kitchen table. She worried about small, crucial pieces getting lost - slipping down behind the sofa cushions, rolling under the fridge, dropping between the floorboards. She told him off for tinkering with things that weren't broken, things that weren't his, for having such busy little fingers.

Dorothy, confined to bed now by her illness, frets about the downstairs rooms she can't see. She imagines Wilfred pottering about dismantling their things; she imagines the dishes and the washing and the dirt piling up. She has to rely on him to keep it all in good order. She says to him, "All as it should be?"

"All as it should be," he says, holding out his dishpan hands as proof.

To look at her, he thinks, you wouldn't suspect a thing. You wouldn't know that beneath her clear skin a tumour is eating her alive; you wouldn't know that her calm, grey eyes are going blind. She is losing her memory; she has lost the feeling in her toes. "When I'm better," she said, "we'll go walking again, and I need new walking boots."

"Yes, love," he said, taking her dirty cup from the bedside table.

Wilfred sits quietly gutting the radio on the kitchen table, on the plastic tablecloth. The tablecloth depicts the changing seasons. Tiny screws lie at the base of the autumn tree like strange windfall. His right arm rests on winter, the thinning elbow of his cardigan pressing against the bare tree, against the snow, against the cold plastic.

When Dorothy got ill, he didn't change the channel; he listened to her programme while he washed up, and caught himself singing 'Just One Smile' while he dried the dishes. But mostly he moves about in silence, in socks on the carpet, while Dorothy sleeps upstairs. He feels like a stealthy burglar, quietly rooting through drawers, looking for everyday things which Dorothy has always been in charge of, looking for paper on which to write a letter to his brother-in-law, looking for her recipes so that he can make Dorothy her favourite dessert. He has never written to his brother-in-law or made a dessert in his life; these things are in Dorothy's domain. He feels like a trespasser in Dorothy's house, going through The Linnet's Wings

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Man and Naked Woman by Ernst Ludwig Kirchner

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a stranger's things.

He found her scrapbook of favourite recipes in the big bottom drawer in the kitchen, with annotations in pencil - nice cold the next day, tinned is fine, good with almonds. Her favourite dessert is tiramisu; it is the first thing she ever made for him. The pencilled note says, Wilfred didn't like it.

She is very tidy, Dorothy, but she is a hoarder. In the same drawer, he found a serviette from a cafe, a handful of seashells, old theatre and concert programmes, a small fluffy toy he once won at a fairground - a cheap thing which she has kept all this time. He found birthday cards - To Dorothy, they said each year, with love from Wilfred - and the cursory postcards he sent her when he was away from the family on business trips, and half a dozen letters, aged and faded, the postmarks almost as old as their youngest daughter. He took them out and read them and it was like falling through a hole. My darling, they said to Dorothy, who was still so young. He leaned his weight on the kitchen counter, the pages quivering from the slight tremble in his fingers. I love you, they said, and Yours always. He is not, Dorothy has said, an emotional man, but, reading these old letters he found that his cheeks had become wet. He dried them on his shirt sleeve and then pulled the arm of his cardigan down over the damp cuff. He put the letters back in their envelopes and returned them to the drawer. He put everything back the way it had been, keeping it all in good order.

He bends over the radio's innards like a surgeon exp#Uloring a patient on the operating table, searching for the fault - looking for something loose, looking for degradation - wanting to fix it; trying, with his set of tiny screwdrivers and his Brasso, to turn back time, to make this old thing like new, as it used to be, as it is supposed to be.

There has never been another woman in his life. He has never wanted anyone but Dorothy. They honeymooned in Morecambe. They walked on the beach, Dorothy pausing every few steps to pick up some pretty thing which caught her eye, filling her pockets with empty shells. Wilfred, dawdling beside her, wanted nothing more, wanted nothing to change.

They spent their summer holidays in Morecambe too - every year except one, when Dorothy suggested trying somewhere new. They tried Scarborough, but Wilfred didn't enjoy it. "It's not Morecambe," he said.

The last of the winter light dribbles in through the two small kitchen windows. The outside world, with all its people, all its noise, all its growth and change, seems miles away. The world is these two windows, these two patches of blank, grey sky. It is not even four o'clock but it is getting dark. He switches on the too-bright striplight which Dorothy would be glad to see the back of, along with the rest of the tired old kitchen. Some of the cupboard doors are loose, and the big bottom drawer sticks, and the sink leaks, and the linoleum floor is worse for wear. "When I'm better," Dorothy said, "we should get a new kitchen - new units, and a sink with a mixer tap, and nice stone tiles on the floor." A stone floor would be cold in the winter, he said, and mixer taps were unhygienic. He liked it, he said, the way it was, but he would tighten the hinges on the cupboard doors and reseal the sink.

It has been this way for forty years, and it has been just fine, he thinks, so why go making trouble now, why go making all that mess? Has she even looked in that drawer, he wonders - the drawer in which she keeps the recipes she now makes from memory, and the forty-year-old keepsakes, and the faded love letters - in all that time?

And it is just as long since he last took the back off the radio. It has lasted remarkably well. It is simple to fix, as it happens: one deft turn and it is mended; a good clean and polish with a soft cloth and it is restored to its former glory. He puts the two halves of the case together again, snaps them shut, and tests it. It is as good as new. It looks the way it looked when Dorothy returned to the shop at the The Linnet's Wings

SUMMER 2OI5 end of the week, stepping through the doorway and walking towards the counter, her heels loud on the bare floorboards. It looks the way it looked as she turned it over in her hands, admiring his work, as she turned the dial through the stations, found Gene Pitney and lingered there, asking what time he finished work.

He puts on the kettle and rinses out the Duchess teacup.

They went to a cafe and had a pot of tea. He had a scone and Dorothy had a tiramisu. Sinking the prongs of her fork into her dessert, she said, "Italian cakes..." and as her lips closed over the first bite, her face said exquisite. Between mouthfuls, licking her lips, she said, "I'd love to go to Italy."

He puts the radio under his arm and goes upstairs, climbing slowly to keep the tea steady in its cup, his socks deathly quiet on the stair carpet. He opens the bedroom door and puts the tea down on Dorothy's bedside table.

"When you write to my brother," she says, "tell him we'll come and visit in the summer."

"I was thinking," he says, "about making your tiramisu."

Dorothy smiles. "It's a nice thought, Wilfred," she says, "but I'm not sure I have the appetite for it, and you'd just make a mess. And anyway, I don't think I have the recipe anymore."

He watches her, trying to see in her unfocused eyes, in her unchanged expression, whether she has forgotten all these things she has kept in the big bottom drawer which sticks, but he can't tell.

"All as it should be?" she asks him.

He reaches out with a dishpan hand and cups the side of her head, her skull and her warmth in the palm of his hand, his thumb stroking her temple. He takes the radio from under his arm, turns it on and tunes it to Dorothy's favourite station. She smiles. "All as it should be," he says.

"When I'm better," says Dorothy, "we should go on a proper holiday. I've always wanted to see Italy."

Wilfred sits down on the edge of the bed, picks up the teacup and puts it in Dorothy's waiting hands. "Yes," he says, but the romance countries don't appeal to him.

"This is the wonderful Gene Pitney," says the DJ, "with a song from 1967, for a very special lady."

Dorothy turns her head towards the radio. The DJ says, "Fiona, this is for you." She looks away, her failing eyesight sliding over Wilfred's face. She smiles again, and lifts the teacup towards her mouth.

"You're not one of the world's great romantics," she says, finding the rim, touching her lips to what is left of the gilt.

He has never wanted anyone but Dorothy. But he has never asked for her favourite song to be played on the radio. He has never taken her to Italy. He is not the sort of man who brings home flowers. And he has never written a love letter in his life. © Alison Moore ~~~

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Jonathan Taylor is a novelist, memoirist, short-story writer, critic, editor and lecturer. His books include the novels “Entertaining Strangers” (Salt, 2012), and “Melissa” (forthcoming, late 2015), the memoir “Take Me Home: Parkinson’s, My Father, Myself” (Granta Books, 2007), and the short-story collection “Kontakte and Other Stories” (Roman Books, 2013 and 2014). He is editor of the award-winning anthology “Overheard: Stories to Read Aloud” (Salt, 2012). He is Lecturer in Creative Writing at the University of Leicester, and co-director of arts organisation and small publisher, Crystal Clear Creators. His website is www.jonathanptaylor.co.uk.

What initially attracted you to writing short fiction?

I've always loved short stories. After all, a lot of well-known children's books are collections of stories, or novellas. For me, there'll always be something childlike, in the best sense, about the form - something childish about their intensity.

Short stories are instants in time, flights of fancy, moments of delight, horror, tragedy, comedy. They condense into a short space the kind of intense emotions which are associated with childhood. They are an attempt, if you like, to recapture that intensity in written form. Freud himself talks about Creative Writers as people who have retained certain aspects of childhood psychology (and, indeed, The Linnet's Wings

psychopathology) - and I think that's often true.

What would you identify as the main problems associated with writing short fiction?

I'd say it's all about compression - compression of style, and compression of content. We're so saturated in our mainstream culture with so-called Hollywood 'epics,' soap operas, and, indeed, novels, that concision and precision are rare and undervalued things. It's hard for a new writer to think beyond (or outside) these elongated forms, and distill in a few well- chosen words, a simple unadorned style, a couple of pages a miniature world. As many have said the West often overvalues 'size' (in its mainstream art, as in its sexual characteristics), at the expense of seeing what John Clare called 'the sublime of the small' of the world.

That's what short fiction can help recapture.

What would you identify as the main rewards associated with writing short fiction?

The problems and rewards are, of course, related: if done well, conveying the significance of an individual's life and world through the prism of one key moment is rewarding both for a writer and a reader. It's a form which can demonstrate the world-shattering importance of individual moments in people's lives.

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Prizes and competitions

should always be of secondary concern (at the most) to the writing itself, and the dissemination of that writing to an audience (whether through publication, the internet, or live storytelling). Writers, I feel, should not 'aim' their work at them.

Do you regard writing for competitions as stimulating and productive, or largely an unfortunate necessity?

Neither: I don't think competitions should be a primary focus for a writer. At their worst, competitions and literary prizes distort the writing world, creating false hierarchies and artificially privileging certain types of writing over others.

Prizes and competitions should always be of secondary concern (at the most) to the writing itself, and the dissemination of that writing to an audience (whether through publication, the internet, or live storytelling). Writers, I feel, should not 'aim' their work at them.

Do your target readers have a particular age or gender identity? And would you say what you write is 'genre fiction' or fiction aimed at a general audience?

I suppose my writing is for adults, primarily. I write what has become known as 'literary fiction,' which I think is a terrible title, imposed (partly) to ghettoise the genre. I suppose this means that the emphasis of my short fiction is as much on the musicality of the writing as the content. But, to be honest, I never set out to write 'literary fiction' (and, in a way, the term hardly existed twenty years ago). I set out to write what I think of as good writing - and that means that the style,

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A Young Woman Reading by Rembrandt, 1634

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Interestingly enough, it's not just so-called literary fiction writers who feel like this - good writers in all genres feel that way too. Stephen King, for example, says something similar in his book On Writing. As regards gender identity, the answer is a simple No!

Have you yourself completed creative writing courses or had creative writing tuition, and if so, did you find them/it genuinely helpful? If not, what were the problems?

In the dim and distant past, I did a couple of Creative Writing courses, and found them very helpful. In one, I was taught by the wonderful poet and writer David Morley (I think it was about 1997), who has been responsible for a whole generation of writers since. He helped me understand the importance of style. Since 2001, I myself have taught Creative Writing, and currently am a lecturer of the subject at the University of Leicester. I think it's a very valuable subject - and not just for people wanting to go on to be so-called professional writers. Learning how to write well is a skill that's useful everywhere.

Do you regard writing short fiction as subsidiary to the main thrust of your novel/script writing, or as an end in itself?

I think it should always be an end in itself. I have seen weak short fiction written (for example) by poets as a sideline, who think of short fiction as a kind of offshoot of poetry. It's not. It's absolutely its own form - and a very different one to poetry or novel writing.

It demands a very different kind of concentration, a very different use of language and structure. That's not

to say you can't cross between forms - after all, there have been some wonderful short story writers who are also poets or novelists. But first and foremost, it has to be treated as a separate discipline. In some ways, I think it has more in common with music, and scriptwriting (for radio or screen) than novel-writing, because of the importance of structure and voice.

Do you see short fiction and flash fiction as separate disciplines, or simply a matter of applying some different techniques?

Having said what I said above, I do think flash fiction and short fiction should be seen as overlapping forms.

There have always been short-short stories, and I see very little difference between short-short stories and so-called 'flash fiction.' In fact, I prefer the term 'shortshort stories.' There are some wonderful contemporary writers who specialise in short-shorts, including Tania Hershman and Dave Eggers.

What would be your advice to anyone who wishes to start writing short fiction?

Well, my primary piece of advice would be fairly obvious - read as much as possible. Read Hemingway, Carver, Mansfield, Rushdie, McEwan, Poe, Hawthorne, Joyce, and so on and so forth. Also: read your stories out loud both to yourself and others. Think of short stories as having their roots in oral storytelling, and therefore the musicality and 'vocality' of short fiction is of vital importance. Find out how your stories sound to others. Enjoy hearing them, and enjoy performing them.

~~~

The Linnet's Wings

WSF @TLW

SUMMER 2OI5

A QUESTIONNAIRE CHALLENGE

by BRUCE HARRIS Bruce Harris is the editor and compiler of the Writing Short Fiction site. For detailed bio, see last issue of Linnet's Wings.

This article is for people who are making plans for writing projects, and who have decided that they are going to stop making unfulfilled promises to themselves for some unspecified time in the future and actually give writing fiction a go. Savvy enough to already know that getting a first novel into print without a publication record is well nigh impossible, they decide that short fiction is the necessary first step.

But taking the decision is just the start of it. What happens next? Well, before making commitments regarding expensive and time-consuming creative writing courses, perhaps a little preliminary research might be a good idea. Perhaps a relevant questionnaire or two might help aspiring writers to establish where they stand.

Let's take a few questions from one such testing proposition, a questionnaire with the fairly directly to the point title 'How likely are you to publish short fiction?'

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SUMMER 2OI5 Question 1.

Do you read short stories: (a) at least every two or three days; (b) at least once a week; (c) only on holiday; (d) rarely, if ever Question 2.

How many of the short fiction writers you've read are still alive? (a) None; (b) two to ten; (c) more than ten; (d) I don't know Question 3.

How many of the magazines or newspapers which you currently read regularly publish short stories? (a) none of them; (b) one to five; (c) more than five; (d) more than ten.

Question 4.

How many subscriptions do you have at the moment to short fiction magazines, or poetry and short fiction magazines? (a) none; (b) one to five; (c) six to ten; (d) more than ten.

Question 1 (a) 5 (b) 3 (c) 1 (d) 0 Question 2 (a) 0 (b) 5 (c) 3 (d) 1 Question 3 (a) 0 (b) 1 (c) 3 (d) 5 Question 4 (a) 0 (b) 1 (c) 3 (d) 5 How did you do? Will some background reading be necessary, or are you already up to date with the short fiction genre?

Later, the questionnaire looks at some practical points concerning submitting to magazines and e-zines.

How about this department?

Question 9.

If a magazine asks you to present your work 'using a recognised 12 pt font', do you (a) know exactly what they mean; (b) not quite understand what they mean, but decide to find out from someone who does; (c) guess what they mean, and do that; (d) ignore that bit of the instructions; (e) decide not to send them anything?

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WSF @TLW

SUMMER 2OI5

Question 10.

Before you send a story to a magazine, do you read the submission guidelines: (a) very thoroughly; (b) briefly, but all of them; (c) what seem like the most relevant parts; (d) beginning and ending sentences; (e) no?

Question 11.

Do you send only send stories to magazines who (a) accept them through the post; (b) accept them by e-mail; (c) promise a decision within a certain period of time; (d) promise a critique, even if you have to pay for it; (e) ask for a stamped addressed envelope for the return of work?

Question 9 (a) 5 (b) 3 (c) 1 (d) 0 (e) 0 Question 10 (a) 5 (b) 3 (c) 2 (d) 1 (e) 0 Question 11 (a) 3 (b) 5 (c) 1 (d) 1 (e) 0 So how was that? Better?

Perhaps looking at your background knowledge of contemporary fiction might provide further insights.

Question 1.

Who wrote the short story "Brokeback Mountain", on which the film was based?

(A) David Leavitt; (B) Annie Proulx; (C) Alan Bennett; (D) Edmund White Question 2.

Which writer's novel "The White Queen" was recently serialised on television?

(A) Hilary Mantel; (B) Maeve Binchy; (C) Philippa Gregory; (D) Alison Weir Question 3.

Which Canadian short story writer recently won the Nobel Prize for Literature?

(A) Alice Walker; (B) John Updike; (C) Alice Munro; (D) Stephen King Question 4.

Which writer has won two Booker prizes with the first two volumes of a projected trilogy?

(A) Julian Barnes; (B) Martin Amis; (C) Ian McEwan; (D) Hilary Mantel The Linnet's Wings

SUMMER 2OI5

Cosmic Composition by Paul Klee

Question 5.

Which writer's short stories include "The Lady in the Van" and "Father! Father! Burning Bright"?

(A) Alan Bennett; (B) Roald Dahl; (C) Patrick Gale; (D) Jilly Cooper 1 - (B) 2 - (C) 3 - (C) 4 - (D) 5 - (A) How are you doing so far? Both of these questionnaires, the first with twenty questions and the second with twenty five, are available on the Questionnaires section of the WSF site - see links to left and right of the home page. No logging on or purchasing memberships or reading terms and conditions will be required.

Whatever the results may be, there is at least the potential for highlighting the areas for attention.

There are three other questionnaires on site covering other equally relevant areas, and other sections offering analysis, help and advice in all aspects of the short fiction genre. http://writingsho rtfiction.org ~~~

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SUMMER 2OI5

SPANISH NEW WORLD POETRY by Stephen Zelnick

[Argentina is known for tango. As depicted here, tango is the macho force and feminine submission Alfonsina Storni attacked in her poetry.]

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SUMMER 2OI5

n a recent interview (“Democracy Now”, March 3, 2015), Noam Chomsky, portrayed a world of trouble but when asked whether he saw promise in recent global developments, Chomsky brightened.

“Yes,” he said, “the emergence of democratic movements in Latin America.” Latin America has seen the worst of times. Argentina (land of silver) fell from economic prominence at the opening of the 20th C. into a nightmare of vicious fascist control, corruption, and impoverishment. There is not much Latin America needs to learn about imperialism’s destructiveness or the need to take a new path. In the same way, women in Latin America have been emerging from centuries of Hispanic machismo.

Alfonsina Storni put it this way:

Bien Pudiera Ser

It Well Could Be

Pudiera ser que todo lo que en verso he sentido No fuera más que aquello que nunca pudo ser, No fuera más que algo vedado y reprimido De familia en familia, de mujer en muj

It could be that all I have felt in writing verse was no more than what could never be, just something forbidden and repressed among families, particularly among women.

Dicen que en los solares de mi gente, Medido estaba todo aquello que se debía hacer…

Dicen que silenciosas las mujeres han sido De mi casa materna… Ah, bien pudiera ser…

They say that in the households of my people, moderation ought to govern all …

They say the women have been silent In my maternal home… Ah, it well could be …

A veces en mi madre apuntaron antojos De liberarse, pero se le subió a los ojos Una honda amargura, y en la sombra lloró.

At times one noticed a craving in my mother to free herself, but a deep bitterness rose in her eyes, and she wept in secret.

Y todo eso mordiente, vencido, mutilad Todo eso que se hallaba en su alma encerrado, Pienso que sin quererlo lo he libertado yo.

And all that gnawing, defeat, and mutilation, all that lived in her locked-up soul, I think, without intending it, I have set it free.

Irremediablemente (1919) [All translations by Stephen Zelnick]

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[Alfonsina Storni was born in 1892 in a village in the Swiss Alps but was raised in Rosario, Argentina. She published seven books of poetry and died of breast cancer in 1938 in Buenos Aires. This is her iconic photo, later reproduced on a postage stamp issued in her honor.]

Either you have never heard of Alfonsina Storni (1892-1938) of Argentina, or you know of her through Mercedes Sosa’s ballad “Alfonsina y el Mar”. The song derives its pathos from the myth of Storni’s death -the artist, too brittle to survive the humiliations of a cruel world, walks deliberately into the sea. Alfonsina sent off her final poem “Voy a Dormir” (“I am Going to Sleep”), the source of the ballad, shortly before her suicide; some like to say her body was never recovered (not correct) leading to the trope of her eternal quest in underwater caverns brightened by her brilliance.

It’s a haunting tale. While Storni was upset by the suicide of her friend, the Uruguayan playwright Horacio Quiroga, the direct cause was the pain she suffered from breast cancer. Storni had presented herself as an The Linnet's Wings

SUMMER 2OI5 ethereal spirit too fine for earthly love, “a fragile glass while love is immortal”. In “La Invitacion Amable” (1916), she gently begs her reader “to come to the woods with a book, /one smooth and full of beauty? /…We could read a pleasant passage”. But her last poem, “Voy a Dormir”, shows the urban toughness of her later work: Voy a dormir

I am going to sleep

Dientes de flores, cofia de roció, Manos de hierbas, tú nodriza fina, Tenme prestas las sabanas terrosas Y el edredón de musgos escardados.

Teeth of flowers, cap of dawn, hands of grass; dear nurse, bring me quick the earthy sheets and eiderdown of weeded moss.

Voy a dormir, nodriza mía, acuéstame.

Ponme una lámpara a la cabecera; Una constelación, la que te guste; Todas son buenas: bájala un poquito.

I’m off to sleep, dear nurse, put me to bed.

Set a lamp at my headboard; or a constellation, whatever you want; It’s all good; just quiet it a little.

Déjame sola: oyes romper los brotes…

Te acuna un pie celeste desde arriba Y un pájaro te traza unos compases

Leave me alone: let me hear the buds burst … a celestial foot from above gently rocks you and a bird gently takes your measurements

Para que olvides… Gracias. Ah, un encargo: Si él llama nuevamente por teléfono Le dices que no insista, que he salido…

That’s how you forget … Thanks. Oh, and do this: If he phones again tell him not to bother, say I’ve gone out…

Mascarilla y Trébol (1938)

Storni’s lines are brusque,controlled, skirting the damp terrain of sentiment, and stunning us into reallife awareness. Celestial care is a poetic trick of the mind, a way of covering the hurt (“That’s how you forget”). The voice is modern. That lover who insist he cares isn’t worth the bother.

In her later poems, Storni sometimes invited the notion that someday that one special man, as in Gershwin, might come along. For the most part, however, men are just not worth the trouble and, when you get right down to it, “they’re scarcely human”. The hope persists, along with the knowledge that an encounter with perfection would destroy her:

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SUMMER 2OI5 Pasión

Passion

Unos besan las sienes, otros besan las manos, Otros besan los ojos, otros besan la boca.

Pero de aquél a éste la diferencia es poca.

No son dioses, ¿Qué quieres?, son apenas humanos.

Some kiss the temples, others the hands, Still others kiss the eyes, and some the mouth.

But of all these the difference is small.

They’re not gods, What do you expect? … they’re scarcely human.

Pero, encontrar un día el esp íritu sumo, La condición divina en el pecho de un fuerte El hombre en cuya llama quisieras deshacerte ¡como al golpe de viento las columnas de humo!

But to meet one day a great spirit, with divine heart and strength, the man in whose blaze you would break apart as columns of smoke disperse in a wind gust!

La mano que al posarse, grave, sobre tu espalda, Haga noble tu pecho, generosa tu falda, Y más hondos los surcos creadores de tus sesos.

The hand that settles, heavy, on your back, would excite your breast, open your skirt, and delve the creative creases of your brain.

¡Y la mirada grande, que mientras te ilumine Te encienda al rojoblanco, y te arda, y te calcine Hasta el seco ramaje de los pálidos huesos!

Such a grand show, that even now lights you up, ignites your blushes, burns you, and consumes you to a dry cluster of pale bones.

Mundo de Siete Pozos (1934) This muscular sonnet is Storni at the top of her game. The rhymes and rhythm are perfect, the images memorable (columns of smoke dispersed by wind), the play of sound richly musical, and the flow of thought sure-handed, moving from casual talk to a fiery exaltation. The bold physicality of the poem dispels any lingering hints of sentimentality.

Still, several of Storni’s early sentimental pieces are worth the journey. “Sábado” (1918) demonstrates Storni’s talents at picturesque scene and indirect narrative. The poem evokes a world of romance, in wealth and ease, quietly passing away. Here we see Storni’s theatrical skills, the crisp dramatic turn and shift of voice, along with lush evocative images:

[This youthful portrait captures some of Storni’s verve and good humor. In her teen years, she hoped for a life in theater. While that hope went unfulfilled, her poetry often shows a knack for the dramatic turn and crisp vivid dialogue.]

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SUMMER 2OI5 SÁBADO

Saturday

Me levanté temprano y anduve descalza Por los corredores: bajé a los jardines Y besé las plantas Absorbí los vahos limpios de la tierra, Tirada en la grama; Me bañé en la fuente que verdes achiras Circundan. Más tarde, mojados de agua Peiné mis cabellos. Perfumé las manos Con zumo oloroso de diamelas. Garzas Quisquillosas, finas, De mi falda hurtaron doradas migajas.

Luego puse traje de clarín más leve Que la misma gasa.

De un salto ligero llevé hasta el vestíbulo Mi sillón de paja.

I rose early and walked barefoot through the corridors; down to the gardens and kissed the plants took in the clean earth smells breathed out by the grass; bathed in the fountain, green cannas all around. Later, combed my damp hair and perfumed my hands with juice of honeysuckle. Herons elegant and fine, pecked golden crumbs from my skirt.

Then I donned clothes of clarion, more light than gauze itself.

With light step I came to the vestibule, and to my straw armchair.

Fijos en la verja mis ojos quedaron, Fijos en la verja.

El reloj me dijo: diez de la mañana Adentro un sonido de loza y cristales: Comedor en sombra; manos que aprestaban Manteles.

Afuera, sol como no he visto Sobre el mármol blanco de la escalinata.

Fijos en la verja siguieron mis ojos, Fijos. Te esperaba.

My eyes stayed fixed on the gate, fixed on the gate.

The clock struck 10 in the morning.

Inside, the sound of crockery and crystal: The dining-room in shadow; hands that pressed smooth the tablecloths.

In the hall, sun like I have never seen over the white marble stair-case.

My eyes still fixed on the gate, fixed there, waiting for you.

El Dulce Daño (1918)

Storni’s first critical recognition came with Languidez (1920). The book sold out rapidly and required immediately a second edition. Fame opened doors to travel, and to a circle of talented friends. “Esta Tarde” is another sensuous piece in Storni’s earlier, less hard-bitten manner:

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SUMMER 2OI5 ESTA TARDE

This Afternoon

Ahora quiero amar algo lejano...

Algún hombre divin Que sea como un ave por lo dulce, Que haya habido mujeres infinitas Y sepa de otras tierras, y florezca La palabra en sus labios, perfumada: Suerte de selva virgen bajo el viento...

Now I want to love something far off …

Some man divine who would be like a bird for his sweetness, who had known uncounted women and knew other lands, and whose words flowed from his lips like perfume: Luck from the virgin forest on the wind …

Y quiero amarlo ahora. Está la tarde Blanda y tranquila como espeso musgo, Tiembla mi boca y mis dedos finos, Se deshacen mis trenzas poco a poco.

I want to love him now. This very afternoon Soft and peaceful, as thick moss, shivering my mouth and delicate fingers, my braids loosening, little by little.

Siento un vago rumor... Toda la tierra Está cantando dulcemente... Lejos Los bosques se han cargado de corolas, Desbordan los arroyos de sus cauces Y las aguas se filtran en la tierra Así como mis ojos en los ojos Que estoy sonañdo embelesada...

I sense a vague rumor … all the earth is singing sweetly … far off woods, have been laden with blossoms, the streams overflow their banks and waters infiltrate the land like my eyes entranced in the eyes of him I dream of …

Pero Ya está bajando el sol de los montes, Las aves se acurrucan en sus nidos, La tarde ha de morir y él está lejos...

Lejos como este sol que para nunca Se marcha y me abandona, con las manos Hundidas en las trenzas, con la boca Húmeda y temblorosa, con el alma Sutilizada, ardida en la esperanza De este amor infinito que me vuelve Dulce y hermosa...

But Now the sun sets on the mountains, Birds settle in their nests, The afternoon has died and he’s far off …

Far as the sun that never halts but marches on and abandons me, with hands buried in my tresses, with my mouth damp and trembling, with my soul expectant, burning in hope of infinite love that turns me sweet and lovely …

Languidez (1920)

“Esta Tarde” is languid to perfection -- the easy play between over-ripe romantic images and the soft, orgasmic amble to fulfillment. His love-making “shivering my mouth and delicate fingers” and loosening her “tightbound braids, little by little… as streams flood an infiltrated landscape.” As the day descends, she finds herself “with hands /buried in my tresses, with my mouth /damp and trembling ” and all that turning her “sweet The Linnet's Wings

SUMMER 2OI5 and lovely.” This is a luxurious bit of sensuality in language left to wander in a loose figuring of “languidez.”

In a few short years, Storni will stop writing this way and adopt terse, hard-eyed realism.

In 1912, at twenty, Alfonsina arrived in Buenos Aires, and a year later gave birth to a son fathered by a man who abandoned her. She had been through the dissolution of her family and death of her father; poverty; humiliating jobs teaching special-education children; and the challenge, without resources or support, of raising a son in an unfamiliar city. This trying time was also her most creative, culminating in the publication of Ocre (1925), generally considered her most complete collection and the one in which she achieved her distinctive voice.

Storni is known by some for her lacerating poems aimed at macho hypocrisy. “Tu me quieres blanca” (You want me pure) was published in 1918, and while [During Storni’s lifetime, Argentina enjoyed a formidable economy, in 1910, the seventh wealthiest in the world. forceful, the poem shows her poetic immaturity. “Hombre Buenos Aires benefitted from being a major port and Pequenito” (1919) is a brusque insult aimed at an Argentina’s political, commercial, and cultural center. A unwanted lover but lacks context. Its central image – a third of its urban population was European.] caged bird that wants to fly -- is juvenile.

By "Duerme Tranquillo”, (Sleep Peacefully), Storni’s art has developed: Dijiste la palabra que enamora A mis oídos. Ya olvidaste. Bueno.

Duerme tranquilo. Debe estar sereno Y hermoso el rostro tuyo a toda hora.

You said the word that brings love To my ears. You forgot? Good.

Sleep peacefully. Your face should Be serene and lovely all day.

Cuando encanta la boca seductora Debe ser fresca, su decir ameno; Para tu oficio de amador no es bueno El rostro ardido del que mucho llora.

When your seductive mouth enchants it should be fresh, its speech pleasant; For your job as lover, it’s not good To have a face flushed by weeping.

Te reclaman destinos más gloriosos Que el de llevar, entre los negros pozos De las ojeras, la mirada en duelo.

They claim for you a glorious destiny, what with the black pools of your eyes and your look of grieving.

¡Cubre de bellas víctimas el suelo!

Más daño al mundo hizo la espada fatua De algún bárbaro rey y tiene estatua.

Bury your lovely victims in the earth!

The world is more damaged by a dull sword than by a cruel king honored in stone.

Ocre, (1925) The Linnet's Wings

SUMMER 2OI5 The sonnet has perfect rhymes, relaxed but persuasive rhythms, and one artful shift of focus. The speaker’s sarcasm has bite – “You forgot? Good. /Sleep peacefully”. A pocket drama, the injured woman observes her triumphant seducer. With scorn, she inventories his perfection for his “oficio de amador”: his artful deceit, the innocence of his beauty, the black pools of his eyes, and his doleful appearance.

The seducer, for all his skill, however, deserves no honors; his is an “espada fatua” (dull sword), an assault on his manliness, that injures legions of hopeful girls who, unlike this speaker, haven’t yet discovered his duplicity.

Storni’s bitterness was well earned. If her poetry provides a reliable index, Alfonsina was a rebellious woman, quick to love, and willing to pay the costs. This battle between desire and self-command motivates some of Storni’s best poems:

[Juana de Ibarbourou (1892 – 1979): was a celebrated Uruguayan poet and Alfonsina’s good friend. More at home in the Latin world than Storni, she wore her elegance and beauty well. She could easily serve as the model for ‘Dolor’.]

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SUMMER 2OI5 DOLOR Quisiera esta tarde divina de octubre Pasear por la orilla lejana del mar; Oue la arena de oro, y las aguas verdes, Y los cielos puros me vieran pasar.

Pain I would want this divine October afternoon to stroll along the far shores of the sea; On golden sands, aside green waters And the pure heavens seeing me pass.

Ser alta, soberbia, perfecta, quisiera, Como una romana, para concordar

To be tall, superb, perfect, desired, like a noble Roman woman, in accord

Con las grandes olas, y las rocas muertas Y las anchas playas que ciñen el mar.

with the great waves, and the grim rocks And the wide beaches that hug the sea.

Con el paso lento, y los ojos fríos Y la boca muda, dejarme llevar;

With slow step, and cold eyes and silent mouth, let me pass;

Ver cómo se rompen las olas azules granitos y no parpadear Ver cómo las aves rapaces se comen Los peces pequeños y no despertar;

To see without blinking the blue waves break against the granite stone To see without concern rapacious birds devour little fishes;

Pensar que pudieran las frágiles barcas Hundirse en las aguas y no suspirar;

To picture without sighs fragile boats sink below the waves;

Ver que se adelanta, la garganta al aire, El hombre más bello; no desear amar...

To see a most lovely man approach, with noble aspect; without wishing to love him …

Perder la mirada, distraídamente, Perderla, y que nunca la vuelva a encontrar;

To lose that glance, carelessly, Drop it, and never turn again to find it; and

Y, figura erguida, entre cielo y playa, Sentirme el olvido perenne del mar.

Figure erect, between heaven and beach, feel the everlasting oblivion of the sea.

Ocre (1925)

This aristocratic Roman woman, “tall, superb, perfect, desired”, whose step is measured and glance unperturbed is not what the speaker is but what she would wish to be. She would wish to pass by that “hombre mas bello” with “la garganta al aire” without responding to that flutter of excitement and never turn to recollect the possibilities. The poem’s calm procedure and expression match the wish. The constant qualifying phrases mimic cool reason; the long lines unfold slowly; there is no dramatic break of discovery or surprise.

The poem, under Storni’s expert control, unfolds unperturbed, while beneath, we are aware, coils a tangle of feelings.

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SUMMER 2OI5 “Fiesta” puts this drama in a Lain American setting. Latin culture is rich with color, music and dance, the delicate rituals of courtship that tempt the heart with elaborate romance. As in “Dolor”, however, she turns for relief to what is immense and unknowable, cold and forbidding. For the intelligent woman, there is irony without joy or hope:

[Storni lived in Buenos Aires during the height of tango and its sensual allure. Carlos Gardél (18901935), the great Argentine composer and performer, earned world-wide fame in those years.

Storni delighted in singing popular tango songs till dawn in local bars..]

Fiesta

Fiesta

Junto a la playa, núbiles criaturas, Dulces y bellas, danzan, las cinturas Abandonadas en el brazo amigo.

Y las estrellas sirven de testigo.

Together on the beach, nubile creatures, sweet and pretty, dance, their waists abandoned to a friendly embrace.

And the stars look on as witness.

Visten de azul, de blanco, lata, verde…

Y la mano pequeña, que se pierde Entre la grande, espera. Y la fingida, Vaga frase amorosa, ya es creída.

The dancers appear in blue, white, silver, green… and the small hand, that strays among the great, waits in hope. And the false, vague phrase of love, now is believed.

Hay quien dice feliz: -La vida es bella.

Hay quien tiende su mano hacia una estrella Y la espera con dulce arrobamiento.

Some speak happily: -- Life is beautiful. and one holds her hand up to a star And wishes on it in sweet ecstasy.

Yo me vuelvo de espaldas. Desde un quiosco Contemplo el mar lejano, negro y fosco, Irónica la boca. Ruge el viento.

I turn my back. From this kiosk of delights and contemplate the distant sea, black and wild, With ironic mouth. The wind roars.

Ocre (1925)

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SUMMER 2OI5 [Though on a smaller scale than the American cities of the United States, in South America, Buenos Aires in 1930 boasted splendid buildings, elegant cafes, and broad boulevards.]

Writing about a poet whose entire project is to understand women's experience tests a male critic. Tiresias, it was said, was privileged to understand both worlds. Men ride the tiger of sexual urgency, a fateful curse, often mistaken for a model of progress and rationality. For men, it’s a note struck several times a day. Women live in longer cycles, monthly cycle and life-long. At play is the allure of nature pitted against one’s personal desires. Storni at times sees these balancing acts as treacherous, endless long division with no decisive remainder: CANCIÓN DE LA MUJER ASTUTA

Song of the Astute Woman

Cada rítmica luna que pasa soy llamada, por los números graves de Dios, a dar mi vida en otra vida: mezcla de tinta azul teñida; la misma extraña mezcla con que ha sido amasada.

With each phase of the moon I am called

by God’s mighty host, to give my life unto another: to mix in a blue tint; the same odd mix with which it had been formed.

Y a través de mi carne, miserable y cansada, filtra un cálido viento de tierra prometida, y bebe, dulce aroma, mi nariz dilatada a la selva exultante y a la rama nutrida.

And through my flesh, miserable and tired, flows a warm wind of earthly promise, as it drinks , sweet aroma, my nose dilated at the exultant forest and wide-spread branch.

Un engañoso canto de sirena me cantas, ¡naturaleza astuta ! Me atraes y me encantas para cargarme luego de alguna humana fruta.

You sing a devious siren’s song, Wise nature! You attract and enchant me By loading me each time with human fruit.

Engaño por engaño: mi belleza se esquiva al llamado solemne; de esta fiebre viva, algún amor estéril y de paso, disfruta.

Still, by trickery, my beauty avoids the solemn call; escapes life’s fever, and in passing, enjoys a bit of sterile love.

Mundo de Siete Pozos (1934) The Linnet's Wings

SUMMER 2OI5 Storni’s “And through my flesh, miserable and tired /flows a warm wind of earthly promise, as it drinks sweet aroma … at the exultant forest…” discloses a feminine secret. Her speaker salutes nature and her “devious siren’s song” each month loading her with “human fruit.” In avoiding nature’s “solemn call”, however, the astute modern woman is free to enjoy only “a bit of sterile love.” She has made a bargain with life. She gains a parade of lovers, but the love is unfruitful. This fearful resistance avoids the risks of deception and abandonment, but at a price, Storni was a mother, and happily so. Her late sonnet, “El Hijo” (The Child) describes the confusion of pregnancy, combining sweet languor with expectation, mixed with the horror of nature’s intrusion and finally something like an alien possession. There is not much rational here in the play of sweetness and fear, bit I suspect it rings true to expectant mothers in a culture increasingly encouraged to resist what nature commands: El Hijo

The Child

Se inicia y abre en ti, pero estás ciega Para ampararlo y si camina ignoras Por flores de mujer o espada de hombre, Ni qué alma prende en él, ni cómo mira.

It begins and opens in you, but you are blind to help it; so you walk on unknowing whether it’s to be Flowers for a woman or a sword of a man, Nor what soul attaches in it, nor how it looks.

Lo acunas balanceando, rama de aire, Y se deshace en pétalos tu boca porque tu carne ya no es carne, es tibio Plumón de llanto que sonríe y alza.

You rock the cradle balancing on a branch of air, and your mouth comes apart in petals because your flesh now is not flesh, it is a lukewarm featherbed of weeping, full of smiles and rebellion.

Sombra en tu vientre apenas te estremece Y sientes ya que morirás un día Por aquél sin piedad que te deforma.

The shadow in your belly scarcely shakes you; Yet you feel now you could die this very day because that one deforms you without pity.

Una frase brutal te corta el paso Y aun rezas y no sabes si el que empuja Te arrolla sierpe o ángel se despliega.

One brutal phrase cuts you in passing and you pray, not knowing if the child that pushes is a serpent coiling in you or an angel spreading wings.

Mascarilla y Trébol (1938)

The memorable closing image fixes a thought in precise terms, giving us a way to figure experience. It’s what first-rate poets do.

The child is born, innocent, pure, and perfect – a mother’s romance. However, that little boy with smile so sweet, harbors a man, whose emergence is unpleasant. As usual the romantic idyll gives way to complex design. It’s an old thought, one that Wordsworth puzzled over, but Storni provides a mother’s view of this unpleasant transformation. The poem records a loss, but its feel is shock in catching a glimpse of human The Linnet's Wings

SUMMER 2OI5 frailty, totally expected and oddly disturbing:

[In several photos, Alfonsina is blonde and obviously European.]

Cara Copiada

Copied Face

Es la cara de un niño transparente, azulosa, Como si entre los músculos y piel de la cara Una napa de leche lentamente rodara.

En ella solamente la boca es una rosa.

A child’s transparent face, sky-blue, Like what lies between muscles and skin of the face The skim of milk, slowly forming. where only the mouth is a rose.

Y detrás de ese cutis de lavada azucena Otra cara se esconde, fuertemente esculpida; Es aquella del hombre que le ha dado la vida Y se mueve en sus rasgos y los gestos le ordena:

And behind this complexion of washed lily Another face hides, strongly sculpted.

The face of the man who has given him life and stirs in his features and shapes his gestures:

Mira con inocencia y es dura su mirada.

Su sonrisa es tranquila y en el fondo es taimada: Hay huellas en la fresca ternura de su pulpa.

Look without knowing and it’s hard to see.

His smile is tranquil but deep-down crafty; There are hard ridges in his fresh core of tenderness.

Ya en la boca se pinta la blandura redonda Que dan los besos largos y en su nariz la honda.

Codicia de la especie. ¡Y carece de culpa!

About the mouth one now sees the blandness only long kisses give; and his nose assertive.

The lust of the species, as yet without blame.

Ocre (1925) The Linnet's Wings

SUMMER 2OI5 In early poems Storni invited her reader to sweet communion through poetry. Her journey, however, took the hard road of an embattled life and self-assertion. In the following gesture of defiance, she allies herself with Prometheus, the liberator, against Olympian tyranny. A woman alone, in frail flesh and unsettled circumstances, succeeds by pluck and imagination. She gives birth to herself, no longer Alfonsina, daughter of Alphonse, but as the memorable Alfonsina, lending courage to Latin America and beyond.

In “Ruego Prometeo” we leave the quiet shade and peaceful book for a much tougher version of this poet’s creed: Ruego a Prometeo

Request to Prometheus

Agrándame tu roca, Prometeo; Entrégala al dentado de la muela Que tritura los astros de la noche Y hazme rodar en ella, encadenada.

Make room for me upon your rock, Prometheus; Bring the jagged millstone that grinds the night’s stars And let me wheel about, enchained.

Vuelve a encender las furias vengadoras De Zeus y dame látigo de rayos Contra la boca rota, más guardando Su ramo verdad entre los dientes.

Let me set the vengeful furies of Zeus aflame; and give me a whip of thunderbolts to strike against his ragged mouth, still guarding his branch of truth between his teeth.

Cubre el rostro de Zeus con las gorgonas; A sus perros azuza y los hocicos Eriza en sus sombríos hipogeos:

Cover the face of Zeus with Gorgons; and loose his dogs and let their muzzles rip into his gloomy entrails.

He aquí a mi cuerpo como un joven potro piafante y con la espuma reventada Salpicando las barbas del Olimpo.

Here I am in body like a young colt pawing the ground, spraying foam, and ready to be-spatter the beards of Olympus.

Mascarilla y Trébol (1938)

Here Storni deploys sound to enforce her meaning. Along with the aggressive imperatives, the words themselves grind, like the celestial millstone. Roll “a sus perros azuza y los hocicos /eriza en sus sombrios hipogeos” in your mouth to see what I mean.

This Alfonsina is no longer the demure virgin retreating to amiable communion. The old world holds worn truths in its ragged mouth. Herald of a new world, she “paws the ground, spraying foam,” urgent and powerful, with fierce energy, to tear it all apart.

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«Alfonsina y el mar» es una zamba compuesta por el pianista argentino Ariel Ramírez y el escritor Félix Luna, publicada por primera vez en el disco de Mercedes Sosa Mujeres argentinas, de 1969. Image Credit: Falsia de Mar of the Union Hispano Americano Alfonsina y El Mar Por la blanda arena Que lame el mar Su pequeña huella No vuelve más Un sendero solo De pena y silencio llegó Hasta el agua profunda Un sendero solo De penas mudas llegó Hasta la espuma.

Along the white sand that the sea laps, one finds your small footprint that never turns back to the lonely path of pain and silence.

Up to the deep water the lonely path of pain turns to sea-foam.

Sabe Dios qué angustia Te acompa

God knows what anguish accompanies you, The Linnet's Wings

SUMMER 2OI5 Que dolores viejos Call tu voz Para recostarte Arrullada en el canto De las caracolas marinas La canción que canta En el fondo oscuro del mar La caracola.

what old sorrows quieted your voice; To fashion you lulled to sleep in song among conch shells, the song that sounds in the dim sea-depths, in your pearly home of shell.

Te vas Alfonsina Con tu soledad Qué poemas nuevos Fuiste a buscar?

Una voz antigua De viento y de sal Te requiebra el alma Y la está llevando Y te vas hacia allá Como en sueños

You come, Alfonsina, with your solitude; what new poems have you found to explore?

An ancient voice of wind and salt flirts with your soul and is bringing it towards the place of dreams.

Dormida, Alfonsina Vestida de mar.

Cinco sirenitas Te llevarn Por caminos de algas Y de coral Y fosforescentes Caballos marinos harón Una ronda a tu lado Y los habitantes Del agua van a jugar Pronto a tu lado.

Sleep, Alfonsina Dressed in the sea.

Five syrens carry you along roads of sea grass and of coral and phosphorescence.

Sea horses guard you on all sides, and wáter-folk come quick to play with you.

Bájame la lámpara Un poco más Déjame que duerma Nodriza, en paz Y si llama l

“Turn down the lamp a Little; Let me sleep, my nurse, in peace; and if you waken me

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SUMMER 2OI5 No le digas que estoy Dile que Alfonsina no vuelve Y si llama l No le digas nunca que estoy Di que me he ido.

don’t tell me I am that Alfonsina who never returns; and if you waken me don’t ever say such things; Say that I have arrived.”

Te vas Alfonsina Con tu soledad Qué poemas nuevos Fuiste a buscar?

Una voz antigua De viento y de sal Te requiebra el alma Y la est llevando Y te vas hacia all Como en sueos Dormida, Alfonsina Vestida de mar.

Come, Alfonsina, with your solitude what new poems have you sought?

An ancient voice of wind and salt flirts with your soul and carries it and you towards that place of dreams.

Sleep, Alfonsina, Dressed in the sea.

Tr. Stephen Zelnick

«

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[This monument to Alfonsina at Playa la Perla, Mar La Plata, Argentina shows her as a female warrior, an appropriate depiction of her accomplishment.]

Works: Alfonsina Storni, Antologia Poetica, editorial Losada, Buenos Aires, 1956 (ed. Susana Zanetti).

Selections from: La Inquietud del Rosal, 1916 El Dulce Daño, 1918 Irremediablemente, 1919 Languidez, 1920 Ocre, 1925 Mundo de Siete Pozos, 1934 Mascarilla y Trébol, 1938 Translations by Stephen Zelnick, Emeritus Professor of English, Temple University.

Those wishing to participate in the Neruda Seminar online, contact the author on Facebook or at stephen.zelnick@gmail.com

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Artist: Cristina Bazolli, www.celesteprize.com/artwork

~~~

The Linnet's Wings

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by

THE UNWILLING FATHER t hy a K

B u cke r t

Figure of S.F.Petrova-Vodkin, the artist's father, on his knees from the back by Kuzma Petrov-Vodkin

eoffrey’s quietness unsettles me as his fingers follow the patterns on his bedroom quilt.

Occasionally he pulls a thread and twirls it around his fingers in an obvious gesture of avoiding eye contact with me. My uneasiness, although brief, comes from seeing him standing there just 48 hours ago accusing me of being a whore when he learned the truth about his biological father. I show him pictures of him, a mirror image of himself with his red hair, thin lips, and bushy eyebrows. He smiles. “Tommy was a recovering addict when I met him.”

He brushes the tears away, looks down at his arm, and touches the veins where he mainlined.

Scars are now hidden by May 30, 2010, a tattoo reminding him of the day he chose life.

“I’m like my father.”

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SUMMER 2OI5 I can’t deny it. I tell him the truth.

“Geoffrey, I loved Tommy.”

Geoffrey looks up at me and then returns to twisting the thread on his bedspread.

“I feared him more.”

I wait for his reaction. He stops fidgeting with the bedspread. I must tell him the truth about his father’s history with drugs and criminal activity, so I open the book of memory and tell him the story, one page at a time. Knowing he has an Italian heritage excites him. He loves Italian girls, Italian food, and Italian wine.

Perfect. It all suddenly makes sense. Everyone in the family craves roulade, bratwurst and German potato salad and all he wants is a bowl of pasta with meatballs.

When I tell him I located his biological father, he hugs me and thanks me because he knows it is taking away my control, which is something I have desperately needed since I became pregnant for him. Loving him means trusting God to watch over him and protecting him from the fears I let torment me for years. I tell him Tommy’s wife did not respond back to the letters his sister, Melinda, and I sent. I suggest he make the next attempt. He does and with success.

Geoffrey finally has his first phone call with his father. He learns more about Tommy than I ever did in the time we were together. The bonds they are building are undeniable. As I glance through the sliding glass doors, I see Geoffrey on the deck talking to his biological father. His smile takes away all of my fears. Geoffrey is happy. I did the right thing. Knowing Tommy’s background and life story helps him to understand himself.

He understands his idiosyncrasies because Tommy shares the same crazy traits. He understands why he looks and feels different from his siblings. He understands the distance he feels with the man who raised him. Most importantly, he finds what he has been looking for all along. He finds someone who will accept him not only because he is his child, but because of the understanding they share about life and the choices they each made in the past.

Tommy urges him to go to meetings for his recovery, and Geoffrey listens. They make plans to meet each other and then suddenly, everything stops. Geoffrey doesn’t hear from him again. Nothing.

His wife says he can’t handle having a son. It’s too much for him. What does he do? He goes back on drugs. He squanders his life’s savings because he can’t handle the responsibility of being a father, not once, but twice.

Two years later, Geoffrey sees the light. He has a father who tucked him into bed at night when he was a child and who walked up and down the sidelines at his football games. He has a father who cried when the son he loved more than anything found out about his biological father. He fears the loss of the son he loves.

Geoffrey learns he has more than a father. He has a loving dad.

When secrets are exposed the truth is allowed to breathe.

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Z

n t ha M a m a S

em i

tl ket

e

n d th e a a d l

by

SUMMER 2OI5

e elda came out of the kitchen, went into the living room and said, —Jack Jack Jack.

This was more than she needed to say. Two Jacks more in fact. For on hearing the first Jack, her husband Jack looked up from his newspaper ready to listen to what his wife had to say, so the remaining two Jacks after the first Jack were wasted.

I don't know if anyone has ever worked out how much energy is lost each year by people saying more words than they need to, but I'll bet you a dime to a dollar that if all the energy expended on those superfluous words was collected and turned into electricity there would be enough power to provide a small town with heat and light for a month, maybe two.

Zelda repeated the word Jack three times because she was distraught and when we are distraught we tend to say more than we need to, although some people say nothing at all, struck dumb with distraughtness.

Zelda was distraught because the kettle she had been boiling to make coffee had boiled dry and now had a buckled bottom. Obviously she hadn't actually been boiling the kettle, she had been heating the kettle to boil the water inside, but the water had evaporated which left the kettle empty which meant the kettle overheated and the bottom buckled.

The reason Zelda had allowed the kettle to boil dry, even though she had been in the kitchen supposedly making coffee, had its origins earlier in the day. That morning she had gone into a secondhand bookshop, just to browse rather than to look for anything specific, and while there she had admired, and then bought, a very handsome calf-bound edition of Austin Dobson's 18th century vignettes.

At home in the kitchen she had taken the book out of its bag and noticed a few scuff marks she hadn't seen in the bookshop, probably because in the bookshop it was dark, and her kitchen was bright with the afternoon sun.

Zelda, who was meticulous about appearances, thought the book would be improved with a gentle polish, so she searched the cupboards to find shoe polish the same colour as the book. She had never heard of anyone polishing a book but she didn't see why it shouldn't be a good thing to do.

It was while she was polishing the book that she heard the kettle go bonk, and that was when she ran through to the living room and said, Jack Jack Jack.

Jack, attentive after the first Jack, said, —Oh dear oh dear.

And the second oh dear meant his question, —What happened? was a split-second later than it needed to be.

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SUMMER 2OI5 Now, when you think about it, if we added together all the split-seconds we wasted each day repeating what we have already said we could easily have an extra five or six minutes each month, and when you consider that in five minutes you can bump into someone good-looking and, while you apologise, get invited for a coffee, or buy a plane ticket to a foreign part you have always wanted to visit, or meet someone you haven't seen since school, or even fall in love, you can see that saving those split seconds can be life changing.

—The kettle boiled dry, answered Zelda to Jack’s sensible question, and Jack got up from his chair.

—Oh dear, he said again, but as this was said while he crossed the room it didn't delay him and therefore cannot be considered as wasted, although the energy expended could have been useful for the small town I mentioned earlier.

He switched off the gas which Zelda in her distraughtness had forgotten to do.

—Why did you let the kettle boil dry?

—I was polishing a book.

—Polishing a book?

—Yes. See. —Oh, it's Dobson's 18th-century vignettes.

—I got it for you but it was a bit scuff…

Before Zelda could finish Jack kissed her, which meant the ed from the word scuffed was saved and would compensate for half of a Jack she had wasted earlier.

Zelda embraced him and warmed to his kiss, and together they left the kitchen, walked through the living room of wasted words, not thinking in letters but in images of their bodies entwining, and went into the bedroom and closed the door.

I know what they said and did there, but I'm a firm believer that what lovers do in the privacy of their bedroom should stay private. Although I will say there were enough wasted ooos and aaas to keep a light bulb shining all evening, if you wanted it to.

~~~

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by

Almost There Rus s B ickerstaff It’s a dance we couldn’t hope to maintain forever, but we manage to keep it all quite smoothly juggled for the duration of apparent perception while waiting for the right moment to coax the possibility into su stantiality.. .

It sits there not knowing it was there. It sat there not knowing that there was a there to be in. We’re not sure whether it knew if it was even a thing that could be somewhere. This being said, it was definitely there.

There was no question that it was sitting there. Anyone looking in its general direction with the right eyes would have seen that it was sitting there looking out the window with eyes that it didn’t seem aware that it had. It was watching a city pass by outside that it didn’t necessarily know it was even seeing.

This was the second or third possibility we’d seen on the bus that day. Potential so often rests on public transportation. People will get on. People will get off. Stops will be approached. Stops will be made. As always the journey continues for stray potentials and possibilities edging out over the stray connections and missing shadows breathing through the heart of every whisper. It can be difficult to get them to resolve into anything of substance. If it happened naturally, there wouldn’t be a need for us. That’s what we’re there for. We’re there to make potential meet with the moment into something substantial.

It’s not an easy job. Walk up to suddenly on any single possibility and it will vanish into the ether between two perceptions. Directly acknowledge it in anyway and it could evaporate into everything it isn’t by the sudden rush of evident relevance. So often great potential is crushed out of existence by a sudden rush of existence.

We can’t afford to have that happen in our presence. We’re there to foster it into something more than a forgotten residue glimmering across the surface of substance. We are there for much more than that.

The possibility rests there on the edge of the moment. It is as unaware of the danger of its own destruction as it is of its own semi-existence. Our eyes meet. A businessman glances over at a derelict with full knowledge of what we are all looking at. Just as we begin to negotiate that unspoken semi-subconscious dialogue as to how to handle the precious, little thing, a possibility we hadn’t even noticed evaporates into a sweet-smelling nothingness. We glance back at each other knowingly feeling the silent tragedy of the loss of that which no one had noticed in time.

We sidle over to it. Businessman and derelict move into a delicate kind of geometry with a knowing barista and we’re all protecting the thing as we delicately divert anything from coming too close to the potential to unwittingly absorb it out of existence . It’s a careful dance between the three of us engaged in active diversion.

The malodorous emanations of the derelict push oncoming riders in the direction of the businessman, who

SUMMER 2OI5 throws an imposingly cold air of authority in the right direction to pass through the reverse synchronicity of the barista’s unexpected beauty that shuffles the traffic through relative gravities away from the fragile potential.

It’s a dance we couldn’t hope to maintain forever, but we manage to keep it all quite smoothly juggled for the duration of apparent perception while waiting for the right moment to coax the possibility into substantiality.

One of us begins to become a little too aware of what is happening, which tilts the dynamic of the relative gravity off kilter. The potential shuffles around from one seat to the next and everything is tumbling about in a dangerous juxtaposition which could shatter the whole effort into a kind of perilously trivial inevitability.

On the surface it’s little more than a casual shifting between strangers on public transportation, but those of us who have remembered not to forget to take some peripheral awareness of the potential it is a maelstrom of mind-numbingly overwhelming proportions. We’re all quite dizzy on the edge of perception without being fully aware of our own nausea. The residual tang of the possibility that slapped out of existence only blocks before hangs heavily in the air and we’re all about to be pulled into a full-consciousness that will shatter all potential when the bus reaches a stop.

A woman gets on with a little girl who gets on with a stray thought that she hasn’t thought that much about. It’s a fragment of an impression in an impressionable, little mind that seems to be swirling around the tempest with inadvertent grace. Somehow one or more of us is tumbling through the moment in a way that keeps the stray potentiality from moving in the path of total annihilation from a million kinds of ending. It hops and pirouettes, tumbling into a vague approximation of some kind of an arial rotation that cascade gently into the path of certain deletion.

We are all somewhere between utter horror and completely oblivious ambivalence as we are only able to grasp the full reality of the moment with scattered skittering edges of perception. There is no doubt that the danger of the deletion is quite clearly there, though. It is as clear as everything we have ever forgotten to see and it is coming into everything in vivid 3D. We shudder and we shake as the end draws nearer to vanishing in total release on the moment. Then in an instant it ends. There is the knock of a sudden shock.

Those of us looking with the right fraction of open perception would have seen it when it was almost there. There would have been some fragmentation of a vague notion as the girl rushed out with the dizzy little half-remembered fragment of a sleeping thought that the potential had through luck and unknown judgment, somehow come to slide into. Potential and fragment had come to rest within each other as a sudden wisdom flashed across the fresh face of the little girl who was as unaware of all of this as we had all become the moment the light turned green once more.

~~~

SUMMER 2OI5

Me and Ernesto by Ken Rodgers ater, me and Ernesto both swore we heard a car drive up, and a woman's voice--she was screaming and crying--then a crash like glass was breaking and then more screaming and crying and then a whoosh.

But I think we both just said that because Mom expected us to. I think we must have heard something.

We had to have. But now I can't really say.

We practiced our roping out back with the new braided nylon ropes Daddy gave us if we promised to build and throw a hundred loops a day at the set of plastic horns he'd attached to a bale of straw.

Daddy told us he wanted us to be "big time" rodeo stars when we got to be teens. And we wanted it too. We wanted to please Daddy.

The first thing I really remember that moment is Lindy's scream. Lindy's our big sister. She's two years older than me and I'm two years older than Ernesto and he's two years older than Alicia and she's two years older than Jacob.

Lindy screams a lot—she’s in her terrible teens as Mom calls it—so at first we didn't pay any attention to her until she ran out into the back yard waving her arms and yelling, "Fire. Fire." She shrieked, "She threw a Molotov Cocktail."

Ernesto said, "What's that?"

I said, "A fire bomb."

I was in the middle of throwing my loop at those horns and tried not to lose my concentration. I was on a winning streak.

"Did you call the cops?" Ernesto is practical for a nine-year-old.

By then my loop had missed and I turned to cuss Lindy but one look at her mug changed my mind.

Her face glowed bright red and tears trailed down her cheeks and she was breathing hard and looking at the house, at us, at the house.

The faint wail of fire truck sirens cut through the afternoon and then I smelled fire. A trail of black smoke snaked up between the palm trees in the front yard. Me and Ernesto started at the same time, him for the back door and me for the front yard.

When I got around to the front, flames shot out the picture window and I saw Mom's new drapes on fire and black smoke and white smoke and it got in my eyes and a strange car sat in the front with a woman inside. Her hands covered her face and she looked like she was sobbing. I started towards her car to ask if I could help when a cop car pulled up in the middle of the street and the cop jumped out and put his hand up for me to stop. I knew him because he came to the house to break up Mom and Daddy when

SUMMER 2OI5 they fought. I wasn't supposed to know about their fights but I did. And I knew it was because Daddy had him a "woman" and he told Mom he didn't and she threw a cast iron skillet at him and he slapped her and then he choked her and Lindy called the cops. That was the first time. The second time they went outside the house and yelled but Lindy still called the cops. Daddy said he didn't have a "woman."

Me and Ernesto believed him. Or should I say I believed him. Lindy was on Mom's side so she didn't have much to say to me about it and Ernesto and Alicia and Jacob and Mom cried so we all tried to keep a lid on it because we couldn't agree.

The fire truck showed up and then they sprayed water through the front window and ruined everything and more cops showed up and then Mom came home and sagged to the concrete driveway. Alicia and Jacob sat in the back seat of the Buick and put their hands over their faces. The cop who always comes to the house helped Mom to her feet and the next door neighbor lady came and helped Mom, too, and Lindy gesticulated with her arms and fingers at the house, at the strange lady in the car and at the sky and the grass by the sidewalk.

She kept saying, "Molotov Cocktail, Molotov Cocktail."

There were cops swarming the front and the back and the firemen kicked in the front door and went in with axes and a big yellow hose.

Mom bawled, "My new drapes. My carpet. My antiques."

Lindy screamed, "It was a Molotov Cocktail."

I had stepped into the street and watched it all. Ernesto had his rope and kept building a loop, then snaking it out at nothing in particular, building a loop, snaking it out.

The woman in the strange car still sat there crying. Again, I walked over to ask her if I could help her, but the cop who always came and broke up the fights grabbed me and barked, "Please step aside."

Then him and two other lawmen opened the doors and helped her out of the car. She was tall and wore high heels. She wore sleek sunglasses and a red dress with a short skirt that showed off her long legs.

Later, when the cops and Mom accosted Daddy when he came to see what all the hubbub was about, he stood there with his Stetson in his hand like he was out in front of the church begging. Daddy never begs. He said, "I told her that I was leaving her. For you." When he said that he looked straight at Mom. She looked down at her feet.

~~~

SUMMER 2OI5

Caliban by Franz Mark Be not afeard; the isle is full of noises, Sounds, and sweet airs, that give delight and hurt not.(not hurt) Sometimes a thousand twangling instruments Will hum about mine ears; and sometime voices That, if I then had waked after long sleep, Will make me sleep again; and then in dreaming, The clouds methought would open, and show riches Ready to drop upon me, that when I waked I cried to dream again.

Act 3, Scene 2: The Tempest

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H

His Candle Bright, My Fickle Flesh

by Christopher Allen e was a sprawl, legs open like a peace sign. I’d want to talk to him, look him in the eye, and then I wouldn’t. I chatted with the elderly woman next to him—a non-trad auditing Shakespeare “for very personal reasons”—but never to him. Not directly. I memorized the seams of his sand-washed jeans, from the frayed and grimy hems to the bulge of his wallet in his front left pocket, fading white like the negative of a piece of whole-wheat toast.

He spoke only twice. Both times I stared at his flip flops, at his toes. Long but not apelike. Plump, healthy looking and clean. A bit hairy but again: not apelike. He smelled like Downy Rich&Creamy I'm guessing—but I'd bet a twenty I'm right—as he compared the characters in King Lear to those in Modern Family with finesse. Guessing again. I hadn't read it; I just nodded a lot at my shoes and said, "Great point." His paper “ The Tempest as a Star Trek Episode” got an A++ from the professor, who came in full Trekky regalia to read it to the class in the jerky, wooden voice of Captain Kirk.

Handing in my final paper, I told Betty or Marge or Nancy that I’d enjoyed her uniquely mature perspective on "the larger-than-Shakespeare tragedies of growing old in real life," as she'd put it, and then added loudly—because I could feel his heat behind me—“And how ‘bout that Trekky paper? That was amazing, just beamed me right up!” When I turned to get a good look at those eyes, he was gone and the lights in the room were out.

~~~

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Orphan Man with Long Overcoat, Glass and Handkerchief by Vincent Van Gogh

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The Ones

by Tommy Dean " The successful ones. The ones that live without dirt between their fingernails, the ones without bad backs, and weathered skin. The ones who stay in love. "

W

e were sitting in the sand, the lake water splashed coldly at our feet.

"We need to make a decision." I hated the fact that I was the one that was forcing you to decide. I knew what I wanted and I hoped you’d share my choice. We had just gotten married. We should have been considering where we wanted to go on our honeymoon.

"It's either California or the baby."

"We have to decide tonight?"

"I can’t get attached, not if I know …," I said.

Your eyes said we could be different. And I wanted to agree.

"I've go the talent."

"If you didn't there would be nothing to decide."

"We could be those people."

"The one's who forget?"

"The successful ones. The ones that live without dirt between their fingernails, the ones without bad backs, and weathered skin. The ones who stay in love."

"And in five years?"

"We'll have it all. The house, the cars, the money, and we'll never have to look at a cornfield again."

"And the kids?"

You kept your promise. We didn't see another cornfield, nor did we ever go to sleep with dirt on our brows. But we weren't the ones, not the people who could plant and cultivate the kernel of love. We, together, could have a had different kind of talent, a knack for raising children. The baby could have been our big break. Our life could have been the movie you always wanted to star in. ~~~ The Linnet's Wings

SUMMER 2OI5

Self-portrait. Between the clock and the bed by Edward Munch The Linnet's Wings

SUMMER 2OI5

The Hideaway Bed

by Shreyasi Majumdar

oday I killed a man. I slit his throat as he snored, oblivious to his impending doom. I’m certain I wasn’t seen or heard. Except by Allah – may He forgive my compulsion.

Remember when I stole golden Alphonso mangoes from the neighbour’s orchard? Or when I pilfered a thousand rupees from father’s wallet and got the servant flogged for it? Or when I watched Zubeida through the window as she undressed? You knew. You laughed. And my trespasses were forgiven.

Some secrets however, are a man’s own.

Like the hideaway bed uncle Hamid installed in my room when you and father were pilgrims in Mecca. It was a crude, crusty old thing fashioned from a dilapidated wardrobe that recyclers rejected outright. Uncle Hamid carved a hole in the wall and fixed it up so I wouldn’t have to sleep on the floor. He’d bring me toy cars and magazines and spend hours playing with me on that bed. Hours.

Did the creaking ever wake you mother? Or the moan-filled nights, stifled screams drowned by the early morning calls to prayer?

Maybe you were too busy nourishing the family with biryani and rice pudding, feeding veiled traditions, ensuring the home functioned like a well-oiled machine. You never ruffled feathers. And you’d rather die than see the family honour sullied.

Today I killed uncle Hamid. But it’s one of those rabid secrets that disappear into the murky underbelly of the night. Sometimes, it’s better that way. May Allah forgive my trespass. ~~~ The Linnet's Wings

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You asked why I keep my horse tied at th rail ; the possees out scoutin but I ain't goin to jail. truth is I.m runnin from anther bride, cause if you alter my halter, Imma gonna up and ride.

I straddle my saddle and kicker in the rear. Head for Seattle were I'd disappear. You keep tryin to rope me in and I'll goona hyde, so don't altr my halter and I'd be obliged.

I might head for GibrALTER and kick her in the rear, herd her without since se has o fear. I will be waiting at the llaguna..........

The Linnet's Wings

Gary Ross Cunningham

SUMMER 2OI5

This Cockeyed World by Ross Cunningham

uke Barrington was no fool. He might not have graduated high school but he was smart. Smart enough to run Herefords on Texas soil. He had learned his lessons working alongside his father during branding time, as his father had been taught

by Grandfather Barrington. Three generations had owned and managed this land since Gadsden came along.

The Pecos had always run from the north towards his place, dividing his pastures gracefully. His canyon had always brought spring rains, mountain run-offs and melting snows to irrigate the fertile soil. Grasses had grown waist high on this mesa, giving his herds plenty of graze. Now it was bare, burnt brown and dead, a dustbowl for the strong winds to play with at leisure.

Luke headed his horse for the corral and gave him his head. Old Hank knew the way better than anyone, now that the landscape had changed so much overnight. Studying the horizon for any sign of movement, any sign of his herd. He hadn’t seen them in 3 weeks and it was obvious they knew his grasses were dead, his rivers dry.

“Tomorrow, old boy, we’ll head North to the Pecos, er, well, East I guess we’d call it now. Seems confusin when I think about it all.” Hank merely snorted his understanding.

Even the ever-intruding Mesquite shrubs had begun to die away, lack of interests I suppose. Why take over a pasture if nothing is there? Not a bird, not a coyote, nothing moved on this land. Death was a choking dust that continued to harass even after you succumb. Luke tucked in and spurred Hank to hurry.

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Reaching the ranch just before sundown, a little after 1PM, Luke started the fire and lit the lanterns.

He noticed his fuel can leaking and realized he’d have to make another trip to town for supplies. The last trip took 3 days, 2 spent hunting for the town itself. It had moved, along with the Pecos and other landmarks. It was mid-July and he was still building fires. No electricity in 3 weeks, makes a man a bit grouchy.

Luke recalled his last visit to town. What had been a sprawling metropolis had crumbled to a pile of stone and rubble. Only Canal Street merchants had escaped the chaos of the raging fire that destroyed the town. Without electricity to operate the pumps, homes burnt to the ground while screaming people ran madly into the midnight sun. Only those with water pails and a canal nearby could stop the beast from consuming an entire town. Weeks later, it still smoldered and licked flames at unidentifiable charred material.

They said it had been an earthquake, a major 9.8 rift that tore the world apart. Not in Texas, in South America, far far away. Luke found it hard to believe that an earthquake could change his life so quickly.

They said volcanoes erupted, tsunamis slammed, tornadoes and hurricanes were born, all because of this one incident. One short moment long, one generation destroyed.

The Linnet's Wings

SUMMER 2OI5 They said it caused the earth to shift on its axis, a mere 3 degrees, but a wobble that will continue for eternity. That wobble changed the seasons, the laws of nature, the directions of the winds. It was like trying to live in a Picasso painting.

About 11 PM, just before sunrise, Luke saddled Hank to the Cayuse’s complaints. He’d head towards the Pecos and follow it back to the lost town. Maybe they have resupplied and he can get enough gear to get him through another month. Naturally, it began to snow on his journey. The flakes were huge, landing in piles stacking between Hank’s ears. He shook and shuddered trying to rid himself of the burning snow.

Arriving at the dead river bed, Luke stepped down and got on his knees. He raised his eyes skyward and began to pray, after all, Luke Barrington was no fool.

...

The Linnet's Wings

SUMMER 2OI5

Schooner in Full Sail near a Lighthouse by Alfred Wallis

The Linnet's Wings

SUMMER 2OI5

Sailing the Prairie

J

by Bill West ohnny hugs the tree. Feels the sway of wind crackling through branches, like sails of a pirate ship on a search for treasure. He scans the horizon. The dirt track cuts a red swathe through rolling prairie.

Is that someone on the road? Leaning forward - a pale shadow fades and vanishes. Just a twist of dust in the breeze.

Ma had gone down that road, a month after his kid sister died.

He remembered her stretched across Sissy's bed, her fingers twisting the sheet. Sissy's hair red against the white. Pa tried to draw up the sheet, cover her face but Ma pushed him away.

She went funny in the head after they buried Sissy. Always looking, calling her name; at the school, at church, down in the meadow where the flowers grew. Disappeared for days at a time, wandering this way and that, calling, always calling. One day, she didn't come back.

Pa got mad. Said she'd gone off with Seth Baker, her old flame. Then he took to drink. He'd always liked a drop but he'd got so he'd rather drink than eat. And when he drank he would get nasty, call Johnny the Spawn of Satan. That's why Johnny spent so much time in the tree, where Pa couldn't reach him.

Some day soon Johnny's gonna steal some food and a canteen and go down that road. Give his Ma just one more week, then go find her.

The leaves whisper with Sissy's voice. They say, “Hold on. Ma will be back soon.”

Sissy always did see the best in every situation. ~~~

The Linnet's Wings

SUMMER 2OI5

Cat Playing with a Toy Butterfly by Toyota Hokkei The Linnet's Wings

SUMMER 2OI5

Poetry Editorial by Oonah Joslin

The Cat and The Moon -- and what it meant to Me

When I was little I had difficulty learning to read, partly because of left/right handed confusion, partly because I had a teacher from hell who used to pull my plaits when I made a mistake and maybe because it was around that very time my father died and upset the whole applecart. However it may be, all through junior school that part of the day when you went up and chose a book and read silently was a torture for me. But it led me to poetry. Poetry was short enough you could just dip in. Poetry had rhythms and rhymes that helped with difficult words (though I remember consistently reading ‘phase’ as ‘face’ in this poem.) Poetry painted pictures in my head that replaced all those confusing symbols with sounds and you could make up your own stories round it.

Recently I decided to repair an appalling gap in my reading and picked up a collection of Yeats’ work in a second hand book shop. We’d ‘done’ a few poems by Yeats at school but not many. However I wasn’t far into it before I recognised an old friend and I sat grinning with the book in my hand and remembered reading this one poem again and again (until the teacher spotted that I’d been in the same book for months that is) and the sheer delight of it because I loved cats and the moon and could see Minnaloushe pouncing about in moonlit pools.

The cat went here and there And the moon spun round like a top, And the nearest kin of the moon, The creeping cat, looked up.

Black Minnaloushe stared at the moon, For, wander and wail as he would, The pure cold light in the sky Troubled his animal blood.

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John Singer Sargent, Portrait of W. B. Yeats, 1908 The Linnet's Wings

SUMMER 2OI5 Minnaloushe runs in the grass Lifting his delicate feet.

Do you dance, Minnaloushe, do you dance?

When two close kindred meet.

What better than call a dance?

Maybe the moon may learn, Tired of that courtly fashion, A new dance turn.

Minnaloushe creeps through the grass From moonlit place to place, The sacred moon overhead Has taken a new phase.

Does Minnaloushe know that his pupils Will pass from change to change, And that from round to crescent, From crescent to round they range?

Minnaloushe creeps through the grass Alone, important and wise, And lifts to the changing moon His changing eyes.

by W B YEATS And I remember thinking at the time that though the cat loved the bright moon and the moon shone down on the antics of the black cat, they could never really meet and understand each other.

She is beautiful sacred and pure and very far above him and he will never be interested in dancing but only in hunting. Though they meet in the night, they really don’t understand each other’s natures or their own. It’s only the night they have in common, only the night that connects the two. They are both changeable and proud in their own way but they cannot accommodate each other.

Of course there is a lot more to the poem than that. A child can read it but it’s far from a children’s poem. Study it for yourself. The rhymes tend toward assonance and the rhythm inevitably breaks down. It’s a dance that cannot be. I knew not thing about Maud Gonne or Yeats himself or the moon’s 28 day cycle or much at all about anything (I think I was about ten). But that expression of solitude gave voice to something I sensed but didn’t understand, just as they didn’t understand; the nature of connectivity and individuality; the need to be alone commingled with the desperate longing to belong.

The picture always remained in my head even though I didn’t know who’d written the poem. A great story of love and loss. And a good deal shorter than Anna Karenina! ~~~ The Linnet's Wings

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A Hustler Takes A Night Off by Akeith Walters I sit on a worn stoop with a t-shirt draped on a bare shoulder, an iron rail against my back, a warm beer on the step, and exhale cigarette smoke.

It lifts from a twitch of lips, a whisper calling in a sweaty longing to touch your skin.

But all I can do is watch as it drifts five stories up past the window where lamplight silhouettes your rugged face the way you silhouette my heart while it beats out the moments in the dark waiting.

The Linnet's Wings

A woman ghost appeared from a well

by Katsushika Hokusai

SUMMER 2OI5

Broke--20 by Joan Colby Rembrandt’s dark oils fevered with afterglow Foreshadowed bankruptcy and abandonment.

Modigliani’s long-necked ladies of Dissolute absinthe.

Poe inebriated with casks, Black cats and ravens.

Keats dying too young on the bitter Spanish Steps, his name “writ on water” El Greco’s astigmatic elongations scorned.

Toulouse-Latrec infected by the gaudy Whores he worshipped.

O.Henry’s brief spendthrift ironies.

Gauguin’s brown women of jungle dreams Misunderstood, ignored.

Vermeer’s pearl earring of hopeless debt.

Wilde’s sad coda of cheap hotels.

Melville’s obituary “long-forgotten” Stephen Foster’s Suwannee river flooding Into Bellevue. In his pocket, 38 cents and a note “dear friends and gentle hearts” Van Gogh, destitute in a starry night of suicide.

“The sadness will last forever.”

The Linnet's Wings

SUMMER 2OI5

Death Takes A Lover by Akeith Walters

Graveyard Motif by Mikalojus Ciurlionis

I sit at the kitchen table with a third mug of bourbon and watch as your silhouette covers the window, a well-fed spook that pierces the pane with squinty eyes, the glass fogged by the grime of whiskey and dusk.

The first time you shadowed my yard, drifting over from your new place down the street, we met on the threshold, you staring up at me as you stood there wearing cardboard shoes on your feet.

The Linnet's Wings

SUMMER 2OI5 Watching you adjust your coat against the warm night, I heard only the rustle of your silence in the trees where beer glazed moonlight sharpened the razor-edged darkness.

Without words, though, I never knew if you came to see me or the splash of the lamp-lit window where yellow spills onto the shrubs and grass all night, a signal that I am still home waiting for a chance to hear the loving rasp of your whisper just once more before you turn to leave beyond the streetlight’s glow.

The Linnet's Wings Poetry

SUMMER 2OI5

Manna by David Jordan There is dew on the ground And on the tongues of leaves.

Dew on the barbed wire And on the heavy morning flower.

The sound of a motor car Soft through the vale Doesn’t perplex your membrane.

The silent, lazy jet overhead, Scarring the sky, Doesn’t disturb your tranquil bed.

Early morning flower, Heavy and glazed with water.

Manna for your machine, Manna for your nine daughters.

Always it stands In pure readiness and fire.

Morning Glory by Shibata Zeshin

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SUMMER 2OI5

Purple Kisses by Priya Prithviraj A burst of a million petals a flurry of fuchsia the flush on her face.

She watched the rain kiss the veined blossoms and f a l l plip - plop on her window sill.

And he watched the bougainvillea blow purple kisses from beyond the barbed wire.

Lovers (The kiss) by Ernst Ludwig Kirchner

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SUMMER 2OI5

Summer Meditation by Kathleen Cassen Mickelson After the weeds lie in piles, roots exposed, I linger near the garden, inhale iris perfume, soak up morning humidity that settles in like an old friend.

I slip into a summer stupor, drunk on the languid June hours as if emerging from winter clothes was not enough, as if bursting leaves and spring flowers were not enough and these warm winds were the only vehicle to this one perfect moment Page Background: The Happy Quartet by Henry Rouseau

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SUMMER 2OI5

Raymarie by David Jordan Sometimes I would climb to the top Of a pine And sit there for a while, Ecstatic, like an angel or An elemental.

There was also a ruinous old Motorbike with its idle engine, Lying there, way beyond repair Except in my imagination.

And a stripling apple tree Which we left unplucked Because of its small, bitter apples.

We played in the sweet meadow And the shades for hours, Our minds lost to imagination, Slow and ravenous, Our senses sharp as needles.

In the sacred gloom I survived, Cautious, alive.

A strange creature, Slowly I moved As if stalking something in fear: The ghost of my solitude.

The Linnet's Wings

SUMMER 2OI5

THE LEGEND OF THE HORSESHOE

by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe Images: Ibidemimages@yahoo.com

The Linnet's Wings

SUMMER 2OI5

Title: Beautiful Bay, (c) 2015 C. Mannheim

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WHAT time our Lord still walk'd the earth, Unknown, despised, of humble birth, And on Him many a youth attended (His words they seldom comprehended), It ever seem'd to Him most meet To hold His court in open street, As under heaven's broad canopy One speaks with greater liberty.

The teachings of His blessed word From out His holy mouth were heard; Each market to a fane turn'd He With parable and simile.

One day, as tow'rd a town He roved, In peace of mind with those He loved, Upon the path a something gleam'd; A broken horseshoe 'twas, it seem'd.

So to St. Peter thus He spake: "That piece of iron prythee take!"

St. Peter's thoughts had gone astray,-He had been musing on his way Respecting the world's government,

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Title: My Girl Ginger, (c) 2015 C. Mannheim

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SUMMER 2OI5 A dream that always gives content, For in the head 'tis check'd by nought; This ever was his dearest thought, For him this prize was far too mean Had it a crown and sceptre been!

But, surely, 'twasn't worth the trouble For half a horseshoe to bend double!

And so he turn'd away his head, As if he heard not what was said, The Lord, forbearing tow'rd all men, Himself pick'd up the horseshoe then (He ne'er again like this stoop'd down).

And when at length they reach'd the town, Before a smithy He remain'd, And there a penny for 't obtain'd.

As they the market-place went by, Some beauteous cherries caught His eye: Accordingly He bought as many As could be purchased for a penny, And then, as oft His wont had been, Placed them within His sleeve unseen.

They went out by another gate, O'er plains and fields proceeding straight, No house or tree was near the spot, The sun was bright, the day was hot; In short, the weather being such, A draught of water was worth much.

The Lord walk'd on before them all, And let, unseen, a cherry fall.

St. Peter rush'd to seize it hold, As though an apple 'twere of gold; His palate much approv'd the berry; The Lord ere long another cherry Once more let fall upon the plain; The Linnet's Wings

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Title: Little Jeau, (c) 2015 C. Mannheim

St. Peter forthwith stoop'd again.

The Lord kept making him thus bend To pick up cherries without end.

For a long time the thing went on; The Lord then said, in cheerful tone: "Had'st thou but moved when thou wert bid, Thou of this trouble had'st been rid; The man who small things scorns, will next, By things still smaller be perplex'd."

1797

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SUMMER 2OI5

Title: Fall Pastures, (c) 2015 C. Mannheim

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The Linnet's Wings

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Animal Destinies (The Trees show their Rings, the Animals their Veins) by Franz Marc

The Linnet's Wings

SUMMER 2OI5

The Ring by Jo-Ann Newton I hunt frantically through the dusty box, a mausoleum for once shiny things.

I find it in a tangle of broken glamour; tarnished, tawdry.

In my open hand, the ring; a whispered ghost of gold and smoky quartz.

Throw it away he says.

I shake my head.

It was a present from my mother.

I feel the salt scrape my throat as I remember what it cost.

A winter wearing open-toed shoes.

Worry over rent and arthritic bones.

Choking back pride; selling her wedding ring to bring me this emblem of unconditional love.

I hold it to my lips.

It is priceless.

The Linnet's Wings

SUMMER 2OI5

Sex on the Western Front by Ronald E. Shields The whore’s life is no laughing matter but sometimes the sex is good and a girl just has to giggle.

It’s no different for the boys marching like men who can’t see the meat grinder.

Sometimes the boys whisper French into a girl’s ear.

It seems to make them more pliable and willing to laugh but it’s a trick of the imagination, as when the Chaplain’s sermon seems to make it easier to die for the cause.

They pray he’s right but really it’s just a way to keep from crying when the sex is good.

The Linnet's Wings

SUMMER 2OI5

The Book of Lascaux by James Graham When we speak of them,we have to say perhaps, or probably, or almost certainly.

But almost, almost certainly they understood what we have called acoustics. Painted their vibrant stags and bison where the sound was good.

And the drums would beat, and the pulse of the mountain would respond.

The hollow bones would bell and whinny and the watchful stag and horse would say they understood.

We try to read a wisdom never meant for us: unearth their shards, and dust them off, and guess; decode and annotate their wordless images, read them as metaphor. We hear but cannot share the truth they told to one another against the freezing wind, the days when hunters returned empty-handed, malevolence unseen beyond the campfire circle: we speak to the living Earth. It answers us.

The Linnet's Wings

SUMMER 2OI5

The Random Art of Beautiful Days by Ronald E. Shields When the telescope arrived in the mail the first thing I looked at was my brother’s eye.

It was a blur that moved when he blinked.

I drew a picture of it and he cried because it looked like something he had never seen before, as when the paint by number Last Supper has some numbers scrambled and takes on the look of a work of art.

The Linnet's Wings

SUMMER 2OI5

Making Bread by Breda Spaight Today, I thought of how flour rained like hourglass grains through your sturdy fingers, not yet knowing yourself, standing at the head of the table, certain, as your hands and your mother’s hands before delved in a bowl to make bread.

Sunlight primrosed the kitchen, Venetian blinds raised to a new day, the host-white twin-tub plugged into a socket wired from the sacred heart lamp.

You worked with blood – even wiped it from pullets’ eggs, made butter in a brown bottle, prayed to a priest’s back on Sunday, while on the radio, politicians spoke of their economic plan.

I leave you at the head of the table, the lifelines of your palms vanishing again and again in folds of dough.

I view the scene as you yourself would watch a hawk hover over the chicken-run – your heart throbbing, the scream in your throat.

The Linnet's Wings

SUMMER 2OI5

Pinocchio And The Talking Cricket

by Thomas Norman No Pinocchio, you did not kill me. You failed.

When the hammer sailed through the air, you failed.

And there began your trail of troubles!

Mad at Geppeto, getting locked up for neglecting and abandoning you.

So you left, wandering on your fatuous quest.

Acquired a few coins for doing tricks; a piece of pine! Fathead. What do you know of the world?

Then that beauty, the blue-haired fairy you found in the woods. I could have told you a thing or two about her devious ways.

Oh yes, I know about her. Thought she was the one for you didn’t you; promised to turn your coppers to gold. Blockhead!

Fairies only exist in the imagination of dunderheads . Yes, yes, I know she promised to make you rich, the sly beauty, just wanted your coppers, idiot.

And where is that gold? On a magic island she said, with a Golden Eagle waiting to fly you there. So off you trundle to the coast, and what do you find? A seagull!

Of course he agrees to fly you to the magic island; in return for half the gold! More fool him!

So did you find the promised gold? Poppycock! Of course you didn’t.

Then back you go to the blue-haired fairy’s cottage, only to find an old hag! I could have told you. No gold, no fairy beauty and not even the coppers you started with.

And now you come crawling back to Geppetto, heart broken, rotten with decay. Be thankful he took you back woodenhead.

But I’m still here Pinocchio, and I know those secrets in your rotted heart..

All your dreams have come to this: A table leg!

Illustration to 'Wooden Eagle' by Heorhiy Narbut The Linnet's Wings

SUMMER 2OI5

Bertha by Bob Beagrie Brave a long stomp through the back end of Bertha along the promenade passed the crumpled, sea stained Regent coated, booted against swale and squall of Summer’s fish n chip and lemon topped Sunday marveling at the skim of swallow dips over puddles banqueting on the wing upon swarms of sandflies

rain pours with finger-numbing cold a wild clap of thunder sets us to staring into the broil; for the nameless wailing inside ourselves clambering out of surf, as we did in the time before time; reminded of our recurring separation, of our perfect smallness in long blades of The Stray at a hurricane’s wake.

by brine-slick slide soaked drum-skins of trampolines with grizzled cloudscape gurning overhead and the bottle-green tide gnawing at pebble and sand, tattered rope, driftwood, sea glass, smudges of coal dust behind our backs waves reclaim footprints,

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SUMMER 2OI5

Maple Saplings by Tom Thomson

Fraud by William A. Greenfield I have it all backwards, not moved by the intricacies of an autumn maple leaf, not in awe of ocean surf, no need or desire to describe the dark closet of my childhood home or the fear felt when the air raid siren wailed.

No words burn so intense that I must bare my soul,

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so call me cold. But it is something I’ve chosen to create. A poem, the flower I plant today to admire tomorrow, the red striped tie with the perfect windsor knot, the final coat of varnish on a scalloped picture frame.

SUMMER 2OI5 William Glackens: Flowers Against a Palm Leaf Pattern

In San Angel by MANDY MACDONALD At this jacaranda-shaded café, waiters hover, ready to pounce the moment any glass is empty, any ashtray full.

Solitary watching is permitted, if you’re a tourist, but only for so long.

Those rich girls from Coyoacán in their dizzying heels and tight, tight jeans salsa by across a minefield of gaps and potholes, the pavement their catwalk. Against probability, they never fall over.

As the afternoon lengthens the dog-walkers come out.

Sooty scotties, skewbald spaniels, classy breeds with curly tails jostle and frolic, tug at their leads, escape, rush round the plazuela, in and out of the low box hedges; go hysterical, chased by insurgent children, among the trees painted white waist-high, the glaucous blades of agave.

The old men, though, forever clustered by the fountain, smoke and gossip; the shrieking green parrots on fly-past through the purpling dusk, they’ve seen it all before.

The Linnet's Wings

SUMMER 2OI5

What Rose Wanted by Charles Bane, Jr. What Rose wanted was for me to land with my crew, racing to her in the stealth of night to bring her fast to our boats.

She wanted Mass in chapel the next day and jeweled windows braiding colors across her face. She wanted bright torches of me and the flames of every star. Look, she said, they go to conquer some army like themselves in night fields far. Conquer me, she said, make me Crusade.

The Linnet's Wings

SUMMER 2OI5

Just by Jane Burn Just as the sun bows out the last of her day, hinting dapples of residue light – just as the wicker of shadows ache for fox-nose, beetle-shell, bat, so I hope for you. I am bedded in tree root, blanketed in autumn’s loss so I have comfort, of a kind.

Warm with the worms, my cheeks awake beneath the dally of centipede feet, I watch her; giant ball of fire. She has burned herself up with these shining hours. A turn from the moon; time for things that blink in too much light to have ease for their eyes – open them wide, instead of all this sideways peeping. Just as she vanishes over the curve of the earth, just as she has gone again to wait for Phaethons steeds so I wonder if tomorrow will be the morning that I wake in a cradle of your chest. Till then I have crooks of gnarly wood to brace my neck; twigs to tremble love you’s in the leaves. Just as you had me to hold you once, you’d find me still, if you could learn to look at leaf-mould; leave the light.

The Linnet's Wings

SUMMER 2OI5

How Sir Tristram Drank of the Love Drink by Aubrey Beardsley

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SUMMER 2OI5

Dunoon Ferry by Des Dillon Tonight’s ferry floats upon her ghost; the Zavaroni chip-shop sign summons up the seventies. Maybe the words were red but they’re tired now and tilted slightly.

Traces of chips and vinegar drag me to flared trousered lunch time first year love, radio belting out Mama he’s makin’ eyes at me and I’m imagining Angie Maguire singing even though her mother was dead and she was nearly an orphan except for her dad who found me Bay City Roller drunk in her garden and phoned the stomach pump.

And wine’s promises are a curse like fame Lena, thinning away like the chip shop sign.

The Linnet's Wings

SUMMER 2OI5

Where Have All the Flowers Gone? by Amy N Smith

Children of the artist by Boris Kustodiev

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SUMMER 2OI5

I am five, and my grandmother is leading me through her garden. The smell of roses and jasmine envelop me, wrapping me in their warm, heady embrace. Ivy and wisteria twist and grow together on trellises and through the wrought-iron bars of the garden’s fence, separating me from the outside world, as if I’m in a fairy tale all my own. I watch my grandmother water amaryllis and buttercups and trim back the protruding branches of her lilac trees. Her hands are aged and worn, but careful–they tend to the flowers and vines and trees with the same gentle touch that holds me when I cry, and comforts me when I’m sick.

W

e’re all going places, all have different views on life and how its cogs work and turn and keep us moving forward. Each strip of asphalt, with its lines and markers and tire stains, either brings us that much closer to comfort and understanding, or takes us further away from what our souls wish for the most.

The view out of the grimy bus window somewhat dims my view of the passing landscape, but in no way diminishes it–if anything, it only serves to add to the wonder and awe of a landscape untouched by mankind, saved from the tarnish of industry and modernity. The snow-capped mountains in the distance dwarf the evergreens and wildflowers lining the highway–their peaks seem to reach and stretch for the heavens, straining and yearning to touch what can’t be attained.

The bus is overcrowded, and hot–children cry and squirm in their mother’s arms and old women tiredly readjust their Easter hats, procuring bits of paper and old church bulletins from their purses in an attempt to fan away some of the excess heat. Men flip lazily through newspapers they’ve read six times before, blankly skimming over bold headlines and advice columns. A young woman clutches the photograph of a soldier in her hands, carefully running her fingers over its glossy surface, an unvoiced wish for a gentle embrace and a safe return.

The woman next to me is nodding off against my shoulder, content after recounting to me tales of her grown daughter, whom she hadn’t seen in years–she was going to visit her, and see her grandchildren for the very first time. She didn’t have any pictures with her, but was able to describe each of them in full detail, right down to how many freckles peppered each of their noses. She smiles in her sleep.

Wildflowers sway in the draft from the bus, dancing and waving in the breeze.

I am five, and my grandmother is leading me through her garden. The smell of roses and jasmine envelop me, wrapping me in their warm, heady embrace. Ivy and wisteria twist and grow together on trellises and through the wrought-iron bars of the garden’s fence, separating me from the outside world, as if I’m in a fairy tale all my own. I watch my grandmother water amaryllis and buttercups and trim back the protruding branches of her lilac trees. Her hands are aged and worn, but careful–they tend to the flowers and vines and trees with the same gentle touch that holds me when I cry, and comforts me when I’m sick.

The Linnet's Wings

SUMMER 2OI5 She picks a rose and threads it into my hair. Its petals flutter in the breeze.

We pull up at a bus stop, snow-capped mountains beginning to fade into the distance. The old ladies pile out of the bus, clutching their Easter hats and makeshift fans as if they’re expensive collectables. They all file into the bus station, sighing and exclaiming thanks and praise for the cool, conditioned air inside. The men refold their newspapers for the tenth time and slowly shuffle off of the bus, grunting and complaining and stretching. Some wander off to waiting cars while others pick out a bench in a fair bit of shade, readjusting themselves there and unfolding their newspapers for the eleventh time. The young woman simply switches seats on the bus, still clasping the photograph in her hands. She kisses it.

Moments later, a young boy boards the bus with his grandfather, laughing and joking as they take their seats across from me. They are followed by a hippie–she has flowers braided into her hair, a tambourine, and a guitar case littered with stickers and glittery peace signs. She curls up next to a window, and procures a tattered copy of Silent Spring from god knows where. A group of young, chattering mothers climb aboard–they all glare and cast rude glances towards the hippie and sit as far away from her as possible, whispering and pointing and shaking their heads. The bus pulls away, and once again I am enamored with the wildflowers and trees and mountains in the distance. Even though they don’t seem as large and menacing as they did earlier, the mountains still convey a sense of power–looming in the distance, their peaks and ridges and valleys a testament to the strength and willpower of the natural world.

The woman next to me shifts in her sleep while the boy and his grandfather press their noses against the bus window, and begin a game of I Spy. The boy blurts out clues in rapid succession, barely giving the grandfather a chance to comprehend the first clue before he moves on to the next–the group of mothers all laugh and praise the boy for being overly innocent and adorable. The hippie pulls a notepad and pen out of her guitar case, and begins to take notes on the novel–the mothers all roll their eyes, and mumble continued insults under their breaths. One of the mothers pulls photographs out of her purse and begins to brag about her children, which leads the rest of the group to dig frantically through their bags in a search for proof of their children’s accomplishments. The boy and the hippie are forgotten, in favor of awards and saved report cards brandished like the kill from a good hunt.

I roll my eyes. The hippie laughs.

I am fifteen years old and grandmother is drying my tears, laughing at the imagined slights of a teenager suffering through the latent effects of puberty. You don’t know pain, sweetheart; you’re far too young, she says.

I shake my head, and turn away. Grandmother knows nothing. She laughs again and takes my hand, leading me downstairs to the kitchen. I sit at a stool and watch her hobble towards the stove, pulling flour and lard from the cabinets and buttermilk from the fridge. Come on now, help me make biscuits; it’ll get your mind off things, she says. She sifts the flour and puffs of white powder fill the air, homemade clouds in a sunless sky.

She hums as she works, forming biscuits the same way she’s done since she was a child. Grandmother motions me over with a flour-coated hand. You try, she says. I smile.

Thick gloomy clouds roll across the sky like waves, bunching together in dark masses, jolts of lightning announcing their union. The young boy shrieks, and curls up in his grandfather’s lap–this catches the attention of the group of mothers, who discard their photographs like trash and coo and awe over the child’s naive fear.

The Linnet's Wings

SUMMER 2OI5 Thunder roars in the distance, and I can feel the sound reverberating off the bus windows. The young woman jumps, and clutches the picture of her soldier just a bit closer, as if even a trace of his presence will comfort her during the storm.

Drops of rain patter against the windows, clearing away some of the dust and grime. Drizzle soon becomes a downpour, making it all but impossible to make out anything in the distance–the mountains disappear from view, replaced by the sounds and strikes of an angry thunderstorm. The woman next to me still has not stirred.

The hippie has turned away from her book, lulled to sleep by the drone of the bus’s engine and the thrum of raindrops hitting the roof. She looks peaceful.

I am twenty years old, and I am afraid. Clothed entirely in black I stand at my mother’s grave, unable to throw my handful of dirt onto her casket. It’s raining, but I don’t care. The droplets have matted my hair and stained my dress, making the fabric cling awkwardly to my legs. I am cold, but I don’t care. Mama will never be warm again, either. Grandmother takes my other hand, and squeezes it–her hand is warm, while mine are colder than ice. It’s okay, she whispers, the Lord needed her more than we did. I tell her it isn’t okay, that I don’t have a home, that no one is ever again going to be there for me like mama was. Grandmother kisses my cheek. You always have a home with me, child; I will always be here for you, she says. She carefully tosses a rose into my mother’s grave, one I’d watched her pick from her garden just this morning. She’d spent over an hour walking through the rows and around the trellises, looking for just the right one–she’d feel the petals of one flower, shake her head, and move on to the next. Your mother would have done the same for me, she said. Grandmother might know something, after all.

I throw my handful of dirt into my mother’s grave. Grandmother cries.

The bus pulls up at another stop, and the group of mothers sigh in relief. The rain has since stopped–the skies have opened up to reveal a rainbow, all the more bright and beautiful after such a torrential downpour.

The mothers all file off of the bus, giving the hippie one final glare and hmmph before each going off to their waiting families, smiling and waving goodbye. The young girl steels herself, briefly hugging the picture once again before gathering her things, and heading off the bus. There, on the sidewalk, is her waiting soldier–she throws herself into his arms, photograph thrown to the wind like a useless advertisement. It flutters to the ground, and I can see the soldier mouth I love you to the girl–pure happiness seems to radiate off of her, almost palpable in the hot summer air. The soldier takes her bags and carries her to his car, and I can see her smile even from this far away–it’s more brilliant than the rainbow ever was.

The grandfather leads the young boy off the bus, joking and laughing just as they were before, fear from the storm completely forgotten. The hippie is still sleeping–curled up next to the window, her guitar case acting as a makeshift pillow. The woman next to me wakes, and excitedly beings chattering about her daughter and grandchildren again. This is her stop–she quickly begins to gather her things, pulls a suitcase and an overnight bag from under her seat, and straightens her dress. She takes her things and wishes me the best of luck–tells me I’m the sweetest girl she’s ever met, that she hopes the rest of my travels are safe and sound–and exits the bus, easily finding her daughter and grandchildren in the crowd.

I wait for the crowds around the station to disperse, and exit the bus. I am the last passenger off. The bus pulls away, rumbling back onto the highway, further and further away from the mountains in the distance.

There is no car waiting for me–I take a taxi, thankful for the relief from the stifling heat of the bus. The taxi pulls away from the station and I watch the landscape roll by, endless farmland and forests ahead of me. The The Linnet's Wings

SUMMER 2OI5 driver makes no attempt at small talk, leaving me to comfort and entertain myself.

An hour passes, and it is late in the afternoon by the time the taxi pulls up outside the old church. The white paint is crumbling, and ivy crawls its way up the windowsills–grandmother would have never seen it this way. I take my things and thank the driver–he insists the ride was free of charge, but I give him a small tip anyways. The car pulls away and I walk around the church, following the smell of roses and wildflowers–grandmother would have wanted it this way.

They are still digging my grandmother’s grave–two men tirelessly breaking the soil apart with shovels, carefully avoiding the flowers as they toss it aside. Flowers of all varieties adorn the ground around her grave, spilling out of baskets and pots and ribbons, filling the air with a fragrance so sweet it’s almost offending. I am early, but grandmother would have wanted that–I take my time looking over each flower, carefully turning the delicate petals over in my hand. I have to find just the right one.

After grandmother is lowered into the ground and the men begin tossing the dirt back into the grave, I throw my rose onto her casket.

I am twenty-five, and my grandmother knew everything.

~~~

The Linnet's Wings

SUMMER 2OI5

The Linnet's Wings

SUMMER 2OI5

Cassandra's Eyes by Lesley Galeote

The Singing Lesson by Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec

Cassandra opened the door and saw a shadow in the half light, standing among the desks. He was waiting for her, again. He was barely sixteen and his eyes gleamed like a cat’s, green and evil.

“Hi, Cassandra,” he purred, baring his little teeth. “How are you today?”

“Get out! You shouldn’t be here!”

His fists tightened. “Don’t talk to me like that. I’m your pupil. I just want to show you something.”

He opened his right fist and showed her a handful of dust. It was ground chalk, white and shiny. He blew it into a cloud that stung her eyes and her books hit the floor as she covered her face.

The Linnet's Wings

SUMMER 2OI5 “And now I am leaving, Cassaaaandra.”

He slinked out as she wiped the tears with her sleeves. Her year ten students would be back from P.E. any minute.

After class, two boys stopped her in the hall. They were fifteen and their hair was cut in a burr.

“Lend us thirty quid, miss.” They burst into childish laughter and scuttled past her.

Thirty pounds. Those boys had stolen thirty pounds from her handbag in class last December, five months ago. The headmistress threatened the class with detention and got the money back.

“We won’t punish them or write any reports,” she said, placing two crumpled banknotes in Cassandra’s hand. “That’s best for them.”

But it was not best for Cassandra. It was her downfall.

The headmistress said the children did not respect Cassandra, that she lacked experience in comprehensive schools with dysfunctional pupils. Punishments did not gain one respect, she said, and good teachers used none. The headmistress recited wonderful theories about classroom control. She taught no classes.

The pale April light filtered through interior windows into the hall. Cassandra’s gaze swept the cracked skirting as she headed to her department. Now she locked her handbag there. It was a room with two doors for two corridors with classrooms. One was year ten’s, the other, year eleven’s. A minute later she was back in the hall, locking the door, her handbag over her shoulder. The place was quiet.

She heard a hiss.

“Cassaaandra…Casssssaaaaandra…”

She looked back. He was leaning against the wall, his smile cruel and charming.

“What do you want, Mark?”

He pointed a fore and middle finger at each of her eyes, narrowing his own into slits. Then he turned and padded down the hall.

Cassandra dreaded having Mark in class. He was sometimes disruptive, but on most days he listened to his walkman while he drew Manga faces and filled in their eyes with a black pen. She had once made the mistake of confiscating his walkman for a week and now he made her life hell.

She slipped out the building, a concrete bunker boxed in a council estate on a hill. A long stairway led down to a sandwich bar where she had a perfunctory lunch.

Back at the steps, she glanced up at the bare brick blocks looming over the city. They reached up to a scum white sky streaked in grey, casting their shadow on her as she climbed the stairs. She saw them swaying.

Or was it the clouds drifting? She was dizzy. The world was slipping away. The mountain slope became a giant clock and Cassandra saw herself crucified among roman numerals, clinging to surface cracks with toes and fingers. She grabbed onto the rail and breathed in deeply to make the terracotta buildings materialize again. On the last step she glanced at school windows crammed with teenagers spitting out.

That afternoon she had to go to the detention room. Seated in a corner, her back to the wall, she marked tests. A drawing compass under a chair caught her eye, but just then Mark arrived followed by a boy, who kept a Swiss army knife in his pocket, and a fake blonde. All three were chewing gum.

“We’ve been kicked out of class,” chanted the girl.

Mark licked his lips and smiled an angelic smile.

The Linnet's Wings

SUMMER 2OI5 Cassandra told them to sit down and went on marking, oblivious to the background chatter. It was the silence, a dead silence, that made her look up.

She saw a spike hovering over her left eye. Mark was holding the compass. Cassandra pulled away. Her chair scraped the floor as it hit the wall and she squeezed against the back. The spike followed her. It stopped an inch from her eyeball. She was trapped in the corner, a wall behind her back, another on her right, a desk in front and Mark on her left.

“Mark,” she said, “put that compass down.”

Silence. His hand was trembling. His pupils had grown into black circles rimmed in green.

He’s afraid, thought Cassandra. “Come on,” she said without raising her voice. “Leave that compass on the table.” She could hear him breathing.

She waited, the steel point suspended before her cornea.

Time stood still. “Come on, Mark. Put it down.”

Door bangs echoed in the halls, distant and muffled. Faraway hollering carried news of a fight. Cassandra swallowed, breathless. She felt faint. How long could she sit that still? The silence was thick in the detention room. She heard her heart pounding in her head. And then Mark lowered his arm, shaking. He stepped back, sweating and panting and the blood rushed to Cassandra’s face. Mark sat down and the three teenagers jabbered away as if nothing had happened.

She did not say a word in the remaining thirty minutes. What for? Writing reports was useless. The headmistress did not allow suspensions; parents did not like them.

Three hours later Cassandra was back home. She sat down in front of her vanity mirror. She was deteriorating visibly. Her hair had no luster, her skin looked dull, and her eyes feverish. Her fingers started to undo her plait. At first, the kids were fascinated by that bronze plait that went down to her waist. The youngest would crowd around her and touch it. Once she felt a gentle tug; she turned round and saw a flaming lighter in a tiny hand. She pushed the child away and ran.

Cassandra trusted no one. She kept the kids at arm’s length and learned to sense their presence before seeing them. She could detect them all, except for Mark and his feline steps. He would materialize out of nowhere and vanish like smoke.

Mark was not like the rest. He had no friends and his classmates feared him. The bullies and muggers left him alone. Mark did not sniff paint thinner. He did not need to. He saw the world his way since he was born. He did not join others to torment the weak. He did not have to. He tortured his victims on his own.

His parents never came to the school or answered calls. Mark had no one to fear and nothing to lose.

The phone was ringing. Cassandra stared at her dark eyes in the mirror and she let the phone ring. The sound persisted but she no longer picked up when friends called.

At first she told them what she was going through: the robbery, the rudeness, the unsupportive headmistress. Their response was skeptical. They said she did not understand children, that she had to be patient, learn to speak their language and win them over. She described their hooligan stunts: waves, stampedes, farting contests, dark rooms, paper balls on fire and staged beatings. Her friends stared in disbelief and said she was making it up; they read the press and those things only happened in America. She said the kids sniffed paint thinner and carried knives, and she was scared, but they said she shouldn’t complain; her job was easy and she had lots of holidays. She stopped talking to them.

The ringing died down. Cassandra heaved her slight body up from her chair and dragged herself to a The Linnet's Wings

SUMMER 2OI5 police station. She had once gone to the teacher’s union where a bald man who never set foot in classrooms offered vague answers to her urgent questions.

At the police station a young officer listened to her. He did not blink once while she spoke. He took her seriously. He was the first person to take her seriously.

“What can I do?” she gazed into his hazel eyes.

A ticking clock punctuated the silence. The policeman sighed. “Threatening to blind you with a compass definitely constitutes assault, but he’s a minor and the law is different for them.”

“But they don’t have the right to treat me like this!” Cassandra grabbed the edge of the table.

“Of course not! But we can’t do anything. Can’t the headmaster help you?”

“No. The headmistress says it’s our fault if we can’t control our classes.”

The policeman’s eyes searched Cassandra’s anxiously. “That boy’s behaviour is antisocial. He’s sick. You can’t control someone like that on your own.”

“What if he injures me?”

“Then we would have to do something.”

“But he’d have to blind me first,” Cassandra clasped her hands, squeezing them together.

The clock ticked on. The policeman was studying her fingers to avoid her eyes. She understood his silence: no law protected her. The officer fumbled in a drawer. She knew there would be a written record of her visit.

That meant trouble at the school if they found out, but she did not care.

She trudged home under a cold drizzle.

The nightmare had begun in November, when Daniel left the school. Daniel was a substitute teacher.

He had witnessed the beating of a pupil and written reports. The headmistress said that if Daniel had known how to make students respect him, they would not have dared misbehave in his presence. She got rid of Daniel and the discipline reports disappeared from the folder.

There had been a staff meeting and Cassandra had lost control and yelled at other teachers. She said that if there were no rules, no expulsions, nothing to stop pupils from doing anything, the school was doomed.

They called her alarmist and said Daniel was stupid. If he had kept his problems to himself he would not have lost his job.

“And it’s your fault if you can’t control your classes,” they sneered. “We can.”

Daniel had admitted he had discipline problems; the other teachers swore they had none. They shut doors and windows, but through the panes Cassandra had heard screams and howls and seen a flying chair or two.

The April rain poured down, chilling her through. She had forgotten her umbrella. Nausea started rising in her throat. She got home and rushed to the toilet to throw up. Then she went straight to bed.

That night Cassandra saw a thousand eyes painted on clouds above brick buildings. The tears fell on the council estate and a flood spilt over the mountain and flowed along the city avenues into the sea. In the downpour she leaned over a cliff to shout and warn the city people that they too would drown and she watched a hundred faces look up and laugh. And as they jeered she saw their eye sockets were empty.

At Wednesday recess she noticed the fake blonde sniggering at her. The girl knew Cassandra would not tell. Staff members were not equal and everyone knew her position in the hierarchy. She was at the bottom.

The Linnet's Wings

SUMMER 2OI5 In the afternoon Cassandra made her way through year eleven pupils to her department. She was unlocking when she felt heavy breathing on her neck. She spun around and saw Mark cover her eyes with his hands. She screamed and raised her fist, he swung his arm back and she leaped through the doorway.

The bang shook the walls just as Mark punched the door and tore a hole in it.

Cassandra turned the key and sat in a chair, trembling. The entire eleven year class had seen her threatening a pupil.

Shouts and screams came in through the gash, the volume drowning all words out. The door was made of cheap hollow wood and the hole was big.

She got up to spy through it, but she only saw the back of a T-shirt.

Cassandra grabbed a set of books and went out the other door to year ten. The classroom jutted out behind the department and the windows faced another class. There, behind the panes, stood Mark. He pointed at her and then he drew a line across his own eyes with his forefinger.

Cassandra approached her table and stood before a chaotic class. She detected a pair of glassy eyes in the third row. Paint thinner. I hope he doesn’t have a fit, she thought. But there were no fits that afternoon, just general apathy. A girl, the schizophrenic girl, jumped up without warning.

“Cheerio.”

Cassandra didn’t stop her from leaving. One less problem.

After class she returned to her department and heard voices bellowing from year eleven.

“Loser. Loser!” It was Mark’s voice booming right behind the door.

Cassandra took a deep breath. It had to be now. Swinging the door wide open, she grabbed his arm and yanked him in. She slammed the door and shoved him against the wall. The boy shrunk in the corner, his body curled up. His face was pale, his jaw hung open. She turned the key in the lock.

“You have no right to hit me!” he said, gasping from fear.

“And you cannot threaten me!”

“That’s different, you’re a teacher. But I’m a pupil and I have rights. The headmistress says so.”

She stood right in front of him, pressing her hands against the two walls to shut him in. The boy was cowering like a trapped animal. Her voice was a hiss: “I don’t give a damn what the headmistress says.

You are not going to blind me. I care more about my eyes than I do about this crappy job or your rights and I’d sooner go to jail than let you touch me. You will not touch me even if it means I have to kill you!”

Light from the clouds shone in through the window.

She saw Mark through a haze. “You will not disfigure me. I will do anything I have to do to stop you. I’ll smash your teeth, I’ll kick you where it hurts, I’ll do whatever it takes, but I’ll make you sorry and you’ll remember me every day for the rest of your life when you look at your pathetic little self in the mirror!”

Mark was whimpering and hugging his shaky body. “I’m going to tell the headmistress. I’ll tell her what you just said.”

“Tell her whatever you like. I don’t care. My eyes matter more than that. Don’t you ever come anywhere close to me again!” Cassandra stepped back.

“I’ll tell her,” he muttered.

“Go ahead! Who’s going to believe you?” Cassandra thrust her key into the lock and threw the door open. “Get out!”

Mark scurried down the hall.

The Linnet's Wings

SUMMER 2OI5 Cassandra sat down. She was finished. The headmistress would hear about this and she would get no support. It was a matter of time. It didn’t matter anymore. She was so tired she was past caring.

Next morning Cassandra found the headmistress scrutinizing the hole in the door.

“Do you have any idea what happened here?” the woman asked.

“No.” Cassandra did not bother to feign surprise. She stepped into her department without a word.

Mark was nowhere to be seen. She did not dare ask if he had come to school that Thursday. She spent her day ignoring apathy and dodging insults.

Her afternoon class with year nine was about to finish when the blinds dropped and someone tapped the light switch. A dark room. Cassandra swept her books off the table and snuck to the door through invisible screams and blows. She felt her way out and slunk down the hall. She checked her watch. Two minutes past three. Good. It was no longer her problem. Next was year eleven. Mark was not there.

“Why don’t you quit and leave this school, miss?” yelled the fake blonde.

“I will,” she said, dumping her books on the table. They were not the right books but it made no difference. “I’m only here for this year. Next year I’ll be gone. That’s good news for both of us, especially for me.”

The blonde frowned and looked sad. “You don’t know how lucky you are, miss. You get to leave, but we have to stay.”

And a vision flashed before Cassandra. She saw a hundred birds fluttering desperate, banging their tiny bodies against the bars of an invisible cage. It was not until years later that she wondered why when fights broke out in class, when blinds dropped to make a dark room, no kid ever did something as simple as run out the door. Long after her teaching days, the bunker school would still appear in Cassandra’s dreams and she would see Mark, the thieves, and the blonde roaming the halls, in black and white.

They yelled and fought and cried, imprisoned among drab walls, but she only heard a cold silence.

She did not see Mark for days after their confrontation on Wednesday. The following Monday she was resigned to anything. At recess she walked past a year eleven classroom and she heard Mark’s voice inside. He was standing with his back to the door, a shadow blurred by the gray daylight facing two girls who had hidden in the class to study.

“Don’t tell the headmistress about what happened between me and Cassandra,” he was saying.

“Don’t tell her a word.”

“We won’t say anything. Promise.” One of the girls leaned away from him; the other crept to the window.

“If anyone breathes a word I’ll kill them.”

Cassandra tiptoed down the corridor as schoolyard echoes bounced against the walls. She was laughing quietly. She knew she was safe. She could trust him to keep her secret.

~~~ The Linnet's Wings

SUMMER 2OI5

You'd Think We'd Know Better by David Robert Brooks The summers are hot in Chicago; no matter we're by the lake...

In the evening cool breezes blow, in the daytime it gets hot as hell.

Living on the southwest side is nothing short of miraculous, the houses are shoved together, the street is a damn parking lot.

We used to play softball on the corner at night until a quarter to ten, but we had to quit as the old folks had to be in bed by then.

We lived only three blocks from the police station, but it really wasn't that bad...

We all knew when they'd be coming, it really wasn't that bad.

This summer has been hotter than ever, the little kids and Mom's have it the worst, what with high energy prices, the TV’s and ac stay off...

For entertainment you have a few choices, go hang out at the park , ride a bicycle if you have one, or hang out on your street.

The politicians really don't understand summer, seems they have forgotten what it was like when they were kids.

We're always left to our own devices to stir up a little fun.

The Linnet's Wings

SUMMER 2OI5 Today was a particularly boring day, must ‘a been a hundred and ten, least wise Missy my little sister, said "that's what Momma said"...

I told Joey to get his father’s spare tire from out of the old garage, and I told Lilly and Frankie to get the see-saw board out from under their old front porch.

Me I was on a mission, I slipped into the old man's garage and with Missy's help dragged his huge plumber's wrench out into the front yard.

There was the object of our affections, a rusty piece of red pipe, with screw-on covers, a hydrant they call it...

So Joey got the covers off while Missy and Lilly stood between parked cars, looking in both directions, for the men in the little blue cars.

We lived only three blocks from the police station, but it really wasn't that bad...

We all knew when they'd be coming, it really wasn't that bad.

Well Joey and Frankie and I got the tire on it, you know it's gott’a fit just right, 14'' tires do the trick, if they are not on a metal rim.

The broken half of the see-saw was in place and with a whistle and a shout Missy and Lilly came running.

They knew what this was all about .

We lifted the wrench, it was steel, red with rust showing through, and I remembered which way we should turn it, and placed it tight on the top nut.

Missy and Lilly pushed and Frankie, Joey and I pulled...

A team of kids so magnificent in desire, the hydrant never stood a chance...

As the water so slowly departed the pipe, and arced up the see-saw board, I saw the curtain on Mrs. McGintey's house lift up and drop back down.

The Linnet's Wings

SUMMER 2OI5 Joey and Missy were dancing in the water and Lilly was keeping lookout, and I was kind'a worried when Mrs. McGintey stepped out...

"Goddamit David what'cha up to now?!

You know much better than this!"

You should have done this sooner she said, and she came over and planted a kiss on my dumbstruck forehead.

Ya could ‘a knocked me over with a leaf, and she said the neighborhood needed more young'ins like me to give the children and old ladies some relief...

Mrs. Morgan called her son William and they got his broken down wreck, and with the hood up, left it at the end in the center of the street.

This effectively stopped all traffic as we were a one-way street.

Then William and his buddies came up with some beers and they even gave me one.

Now my mother is a quiet woman, and ours is a tough old neighborhood, but this day even Momma came out.

Damn it sure did my young heart some good.

She and Missy and Lilly were dancing now, like leprechauns in the fountain in the street, with Mrs. McGintey in lawn chair and umbrella, in bathing suit out in the street.

Joey and I may become legends someday; we might even let Frankie step in too…

The whole neighborhood turned out that day before the summer fun would end.

The pretty older girls showed up with the boys and even the dogs turned out for a chance to dance, in the streets of Chicago at our middle street fountain get out!

The Linnet's Wings

SUMMER 2OI5 When the police car finally arrived, Mrs. McGintey met it in force, in bathing suit, straw hat and umbrella she was short and fat, naw stout maybe...

"Well Officer O’Connell good day to you, don't you think ?" and he said "why Mrs. McGintey, Doris, you're a beauty so to speak!"

Blushing she said "now Billy why don't ya come on in for a swim?"

He said "Sorry Doris, I can't let my revolver get wet."

"Well Billy O’Connell mighty nice you showed for my party, as you can see it's under control, and you can tell the Alderman, we all pay for this water, he ain't got to worry so..."

"Doris in any other neighborhood, you know there'd be a ticket and a fine, but well here it's a little different, and my golly Doris, you really look fine."

"Well I go back to the station, now see ‘in I've checked it out, the disturbance was Mrs. McGintey, nothing to worry about."

So he backed down the street to the corner and was gone in a turn and a splash and we've had a damn good summer; even Momma has danced in the streets.

When it was all over there was just Joey and Frankie and me to collect the wrench and the tire and board and put them back safely in their places.

Three blocks from the police station; you’d think we'd know better…

That weekend when Daddy came home there wasn't even a word, he just slapped me on the back and said "good job kid".

I wonder if he'd heard... ~lil Davey Highpockets ~~~ The Linnet's Wings

Design, MLF @2015, The Art in the Word