Geeklog Site

Raphael's Village Contributor Has a New Book Out!

Mon, 14 Jun 2010 00:00:00 -0700

It's always exciting to see our contributors doing well! Here's a new humorous parenting book from one of our contributors -- check it out and see if it's for you! Humor Editor

Oblivious to the Obvious: Wishfully Mindful Parenting, by KJ Hannah Greenberg, published by French Creek Press

Where you ever in Quebec? Were you ever responsible for a yard sale, for a bake sale or for the resale of overly ambitious hedgehogs? Even if not, join the celebration taking place in Oblivious to the Obvious: Wishfully Mindful Parenting of junk mail-fashioned sculptures, of hungry, angry, riotous quolls and of shiny, acrylic pantsuits. As you turn this book’s pages, you are invited to sigh, to pout and to otherwise chortle in unison with KJ Hannah Greenberg as she tells tales about raising modern children.
In Oblivious to the Obvious, the joys of nay saying gothic nail polish and the horrors of encountering roosting lizards are explicated. Children who argue over their portion of motel rooms, siblings who fight over car seats and youngsters who go into battle over whose turn it is to empty the dishwasher all are included.

In this book, family life is not merely one mom’s experience of shouting down the hall to demand that the kids lessen the decibels issuing from their stereos, Ipods, and stringed, electric instruments nor is it merely one mom’s exploration of teenagers’ uncanny fashion sense, of nursing toddlers’ surprising schedules or of elementary school children’s notions about how to construct good sandwiches (marshmallow fluff coupled with pickles chips ranks fairly high on such lists). Rather, Oblivious to the Obvious is also concerned with nodding at broken heaters, at flooding toilets and at scores of uninvited visitors, both human and multi-legged in nature.

Sit back and laugh as Hannah chooses, daily, between five minutes of sleep and hot water for her shower, as her furballs succeed in reigning supreme, except for when they knock over her antiques, and as her family’s craft materials breed faster than do most of her dust bunnies. Smile, too when Hannah’s children discover that there’s no more ketchup in her entire house or when they realize that the singular piece of athletic gear brother needs for a sporting event has already been absconded with by sister for a drama presentation.

It’s not remarkable to be possessed of a husband, of a bevy of children, of a home, and of a job. Sadly, however, it’s becoming increasingly rare to be able to beam about such assemblages. Oblivious to the Obvious: Wishfully Mindful Parenting can bring that solace back, can help you work your smile muscles and can aid you in stretching what’s left of your sanity.

Join Hannah in frenetic her romp through exhausted printer ribbons, busted vacuum cleaners, and tuckered out grandparents. Find your inner oven mitt, retrace your report card traumas, and laugh, just a little, over lice, brown rice, and the nice things most of us tend to say about smelly, sticky babies.

Oblivious to the Obvious will not get your kids to bed on time, will not remind your husband to leave you love notes, and will not cause your employer to give you a raise or to stop asking you to make coffee. Oblivious to the Obvious will, however, help you express amusement at such small things.

Link to Amazon.com to purchase Obvlivious to the Obvious. You can find excertps from the book at the author's website, KJ Hannah Greenberg. Happy reading!

Are you a Raphael's Village contributor with a book or collection available? Let our editorial staff know, and we'll be happy to share your news, too!

The Deadliest Catch, by Heather Gregson

Fri, 07 May 2010 00:00:00 -0700

We weren't sure whether to put this into Fiction, add on a Horror forum, or just turn anti-shellfish, but finally decided it fit perfectly into the Humor Forum. Perfectly. In a very deadly way, at least. And we doubt too many of our readers will be heading to Red Lobster any time soon. Humor Editor

The Deadliest Catch, by Heather Gregson

This is the Bering Sea. 1 million square miles of the most dangerous, and treacherous waters. Violent waves, bone numbing cold and bone crushing steel, make Alaskan crab fishing the deadliest job in the world. Welcome to the Deadliest Catch.

Captain Johnathan on the Time Bandit is enjoying calm seas and warm temperatures. He is first to the crab grounds and prepares to drop all 125 pots to catch his first 100,000 pounds to make his first offload delivery date.
*****

"It doesn't get any better than this. Warm sun, flat calm. Makes you wonder what's brewing. You know we're going to pay for this later. You guys ready?" Johnathan asks.

"It's King Crab, baby," Andy yells up from the deck.

"Got a crab pot soaking," Johnathan says, hitting the buzzer to signal the launch of the pot.

*****

30 hours after dropping their pots, the Time Bandit returns to start pulling the first string and see if they've landed on the crab or dropped their pots in crab desert. As the block strains and the pot comes over the rail, it's obvious the Time Bandit has hit pay dirt.

*****

"Look at this. These have to be 8 pounds each," Andy calls, holding up two large King crab.

"Yeah baby," Johnathan says into the PA, seeing the pot empty on the sorting table. "If each pot is like this, we're going to fill this boat real fast.

*****

As each pot comes over the rail, it is filled with over one hundred keepers. Captain Johnathan has landed all the Time Bandit's pots on a dense biomass. With each string, the boat's holds quickly fill to capacity.

As the crew secures the deck and then gets some much needed sleep, Captain Johnathan steers to St Paul Island where the Time Bandit will be first to offload.

*****

With great care, the King crab pile one on top of the other. When the stack is high enough, the lead King crab turns the lids and it slips off the tank as the Time Bandit rises and fall in the swells. With lid off, the King crab being their climb out of the crab tank. One crab clamps its powerful claws on the edge while another clasps on to its hind set of legs. One at a time, another crab grabs on and the neat stack transforms into a ladder that stretches into the depths of the crab tank.

The first crabs out of the tank hurry to the starboard and aft crab tanks and lift the lids enough for them to wash off. Again the ladder of crabs quickly forms and faster than the tanks filled, they empty. When the last crab climbs out of the tank, their attention turns toward the galley door. Neat rows of crab towers form as they reach for the door. Turning the handle the door gives way with a squeak and clank of metal.

As they pour into galley, the lead Kind crab sticks his long probing tongue out and tastes the air.

With no need of further instruction, the crabs divide into two groups. They know what they are about. They have waited a year for this. Most were juveniles last year. They had been in the pots, only to be tossed back because they were too small. But not before they had heard the screams of their fathers and brothers as they were shoved into the tanks.

These crabs had been too small then. Then...not now.

Only the rhythmic clicking of their feet on the floor can be heard. Those who enter the crews' sleeping quarters, spilt into five groups. Each group climbing onto the bunk of a crewman.They start with the crewmen's feet. They want them to live long through this. They want each snip of flesh, each jolt of pain to linger.

*****

Andy wakes first. A sharp nip on his toe. What the hell are those guys up to, he wonders as he flicks on the light over his bunk. It is then he hears the scream, is it Scott or Eddie? Another sharp bite of his foot jolts Andy upright.

"What the fuck?" Andy yells in agony."Get off. Get off!"

He can feel the stick warmth of his own blood as the pool of blood grows around his feet. Looking down he sees a swarming mass of King crab. Each one biting a piece of his flesh off with their large, crushing claws. He tries to climb out of his bunk, but more King crab come clambering up his chest. The weight of them forcing him back down. He is helpless as each piece of flesh is viciously ripped from his bones. The severed tendons snap back, leaving bloody whip trails across the walls of the cabin. He can see the pearlescent sheen of bloody bone, protruding where there is no flesh.

The screams of his crewmates drown together in a gurgling mass of clicking claws and blood choked cries.

*****

The leader of the King crab is first to see Captain Johnathan. Hearing the cries of his crew, John raises his hand to hit the alarm, but instead, he hits the hard unyielding, spiked shell of the leader of the King crab. A large sharp claw grabs and crushes his thumb. The claw, crushing the bone into jagged splinters. Another crab, bites through the leather of the Captain's cowboy boot, rending a piece of flesh from his ankle bone. Desperate to escape, Johnathan kicks one of the crabs, sending it careening into the door and splitting it's shell open. The crab's innards ooze out, to mix with Johnathan's own blood on the wheelhouse floor.

"Son-of-a-bitch," Jonathan yells.

The lead King crab severs Johnathan's thumb from his hand, dropping the digit to the hungry mass now devouring Johnathan legs.

Eating his legs out from under him, the crabs turn their attention to the Captain's abdomen. His intestines spill onto the floor as the crabs devour them with malicious delight.

Seeing the last bit of their foe swallowed, the lead King crab picks up the body of their dead compatriot and begins to descend the stairs. He climbs out the doorand sildes down the chuteinto the Bering Sea. The body of their fallen brother, still in his claws.

Their work finished with quick, bloody and deadly efficiency, the King crab slide down the chute and march to the next set of crab pots.

*****

Each of the 98 boats that left Dutch Harbor in search of the elusive King crab was found adrift, with nothing onboard, save masses of dried blood and the bones of the crews. This Alaskan King Crab season was indeed The Deadliest Catch.

Laura Lynn Gatzow

Fri, 23 Apr 2010 00:00:00 -0700

Laura Lynn Gatzow is a freelance writer from Waukesha, Wisconsin who loves to dabble in short fiction, poetry, and creative nonfiction. Her real jobs, working with the elderly as a Certified Nursing Assistant and Home Health Aide, often inspire her to write pieces that have emotional resonance. Her short story, “Afterimage,” will appear in the May 2010 issue of All Things Girl.

Mystical Journey, by Laura Lynn Gatzow

Fri, 23 Apr 2010 00:00:00 -0700

An interesting story about faith and hope from a new contributor. We think you'll enjoy the twist at the end. Fiction Editor

Mystical Journey, by Laura Lynn Gatzow

A gritty road zippered its way through the desert landscape that lay on each side of Lana. There hadn’t been a car for over an hour, until now, until she heard the sweet whir of tires on asphalt. Lana hooked one thumb in the belt loop of her shorts and jutted the other out toward the road at the oncoming car, which kicked up sand as it swooshed by. She turned and flipped the bird. “Son of a bitch! Aaahhhgg! I hope you crash your Cadillac and end up with a cactus up your ass!” She would have thrown something too, had there been anything handy. But all Lana had was sand in her Sketchers, a diaper bag over her shoulder, a panting beagle, and a bawling six-month-old wiggling like a capsized beetle in a car seat at her feet.
“Shhh…Shhh…it’s okay. We’re okay, little one. Some folks just don’t have a heart. They’re too busy. Too busy chasin’ dreams. Right, Angus?” The dog wagged his tail and whined. “Atta boy. Well, I’m done chasin’ dreams—done with God, with your daddy, with the marriage, with the house in the burbs. It’s just not worth it. It’ll be you and me, baby. And we’ll do damn fine.” Lana rocked the car seat as she squatted and stared at the cherubic face of her child. His eyes seemed to brim with disbelief. Lana sighed, as if she could decipher little Dylan’s not-yet-coherent thoughts.

Once he quieted down, she scanned her surroundings again. Nothing but sand dotted with brown and sickly green shrubs stretched out to the north, abutted by a mass of moody blue mountains in the distance. To the south, cacti stood like strange totems worshipping the sun, arms raised high, as if at gunpoint. Lana reflected on the devastating beauty all around her. The yellow orb in the sky consumed everything; even cirrus clouds basking on the horizon looked sunburned. They promised perhaps another hour of light. Lana shuddered, even though she was soaked wet with sweat. The futility of her situation gripped her like a boa constrictor. Dead car, dead cell, dead…everything.

The Jeep Liberty sat a few paces in front of her, hood agape to expose its mechanical innards, which hissed and spat like an angry snake. Regret began to eat away at Lana’s determination. Had she bit off more than she could chew? If only she could find someone to help her off this God forsaken road! Then she’d show Mike what a real family should be. She touched her swollen eye with tentative fingers. No. Regret can kiss my ass, she thought.

***

Lana woke to Angus barking. She struggled to sit up, her skin so moist that the back of her thighs stuck to the leather interior. It was so black outside that if it hadn’t been for solidity of the passenger seat beneath her, she would have felt like she was floating in the void of space. Through the moonroof Lana could see so many stars that the sky seemed like a fantastic sequined evening gown. She had to pee. She realized Angus did, too. “Okay, boy. Let’s go.”

As she climbed out of the SUV, she grabbed a flashlight from the glove compartment and flicked it on. There really wasn’t a need to seek privacy, but Lana felt less vulnerable relieving herself behind a clump of brush nearby. She could hear Dylan starting to fuss, so she hastily zipped up and started back for the car. “C’mon, Angus.” That’s when she felt the double bite pierce her ankle like a hot tapestry needle. By the time Lana shined the flashlight on her attacker, it had bit again, this time further up her shin. She brushed the scorpion off, and stomped her foot in finality. “Let’s get outta here, boy.”

As Lana traced her way back to the vehicle, she could feel a fiery, tingling sensation race up her leg, then the whole leg went numb and she fell. She felt like she was suffocating, and spittle started running out of her mouth. Lana called for Angus, who obediently came, but his form was so blurry she didn’t recognize him until he nuzzled her face and whined. Oh, dear God, help me, she thought, as she listened to Dylan’s wails. There are no atheists in foxholes. It was the last thing Lana remembered before she passed out.

***

Lana opened her eyes and almost swatted at Angus, who had been pawing her arm. He wagged his tail and barked. “Good to see you, too, old friend.” The stars were still glimmering in the sky, and Dylan was still crying, so she figured she hadn’t been unconscious very long. “I’ve got to get back to my baby. Lord, give me strength.”

As she tried to stand, Lana became acutely aware of an intense pounding throb in her leg. She wobbled on one foot, then gingerly set weight on the other. Pain shot up her calf and thigh like a searing hot brand and she crumpled to the ground. Lana’s breathing was labored. It felt as though she was climbing a mountain. Tears welled up in her eyes. “God, where are you?” Just then, away in the distance, Lana caught the faint purr of a diesel engine. It was getting louder. Then the stars started to whirl in the heavens and their shimmering lights went out.

***

“Ma’am?” Lana thought she was dreaming at first. “Darlin’, can you hear me?"

She stirred, then stared at the figure kneeling next to her—a ruddy-faced man with a moustache and a balding pate he wore like a tonsure. He wasn’t quite in focus, but he was real. “Thank God. I thought I was going to die out here and become carrion for all the wild animals. My son…is he alright?”

“Well, now, it’s a good thing I got young uns of my own. He’s been fed and changed. I dare say he’ll not be a fussin’ any time soon. Called a tow for your four by four, too.”

“Wow. This is better than roadside assistance.” Lana smiled, gratefully.

“Now. How about you?” The man frowned and shined the light over Lana’s puffy eye.

“Oh, that. That’s a whole other story. My husband…well, it’s complicated.” Lana brushed a hand over her eye as if to dismiss it.

“Complicated looks like it hurts.”

“Yeah, well, it’s my leg that is killing me. Got stung by a scorpion three times.” She held up three fingers to emphasize that fact.

“Good God, it’s a miracle you’re still alive. Can you walk?”

“Not on water!” Lana laughed like she hadn’t in months.

The man shook his head. “Looks like that scorpion really did a number on you.”

“Yeah, maybe. But you should see him.” Lana smiled as the man helped her to her feet.

“Ma’am, I have you at a disadvantage. I know your name is Lana Nichols from the papers in your car. My name’s Rollie.”

“You’re my hero, Rollie. Good to know…you…sorry, I’m a little woozy yet.” Now that they were both standing, Lana could see how tall he was.

“Can you make it to my rig, or do you want me call an ambulance?” Rollie steadied her with his strong arms.

Lana frowned. “Where’s Angus?”

Rollie stared at her blankly for a moment. “Oh, the dog! He’s in the cab of my truck. Mighty fine animal. Led me right to you.”

“What a good boy! Special treats for him when we get to Phoenix. I don’t think an ambulance is necessary. With a little help, I can make it to the road.”

Lana winced each time she stepped with the bad leg. But she was breathing easier, and for the first time in what seemed like hours, she didn’t feel like passing out.

***

Even at 4:14 a.m., Banner Good Samaritan Medical Center’s emergency department was chock full of ailing patients. Lana sat in an exam room with Dylan for what seemed like eons before the doctor finally saw her. She made up a lame excuse for the swollen eye. “I fell.”

“Sand must be getting harder these days.”

“Not in the desert. At home.”

“Ah.” The doctor gave her a steroid medication to help her breathing, then cleaned and iced the bite sites. He told her to elevate the bad leg above heart level and advised against going to the bathroom at night in the middle of the desert, since scorpions are nocturnal creatures. Who knew? Lana didn’t. She was fifteen hundred miles from home, in a place so foreign to her, she might as well have been in the Sahara desert. But this is what she had wanted—a fresh start in new city where no one knew her name. Except Rollie. He was waiting outside with Angus, a mere animal that knew how to treat another human being better than her own husband.

As she slipped out of the patient gown and dressed, Lana realized she must thank Rollie properly for his act of kindness. She set her mind to treating him to a hearty breakfast. It was already 6:15 a.m., and the hospital’s coffee shop would be open. Lana quickly donned her salt-stained tee, scooped up baby Dylan, and headed for the main lobby. She ordered two pancake specials to go, complete with bacon and eggs on the side. She had never eaten breakfast in a semi-trailer cab before, and smiled at the thought of it.

Rollie grinned from ear to ear. “Hot damn, you read my mind!”

“I figured you must have worked up an appetite rescuing a damsel in distress.” Lana batted her eyelashes and rolled her eyes with a touch of drama.

“If ya’ll don’t mind me sayin’, I think Angus here deserves my bacon.” Rollie winked.

“You’re right. I promised him treats. Here. He can have mine, too.”

“Lady Lana, would you like a beer to toast to a new day?”

“Beer and pancakes? No thanks” Lana wrinkled her nose.

“Well then, how about a bottle of Evian to wet the whistle?”

“I’ll drink to that.”

“Here’s to beautiful sunrises and beautiful ladies.” Rollie drawled the last two words in the most melodious southern twang.

“Ah, Rollie…you’re such a charmer. But I’m not beautiful. Where are your glasses?” Lana put her fork down for a moment and shook her head.

Rollie chewed thoughtfully. “Someone made you feel that way. Don’t let them win.”

Lana looked at him dubiously, then started a new attack on her stack of pancakes. “How’d you get to be so smart?”

“Well now, I’ve nigh been just about all over God’s green earth, and a hurtin’ soul in Mountain Brook, Alabama isn’t any different than a hurtin’ soul in Jebel Marra, Sudan. Folks are much more alike than they are different. They just don’t realize it.”

Lana’s vision had cleared, and she could see a wistful look in Rollie’s cloudy cerulean eyes. “Don’t be sad.” She touched his arm.

“Tell me, Lana, what do you see in that there sunrise?”

“I see…a violet, pink, yellow, and blue pastel masterpiece. I see faithfulness. I see hope.”

“Even after all you’ve been through?” Rollie gave Lana a penetrating glance.

“Yes. Especially…especially after meeting you.”

Rollie gave her a fatherly smile, and they sat savoring the sweet peace between them. He was the first to speak again. “I have to go now.”

“Yeah. I know. Next time you haul it to Phoenix, come and see me?” Lana’s voice wavered. She knew it was a silly question.

Rollie nodded as if it were a given. “I think you know how to get in touch with me.”

Lana narrowed her eyes and whisked a strand of her hair over her shoulder. “Yes…I think I do.”

She picked up Dylan out of the sleeper and carefully climbed down out of Rollie’s rig. Angus jumped out after her. As they walked away, Lana watched a single white dove circling overhead. It drew near, fluttered in midair not two feet from her head, then flew away. She turned to wave goodbye, but the parking lot behind her was empty. The semi and Rollie had vanished. Only a single white feather remained.

15 Minutes More, by Matthew Hamilton

Fri, 16 Apr 2010 00:00:00 -0700

Some wounds take a long time to heal as this story about guilt and loss from one of our regular contributors reminds us. Fiction Editor

15 Minutes More, by Matthew Hamilton

Ray stood in front of the gravestone and stared at his friend’s name. He'd been doing this every year now for eight years, every September 11th, at exactly 8:46a.m. And every year, he looked at the ground that held his friend’s body and asked the same question: Why?
Ray doesn't believe in the spiritual life. He doesn’t believe in God. Not anymore. The falling towers took that away from him. But he believes in hell. He lived in hell for a day that seemed like decades, in the smoke and ash, New York covered in blood and fear, before guys named Muhammad were slammed on police cars and handcuffed.

Every time he visits the cemetery, he reflects about that day. He prays to a God he doesn’t believe in. But somehow each memory, each prayer, brings him that much closer to peace. He doesn’t know how or why; it just does.

***

The walk to Mike’s house seemed like yesterday. It always seemed like yesterday. One hundred years from now it will seem like yesterday. How he wished to erase it all from his mind. How he wished to erase the sadness in Sarah’s eyes and the sound of her screams as she fell to the porch, her fists beating on his chest, her two children standing behind her with uncertainty and fear. He pulled her to him and held on. Her perfume, mixed with sweat and hate, smelled like dead flowers. He took her inside, looked at her kids and told them in the best way he knew how that their daddy was not coming home. They asked if Daddy went to heaven to be with Jesus. Not knowing what to say, Ray said yes.

Ray and Mike joined the fire department together, young and eager, in the best shape of their lives, clad in their dark suits with yellow strips. Even after all those years, Ray still saw the towers right before they collapsed: a pair of gray skeletons tortured by two flaming horns. He was on his way to the south tower and, had a black Mercedes not run a red light and smashed into a station wagon full of children, slowing him and his crew down, if the south tower had stood for fifteen minutes more, he would have been dead, too.

Mike’s truck was the first one on the scene. He was probably touching the flames right before the tower’s steel supports melted into nothing, gravity hurling massive chunks of concrete and glass down on them, the floor giving way, the last screams of men and women holding hands as they jumped into hell in the hope of landing in heaven.

Ray and his crew, in a storm of gray ash and debris, were giving medical attention to survivors, pulling them to safety, when the north tower collapsed. The noise was fierce, like a million thunderclaps at once. People ran and screamed, kicked in doors to escape the rushing clouds. The police ran, too, pushed bystanders into open doors, under cars, and rushed back into the storm. They were covered in white and looked like mud people rising out of death, a sign of the apocalypse, the morning sun covered in a dusty pall.

Ray grabbed hold of this one kid whose face had been peppered with glass and as a result was blind in one eye. His bloody hand, thumb dislocated, still held tightly to a briefcase. Ray pulled him over to the fire truck and wrapped the side of his face with bandages, stabilized his thumb and dressed his hand, helped him into the ambulance already crammed with people. They all looked like war victims on their way to the field hospital. Everyone prayed that day; everyone but Ray. Ray cursed and put his fist through a wall.

The day after the towers fell, the dust began to settle, but smoke continued to rise from the smouldering crater. Rescue teams searched for survivors beneath the rubble. German Shepherds sniffed and scratched and dug up both the living and the dead. Then evening came, but the search continued and continued and continued until all that was left was hope. And then hope continued. By some miracle had Mike survived? Ray knew it wasn’t true, but felt compelled to asked, anyway. It gave him the strength to keep digging and searching until exhaustion forced him to take a break. A cup of coffee only and maybe a doughnut and then it was back with the spade and the dogs and the heat and the sweat and red eyes, eyes of fire and pain and determination.

On the third day, Ray noticed the flag; stars against blue, red and white strips. Hidden in the rubble, spade in his blistered hands, he wept silently. He knew Mike was dead.

***

A warm hand touched his shoulder and woke him from his memories. He turned, but the hand was nothing but the wind. He studied a crucifix nearby. He searched for God, but nothing was there except for cement and bronze and an artist’s imagination.

Before getting up to go, he looked at Mike’s gravestone one more time. He scanned the whole cemetery, then turned away and walked to his car. He'd always found it strange that such a place existed, a quiet place surrounded by the noise of eight million restless people.

Lisa Dovichi

Fri, 26 Feb 2010 00:00:00 -0700

Lisa Dovichi lives in Livermore, CA with her husband, two sons, and a killer Boston Fern named Audrey. She is a freelance writer, web and graphics designer, artist, and a budding novelist. In her spare time -- wait she doesn't have any.

Kitty's Gone Wild, by Lisa Dovichi

Fri, 26 Feb 2010 00:00:00 -0700

A humor piece from a new contributor about one of the editorial staff's favorite things. Beware the wild turkeys, cats and humans alike! Humor Editor

Kitty's Gone Wild, by Lisa Dovichi

What in the world was Newton doing? I watched my white, long-haired cat slink through the tall grass outside my window. I work from home and basically that means I’m obligated to spend a lot of time looking out the window at the hill beside my house. However it hadn’t been my cat that originally caught my attention -- it had been the gobbling of wild turkeys that had made me look up. It was while I was watching at least twenty humongous turkeys strut around that I noticed Newton.
He was stalking them.

Newton stopped close to the largest bird, a bird the size of a Shetland pony, and crouched low to the ground. He was perfectly still except for the slightest flicker of his tail. I watched in fascination as he raised his haunches and shifted his weight from one paw to the other, looking for the world like he was preparing to pounce.

Before the thought that my cat couldn’t possibly be this stupid had finished crossing my mind, Newton launched himself into the air and onto the back of Birdzilla. I wondered what he was going to do now; the bird had to have outweighed him by at least thirty pounds.

Newton didn’t attack or try to eat from the gigantic walking smorgasbord of poultry choices. All he did was jump on and then jump off the enormous bird. I felt cheated -- the entire build up had been for about three seconds worth of action. When he landed, Newton turned around and sauntered nonchalantly away -- the shake of his tail clearly saying he was a tough guy.

Birdzilla must have thought otherwise because it spun around and looked for the offender. Spotting my unsuspecting cat, it pursued in stealth mode as I watched with equal amounts of anticipation and panic. Within moments, Birdzilla reached its target and pecked Newton’s tail.

Newton shot straight up into the air, testing the laws of gravity, howling like a banshee, with his fur puffed up in all directions as homage to Albert Einstein. He hovered a moment, tried to run mid-air, and then returned to Earth. His feet had barely touched the ground before he bolted down the hill towards the house. Birdzilla turned around and scratched dirt where Newton had been only moments before -- flipping him the ‘take that’ gesture of the bird world.

Now, I always know when the turkeys are coming before I hear them, at least, if Newton is outside. He darts down the hill, slams through the cat-door, dashes upstairs, and is under my desk before the gobbling begins. The flock used to come to our hill once a week, but since the incident, Birdzilla brings the flock by to visit daily.

Newton should run. I think Birdzilla wants a rematch.

Beach Mist, by Matthew Hamilton

Fri, 19 Feb 2010 00:00:00 -0700

A lovely poem about looking past the surfaces and enjoying everything, including things never seen. Poetry Editor

Beach Mist, by Matthew Hamilton

It is said that we are borne from the ocean.
Maybe that is why we are so rapt by it.
Deep within the metallic blue of salty mist and white foam
can be found clues to the mysteries of life and the divine.
But do we pay close attention to those clues?
Every year we travel to the beach. We load up our car or truck with gadgets of every kind:
shovels, buckets, floats, masks, snorkels, whatever,
and go in search of buried treasure
and skeleton’s of pirates who roamed the seas long ago in their wooden dragons.

We walk down to the water with our lounge chairs and ice chests full of Coke and wine coolers. We lather ourselves in fruity scents of suntan lotion
and sit back with a good book and watch our children make drip castles and dig up periwinkles and sand crabs.

We watch wind socks dance on boardwalks and dream a fisherman’s dream of grilled swordfish and crab dip and boiled shrimp.
We dream of salt water restaurants where the beer never runs dry and the cigarette smoke fills the bar with Turkish Blend and Camel Lights.
Billiards crack at the sound of a money changer.
Blonde-haired girls flirt with old men sipping gin and tonics.
The jukebox plays classic rock music.
Men scuff their boots on wooden floors and try to impress the ladies with their rubber leg moves and limber vibrations.

Take heed to the mysteries of the salty deep.
Don’t bother yourself with external delights.
Look beyond the horizon and follow the golden road of the sun toward the eternal bliss
of God and the celestial realities of baffling apparitions of saints beneath the cool and blue abyss.

Observe secret lives of angels: the rolling thunder of a hurricane,
seagulls circling a group of children carrying bags full of bread, sand pipers pecking at crushed shells and searching for insects, a glimpse of dolphins
swimming close to shore, sail boats two-stepping with the wind in a romantic dance
of man and nature searching one another’s souls amidst a chaotic spray of foam and scountry alt and heat.

Speak to our hearts of heaven and the love found in the passing moments
of the hypnotic reverie of breaking waves and refreshing rain.

Jack Healy

Fri, 12 Feb 2010 00:00:00 -0700

With an advanced degree in a field totally unrelated to his present position, Jack Healy is a middle school counselor in upstate New York, where the snowy and endless winters have driven him to writing fiction. For him, the line between reality and fantasy has always been blurred anyway.

Mad Annie, by Jack Healy

Fri, 12 Feb 2010 00:00:00 -0700

A moving story from a new contributor that reminds us that everyone we meet is a person with a past and a story, regardless of their current circumstances. You, be nice. Fiction Editor

Mad Annie, by Jack Healy

She filled her apartment with bottle caps, streaked her windows with magic markers, and slept on newspapers from the streets. On warm days she sat in her housedress on the fenders of parked cars and greeted passersby with, “’ey you, be nice.” She never missed church on Sunday and, while always arriving late to the service, walked down the center aisle and created a commotion with the crinkling shopping bags she deposited in the pew. Only at the service and no other time did she allow herself the pleasure of lighting a cigarette butt she found in the garbage cans she regularly rifled. When the preacher became animated she yelled, “’ey you, be nice!” She was known to her neighbors as Mad Annie.
Once a month Mad Annie gave her public assistance check to Mr. Twoumey who ran the grocery store. He put packaged food in paper bags every week and had them delivered to her. He gave the remainder of the check to a neighbor who took care of Mad Annie’s laundry and paid the utility company to keep her flat warm in the winter and her lights on all year. She never turned the lights out which was sort of a relief to neighbors who at nighttime could spy Mad Annie in her apartment across the alleyway. The scene was always the same: Mad Annie in a wooden chair, her eyes focused above her, tracing imaginary figures in the air with her hands. After a few hours her eyes closed, her head fell on her chest and she slid slowly on to the newspapers.

With his master key the super in charge of Mad Annie’s building periodically checked her apartment for gas and water leaks and disposed of the refuse from her packaged food. Mad Annie believed he was the minister from her church and gave him an empty Pepsi bottle in payment for his visits.

Winter was of particular concern to the neighbors when they saw Mad Annie outdoors. She decked herself with a ratty blanket, socks for her hands and tattered shoes with soles detaching from the uppers. When snow fell, she knelt on all fours and ate it from the pavement. With the neighborhood buried in white she became disoriented, winding up in unfamiliar buildings and trying to enter apartments she thought were hers. Taking pity, neighbors usually brought her in for the warmth. Offered hot tea or coffee, she put the sopping socks into it and with them wiped the snow away which tingled on her chapped cheeks. Mad Annie always kept her head and eyes moving even when she was spoken to. When pressed to speak, she grew agitated, picking her lower lip and rocking if she were seated. Invariably her response was, “’ey you, be nice.” Neighbors knew then it was time to deliver Mad Annie to her apartment, its door never locked because it was beyond her to negotiate locks and appliances, even faucets and light switches.

One day tongues started clucking on the street corner when a chauffeured Rolls Royce very slowly made its way past the apartment buildings until it stopped in front of Mad Annie's. An Armani-suited young man emerged. Sizing up the building, he stood in a manner that clearly conveyed someone of importance. He sought out the super who directed him to Mr. Twoumey. The monthly check cashed by Mr. Twoumey on behalf of Mad Annie confirmed the young man’s suspicion: the lady he sought was indeed the wife of the now-deceased Wall Street mogul, Stuart Reynolds Nyze.

Stuart had made his company a powerhouse brokerage, unfortunately at the cost of his marriage and, it seemed, Ann’s mental stability. He and Ann had been estranged for many years with Ann fading from society life until she disappeared altogether.

That was the story Mr. Twoumey heard from the young man. Within a day, a private ambulance appeared in front of Mad Annie’s building. Neighbors gathered outside as immaculately white-suited men accompanied a compliant Annie down the steps toward the vehicle. Not a few neighbors choked back tears and, with less success, muffled their sniffling and coughs; most looked on silently as Mad Annie twitched her head and blinked her eyes nervously. Someone cried out, “God bless you, Annie!” and someone, “We love our Annie!” Before entering the ambulance, she gave them all her last admonition, “’ey you, be nice!”

Four years later an obit piece in the New York Times announced her death. “Anne Ursula Butler, beloved but estranged wife of Stuart Reynolds Nyze of Nyze Brokers, Inc.; no children, no surviving relatives.”

Soon after an extraordinary event occurred in Annie’s former neighborhood -- the arrival by mail of bankers checks in amounts unimaginable to its recipients: the grocer, the super, the minister and countless neighbors. At the bottom, the checks simply indicated: “From the estate of A.U.B.Nyze.”

On Sunday the minister eulogized Mad Annie and told his now-wealthy congregants, “Annie always knew who she was. She never stopped telling us. And every Sunday, as you know, she told God, too.”