Founder’s Favourites Issue 6-Jan 2019
Copper Rose DC Diamondopolous Gerard Sarnat Ingrid Bruck Jim Freeze John Grey Mike Lewis-Beck Milton Ehrlich
Founder’s Favourites | Jan—Issue 6 | 1
Founder’s Favourites Issue 6-Jan 2019
Contributors 3 Milton Ehrlich A Bittersweet Breakfast
4 Ingrid Bruck
Michael Ehrlich Pg 3
Ingrid Bruck Pg 4
Michael Lewis-Beck Pg 5
Copper Rose Pg 7
DC Diamondopolous Pg 9
Gerard Sarnat Pg 13
Jim Freeze Pg 14
John Grey Pg 18
Fire Opera
5 Mike Lewis-Beck Lilac Love
7 Copper Rose Little Bit of Black and Blue
9 DC Diamondopolous The Bell Tower
13 Gerard Sarnat Animism, a Haiku
14 Jim Freeze Pontificating Apologies
18 John Grey That Arrowhead
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A Bittersweet Breakfast By Milton Ehrlich
Before breakfast every morning his father leads us in a Seal routine of 25 push-ups, pull-ups and sit-ups. My precocious grandson flies away from me into a bowl of oatmeal smothered in blueberries. He enters the world of Sesame Street while I spoon-feed him mouthful after mouthful of oatmeal as he swallows his chocolate milk. I’m buried alive in oatmeal, and struggle to keep afloat, in an ocean of chocolate milk, hoping to be saved by this child who was born with a smile on his face. His pre-school teacher reports he protected classmates from a bully in the playground by using black tiger claw kung fu. My eyes fill with tears as I realize I won’t be around to see what he does with his one and only life. When I get ready to leave this world I hope he keep me smiling as I prepare to leave the scene.
c Tereza—stock.adobe.com
Milton P. Ehrlich, Ph.D. is an 87-year-old psychologist. He is also a Korean War veteran who has published many poems in periodicals such as the “Wisconsin Review,” “Descant,” “Toronto Quarterly Review,” “London Grip,” “Vox Poetica,” Taj Mahal Review, “Red Wheelbarrow,” “Christian Science Monitor,” “Huffington Post,” and the “New York Times. (A summer resident of PEI for over 40 years) Founder’s Favourites | Jan—Issue 6 | 3
Fire Opera
By Ingrid Bruck an unwritten opera plays in the fireplace. fire sizzles and crackles, flames lick rain in the wood, a diva peals a siren strain, volcanic notes snap incandescent orange up the chimney. a tenor joins the soloist. melodic line flares, blue-yellow blaze and braid as embers crackle and glow. high notes explode hot splatter hits the screen, one ember shoots through the mesh like a falling star on the hearth. fieldstone scalded by flames warms face, hands and feet flares in bursts, a tremolo, a volley of white music heat a concert of light in the fireplace.
Ingrid Bruck writes nature inspired poetry, makes jam and grows wildflowers. She’s a retired library director living in the Pennsylvania Amish country that inhabits her writing. Recent works appear in Unbroken, Halcyon Days, Nature Writing, Entropy, Leaves of Ink, Poetry Breakfast and The Song Is. Poetry website: ingridbruck.com Founder’s Favourites | Jan—Issue 6 | 4
Lilac Love
By Mike Lewis-Beck Waiting for the rain, to water all our dreams. Our dreams –so new –just us two, dancing slow where the lilacs grow. Petals pink, pink and white, kissing in the fading light. We huddle in the sheltered night, waiting for the rain. At the train station we knew, You for me and me for you. You flashed a springtime smile, while I waited for the rain.
I raced down the railroad tracks, grabbed your back pack, even stole your snacks – Hey babe, no way I could relax! Waiting for the rain, to water all our dreams. Our dreams –so new –just us two, dancing slow where the lilacs grow. Now the rain drops tap our tune, a lilac love song, over the moon. Hearts beat crazy, our minds go lazy, waiting for the rain.
c denova0—stock.adobe.com
Mike Lewis-Beck writes and works in Iowa City. He has pieces in Alexandria Quarterly, Apalachee Review, Big Windows Review, Cortland Review, Chariton Review, Pure Slush, Pilgrimage, Iowa Review, Rootstalk, Seminary Ridge Review, Taos Journal of International Poetry and Art, Writers’ Café and Wapsipinicon Almanac, among other venues. His short story, “Delivery in Göteborg,” received a Finalist prize from Chariton Review, 2015. His essay, “My Cherry Orchard in Iowa,” received recognition as one of the ‘Notable Essays’ in Best American Essays of 2011. His poetry book manuscript, Wry Encounters, was a Finalist for the 42 Miles Press Poetry Award 2016. Founder’s Favourites | Jan—Issue 6 | 5
c schankz--stock.adobe.com
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Little Bit of Black and Blue By Copper Rose
M
erry Maker was a clever magician with a long beard that could change colors. He wore a black robe with a purple sash and no knickers. And black boots. “The better to kick stones with,” he said. One day Merry Maker caught sight of Totina. He was out making merry with the hillside children, giving them poppets and trinkets – every child needed poppets and trinkets to be happy. Merry Maker put on his best smile and saved the best trinkets in his pocket for the lovely and vulnerable Totina, who was dressed in melancholy layers of sapphire and cerulean, for she was unlucky in love. Merry Maker smiled at Totina. He even smiled at her older sister, Uljeerod, and her dogs. He threw the dogs some bones. Merry Maker smiled just the right kind of smile until Totina married him. He made everyone cry when he said his vow to be faithful and then the celebration began. Uljeerod, who had her hair up in a cumbersome bun, eyed him sideways as she flitted about, making sure all the guests were happy and smiling. When Merry Maker would slip from sight, Uljeerod’s dogs would snuffle him out and report back to her so she always knew where he was and what he was doing. When the celebration was over and the three of them sat at Uljeerod’s table, Merry Maker would smile while Totina and Uljeerod laughed, but not so much that Uljeerod would fail to notice how Merry Maker’s beard would turn from red to black to blue as Totina shared all of her secrets. Uljeerod would eye Totina, but Totina never seemed to notice Merry Maker’s beard. Always under the table, Merry Maker would slip Uljeerod’s dogs some bones. Merry Maker decided another land would suit his new bride best and he and Totina moved away from the hillside, away from Uljeerod and her dogs. Totina and Uljeerod kept in touch through the messenger doves, tying tiny notes to the legs of the doves. Uljeerod would untie Totina’s notes, scanning them to see if Totina was still happy. She would read about all the things Totina and Merry Maker were doing together. Uljeerod wrote back, “But what do you do for you? Are you taking time to go to the land where you build something for yourself?” It was a long time before a note came. “Merry Maker has been unfaithful. His beard has turned an ugly shade of gray. Here is half of my heart. It is broken. Keep it in a safe place.” Uljeerod wrote back, “That scoundrel! This part of your heart is safe with me!”
Another note came. “I have changed my mind. Merry Maker has vowed to be true and is working hard. His beard has turned red again and he has dedicated his time to the children here. I am making poppets and trinkets. Send the other half of my heart back.” Uljeerod clasped Totina’s heart to her breast as her dogs barked and growled. Uljeerod tied the broken heart to the leg of the dove and sent it flying over the hillside to Totina. The sigh that whooshed out of Uljeerod set the trees to bending and the wheat to swaying. Another note came. “He has done it again. The whole world has gone gray like his beard. There is no reason to go on living. Good bye.” Uljeerod wailed as she wrote, “I have looked after you all of my life, just the way Old Mother said I should. Merry Maker is a monster! Come home!” A little while after, another note from Totina arrived. “You may never hear from me again.” “Oh, what has he done to her!” Uljeerod wept. No more notes came. Uljeerod did everything she could to keep her own heart from breaking. She busied herself with things of her soul’s desire until one morning she heard someone pounding at her door. “Where is she? Are you hiding her here?” Merry Maker’s gray beard turned black, then blue, then gray again, with his face turning different shades of red underneath. Uljeerod wished it was true that Totina was hiding in her house but she had to tell Merry Maker she hadn’t seen her sister since the day they left the hillside. Merry Maker stomped away. A day went by and then another. After a long time, a dove arrived with Merry Maker’s dried up, bloody heart tied to the leg of the dove. And yes, it matched his gray beard, with a little bit of black and a little bit of blue.
-~-
Copper Rose perforates the edges of the page while writing unusual stories from the heart of Wisconsin. Her work has appeared in various anthologies and online journals. She also understands there really is something about pie. You can connect with her at https:// julieceger.wordpress.com/copper-rose-author/ and Author Copper Rose. Founder’s Favourites | Jan—Issue 6 | 7
c Neurolink—Pixabay.com
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The Bell Tower
By DC Diamondopolous
R
everend Langston Penniman sat on the edge of his bed, stretching his black fingers. Everything had either twisted up on him or shrunk except his stomach. Once six-foot-five, he now plunged to six two, still tall, but not the imposing dignitary he once was standing behind the lectern in front of his congregation. His parishioners aged, too. So hard nowadays to attract the young, he thought standing from the bed he shared with his wife of fifty-two years. His knees cracked. He’d gotten his cholesterol under control, but at seventy-five, his health headed south as his age pushed north. Born and raised in Montgomery, Reverend Penniman had a hard time staying relevant, what with tattoos, body piercing, rap music, not to mention homosexuals getting married and reefer being legalized. For a man his age, changing was like pulling a mule uphill through molasses. The smell of bacon and eggs drifted down the hall. He heard the coffeemaker gurgle. How he loved his mornings with the Montgomery Daily News—not Internet news—something he could hold in his hands, smell the ink. He even enjoyed licking his fingers to separate the pages. Off in the direction of the Alabama River, he thought he heard a siren, not far from his church. “Breakfast ready,” Flo shouted from the kitchen. Flo was the sweetest gift the Lord ever bestowed upon a man. Oh, he was fortunate, he thought, passing her picture on the dresser bureau and the photo of their three boys and two girls. Proud of his church, he was even prouder of their five children. Three graduated from college, all of them respectable citizens. “It’s gonna get cold if you don’t come and get it.” “I’m a comin. Just let me wash up.” The siren sounded closer. The Alabama spring day was warmer than usual. At nine in the morning, it was headed off the charts, as the kids say nowadays. Reverend Penniman washed and dressed. At the bureau, he brushed back the sides of his whte hair, bhis bald cown parted like the Red Sea. When his kids teased him about looking like Uncle Ben, he grew whiskers just as white. His boys joked he looked like Uncle Ben with a beard. He chuckled. He would have preferred Morgan Freeman. “I’ll feed it to the garbage disposal if you don’t come and get it.” “I’m a comin now, sweet thing.” He heard the siren turn the corner at Bankhead and Parks. Reverend Penniman looked at the cell phone lying on his dresser. He’d yet to master how to get his thick fingers to press one picture at a time, or type on that itty bitty keyboard. He couldn’t even hold it in the crook of his neck. He hurried down the hall. The floorboards of the fifty-year-old house creaked just like him. Not quite shotgun, his house did have a similar layout what with add-ons for the three boys. The siren was upon them. “Lord have mercy,” Flo said as she put the food on the table. “That sure sounds angry.” “Sure does. Let me take a look,” the reverend said from the kitchen’s entrance.
He went to the living room window and saw a police car pull into his driveway, the siren cut-off. Two uniformed police officers, one black, the other white, got out of the cruiser and headed up his footpath. He opened the door. “Are you Reverend Penniman?” “I am. What’s the problem?” “There’s a girl up on the bell tower of your church. Says she’s gonna jump,” the black officer said. “Good Lord!” Flo cried, standing behind her husband. “Let me get my keys,” the reverend said. “No time, sir. Come with us. You’ll get there faster.” Flo took off and came back with the reverend’s cell phone. “Here baby. I’m gonna meet you there soon as I shut down the kitchen. You should at least have your toast. I can put it in a baggie for you.” “No time,” he said as he hurried out the door with the officers. Reverend Penniman sat in the back of the car with a screen separating him from the policemen. “Who is she?” he asked. “Don’t know,” the young white officer answered. “What’s she look like?” “Black teen, skinny, baggy pants, chain hanging from the pocket, hoodie pulled over a ball cap.” “Akeesha.” “You know her?” “Like one of my own.” The reverend looked out the window as the car pulled away. He clasped his hands together and said a quick prayer for the troubled girl. Lord, help me help her, he repeated to himself. “Did she ask for me?” “No.” “How’d you find me?” “Your name is on the marquee of your church.” “Oh, right.” “I’m Officer Johnson,” the older man said. “This is Officer Perry.” Officer Perry reached forward and turned on the siren. The noise deafened everything, including the pounding of Reverend Penniman’s heart. They drove toward downtown Montgomery along the banks of the Alabama, the RSA tower soared above the city’s skyline. The speed limit was forty. The reverend guessed they were doing twice that. His right knee pumped like the needle on Flo’s sewing machine. The siren screamed. The lights blinked and rotated flashing red and blue on the hood of the car. Reverend Penniman felt like he was up on that bell tower, on the edge, with his arms stretched out, his body holding back the weight of all his parishioners who had wept in his arms. At the corner of Graves and Buckley, the cruiser slowed, the siren cut-off. Officer Johnson made a right turn. People rushed along the sidewalk their cell phones pressed against their ears. Halfway down the block, Reverend Penniman saw more people standing outside his church than he ever had inside. A fire truck
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(Continued on page 10)
parked in the lot with men unloading a ladder. The police car jumped the curb and drove to the side of the brick building. He saw Greaty, Akeesha’s great-grandmother in her burgundy wig, mussed like a tornado whirled through it. She cupped her black hands on the sides of her mouth screaming and crying at the roof. Her pink housecoat hung open revealing her cotton nightie. Before the car came to a stop, the minister jumped out. Greaty saw Reverend Penniman and ran to him. “You get my baby off the roof, you hear, Reverend? She done gone and have a meltdown.” “We’ll get her down. Just craving attention like all teenagers.” “She cravin’ nothin’ but death. She gonna jump. She all I have!” He ran to the front of the church. Greaty followed. The reverend gasped. “Good Lord.” Akeesha teetered on the edge of the bell’s shelter. Her baggy pants flapped in the breeze. Two firefighters carried a ladder to the roof. They propped it against the gutters. “Get away,” Akeesha screamed. “I’ll jump, you try to get me.” Her voice carried over the mob. “I know the child. I can get her down.” “Don’t think so, Reverend.” The minister turned to see Officer Johnson standing beside him. “Then why’d you get me?” “It’s your church. I thought you’d be younger.” “I’m young enough and I’ll get her down.” He gazed up at the girl. “Akeesha!” he shouted using his pulpit voice. “I’m coming to you, child.” He sprinted around the side of the church, to the back, amazed at how his body complied with his will. Officer Johnson’s leather holster crunched with each matching stride. Akeesha had broken the frame of the door and busted in. “If I have to cuff you Reverend, I will,” Officer Johnson said. You really want to save this child?” Reverend Penniman asked. “I’ve known her since she was four. I’m the only father she’s ever known. Now you let me do my business.” He pushed open the door when he heard car wheels on gravel. “Langston,” Flo yelled out the window. “Where do think you’re going?” She slammed the driver’s door. “Good Lord, woman, I don’t need you pestering me too.” Flo ran up to her husband. “Officer, you arrest this man if he so much—.” “You gotta save her . . . she my baby—she all I have!” Greaty screamed coming around the corner. “Calm down,” Reverend Penniman said. Greaty wiped her face with the sleeve of her house coat. “She never been so upset. She so angry. Them girls who beat her up. Them punks who tried to rape her.” The reverend looked at Officer Johnson. “Get all those people away from the front of my church. And tell those firemen to take down the ladder.” “I’m the one in charge here, Reverend.” “How about we get Captain Martinez?” Officer Perry asked. “They can secure the reverend with a rope and harness.” Before his superior had a chance to argue, young Perry ran off. “Thank you,” Reverend Penniman shouted.
“She a good girl except for her sin,” Greaty sobbed. Flo put her arm around Akeesha’s great-grandmother. “Flo, take her to the car,” Reverend Penniman said. “I’ll be okay.” “Keep him safe, Officer. Don’t let him do anything foolish,” Flo said as she led Greaty away. Reverend Penniman heard the whirling blades of a helicopter. “Good Lord. A child’s life is at stake and this is turning into a circus,” he said entering the back of his church. “How’d she get up to the bell tower?” Officer Johnson asked. “There’s a room with pulleys. A stairway curls around leading up to the bells.” Reverend Penniman could kick himself for letting Jake show Akeesha the inside of the tower. Officer Johnson shot up the stairs. “Wait! You can’t go that way. You’d come out behind her. I swear, man. You let me handle this my way or that girl is going to die.” Officer Johnson turned on the landing. The reverend had him in an eye-lock. “Please,” he said, not used to the sound of the word or the helpless feeling that it carried. “Why is she up there?” the policeman asked. “She’s a homosexual.” “My brother’s gay,” Officer Johnson said. The minister watched how the cop’s eyes captured a memory, something powerful enough to soften his features. Reverend Penniman climbed the fourteen steps to the landing. He’d always been proud of his bell tower, right now he’d wished his ancestors never built it. Officer Perry returned with Captain Martinez and a boyish looking black man. Both men held gear as they took the steps in three strides. “Well Johnson, your call,” the captain said. “We’ll feed Reverend Penniman below her, on the roof.” “Thank you.” The reverend led the men around a corner to a loft with stairs to the church roof. “Got your Nikes on, I see,” Martinez said. “Good.” “Now put that contraption on me and let me out there.” The firefighters held the harness for the reverend to step into. They hooked the cloth rope to the straps, gave it a tug jolting the reverend backwards, then tossed the rope to another man who waited below. “Side-step going down the incline. It’s not steep, but we got you no matter what.” “Get rid of the ladder and the lookyloos. And stay well below. I don’t want her knowing you’re around.” “We’ll be down on the first landing,” Captain Martinez said. “I’ve had enough talk, gentlemen.” Reverend Penniman took the steps to the roof praying as he went, for Akeesha, for Greaty, but most of all for himself. That he’d say the right thing, be sincere, because Akeesha had the gift of honesty. He prayed, asking the Holy Spirit to fill him with wisdom. The door to the roof was ajar. He gently touched it. He felt the rope tug the harness. The door swung open. The roof slanted and leveled out several feet down. The area
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around the tower was flat. He smelled the fumes from the asphalt as he stepped sideways onto the shingles, planted himself and managed the incline. He took his time placing his right foot, then his left, and held for a moment. He did it again until the roof flattened out. Applause and shouts broke out. “Get back!” Officer Johnson shouted. “Everyone!” The reverend glanced at the Alabama River. The spectacular Montgomery skyline like a masterpiece God painted. Then he looked below. He saw the van of a local TV station, the helicopter off in the distance; the crowd herded across the street by young Perry, and so many cell phones held up to the bell tower it looked like Beyonce held court. He heard sniffles, then crying. “Akeesha. I’m here to talk, child.” “Won’t do no good.” “Well, I didn’t climb all the way up here thinking it wouldn’t do no good. You and I have a way together, now don’t we?” “Prayin’ don’t work. I’m still gay.” “No reason taking your life.” He thought back to the convention when one minister said, let the gays kill themselves. We need to protect our children. Only problem with that was all the molesting he knew came from men with little girls. He left those conferences feeling tired and old, the same men year after year with their stale jokes and self-righteous rhetoric. He felt trapped by the old ways and frightened by the new. “Everyone knows. It’s on Facebook.” Akeesha whimpered.” My girlfriend broke with me.” Reverend Penniman made his way around the side of the bell tower feeling the tug of the harness. He looked up at the teenager. Her hoodie covered all but the bill of her ball cap. She wiped her tears with the black leather band she wore on her wrist. “I wanna die.” She inched forward to the lip of the shelter. Her hand left the arch. “No!” Reverend Penniman yelled his arms stretched out as if he could catch her. The crowd oohed. He moved slowly around the tower until his back was to the mob. “Sit on the ledge baby.” “I’m goin to hell when I die. Bible says so.” Her voice quivered. “Greaty found out. Said I’d bring shame on her house—more than my mama in jail. Said a woman’s body parts were made for a man to make babies.” Her voice trailed off. “Greaty loves you, child. She’s running around screaming and bossing, telling us to get her baby off the tower. You hear me, child?” He watched horrified as she balanced herself on the rim of the tower. A slip and she would die. “They callin me a freak.” “Sit down now. We need to talk.” “Jump faggot!” someone hollered across the street. Reverend Penniman looked back at the crowd. Officer Johnson grabbed the man. Perry hauled him away. “They all stupid.” Akeesha sobbed. “We can work this out.” “Don’t dish with me, Reverend. Talkin’s no good,” she shouted. He lifted his head up to see her lip quivering. “Can be,” he said.
“I’m goin to hell. Might as well get it over with.” “Now, don’t talk like that.” He thought of all those times they knelt together holding hands. Their eyes shut tight, the way Akeesha repeated his words to rid herself of the sin of homosexuality. When they were through, her face was wet with tears. He’d never forget how she’d wipe her fingers several times across her jeans like she’d been holding hands with a leper. He knew then she’d yet to be cured. He talked to his daughter about it. Rose told him the gay people she knew said they were born that way. She told him his generation treated the Bible like a deli, picking and choosing what to live by, who to hate and the nonsense of fearing God. His conversations with his middle child made him reflect. That’s all it did. He loved his children equally, but Rose had the gift of benevolence. “Akeesha.” “What?” “You jump, I’ll try to catch you. Then I’ll die trying to save you. You know that’d make Flo mighty mad, child.” He took a careful step back to get a look at her face. She gazed out at the Montgomery horizon. Her calm scared him. He remembered the first time Greaty brought her to church. She was four, always carrying her dump truck and running it along the pews. During the sermon, she’d nestle into Greaty’s bosom, thumb in her mouth. Her short hair braided. When she got older, she sang in the choir. For extra money she gardened around the church. He’d take her to McDonald’s afterwards. They talked. She was a good girl—even if she did look like a gang banger— thoughtful and quiet, never swore, didn’t do drugs. But she suffered at school. It showed in her grades, and she finally dropped out. He was the only man in her short life, and she clung to him like a daddy. Her great grandmother looked after her like a one-eyed cat watching two rat holes. She ain’t goin to end up in jail like her mama, or dead like her granny. She gonna be respectful, yes, indeed, she gonna be a fine woman when she grow up. “Akeesha,” he said with a stern voice. “You want to give Greaty a heart attack? I told you how worked up she is.” “She always worked up.” “She loves you.” “Quit lyin!” She spread her arms out. “I’m not lying. You’ve seen her below. Running around. Now you hold onto that post.” The noon light threw no shadows. The wind rippled his shirt. He felt the sun beating down on his bald spot. “God loves you.” “Then how come we pray to change me?” “Cause you wanted to be like other girls. Remember? I’m not a psychiatrist. Praying is all I know.” Reverend Penniman took out his handkerchief and wiped his brow. In the 1980s, he buried a young man who died of AIDS. He’d never forget how his boyfriend threw himself on top of the casket crying and shouting the dead boy’s name. He never thought homosexuals had feelings until he witnessed that young man’s grief. “We prayed to make your life easier. So you’d be happy.” “Didn’t work. My life be easier if people left me alone.” “You’re probably right, child.” The reverend wiped his mouth with the handkerchief and put it in his pocket. Even if his heart (Continued on page 12)
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struggled with what he was going to say, perhaps he could save her. “Maybe God made you perfect the way you are,” he said, thinking of Rose. “You lyin so I don’t kill myself.” “No child. I’m saying it cause God has a reason for you being here.” He heard sniffles. Then he saw her skinny hand swipe across her face. “Oh baby, come down and let’s have a good cry together.” He watched for any movement from her feet. “Quite a view up here,” he said, trying to sound casual. “We live in a beautiful city. Don’t you think?” “I wanna go to California.” “Now, why would you want to do that? What about Greaty?” “What about her?” “Girl, I’m getting a crick in my neck looking up at you. I haven’t eaten today. At my age, I’m on a schedule, and I get awfully tired if I’m hungry. We can talk better down here. Sit behind the tower. Alone. I want to talk to you like a grown-up.” “I am grown up.” She shifted and pulled the hoodie off her head so it fell around her neck. “Jalissa broke with me. Who gonna love me?” “Child, there’s a whole lot of people in the world. There’s got to be one just for you.” “You not being honest.” She tugged the hoodie back up. “You wanna boy to love me. I don’t wanna boy.” “Darlin baby, I admit I don’t know much about such things. All I know is that I love you, and that love is greater than any judgment I cast upon you.” He hesitated, and thought about the words that flowed out of him so effortlessly. It sounded like something coming from Rose’s lips, not his. He looked up. “Akeesha!” Where’d she go? He held onto the tower. He circled it fearing she jumped from the other side. “Akeesha!” he cried. He didn’t dare to take that part of the roof. The slant angled too steep. He felt weak, a little dizzy but his adrenalin rushed. He went back the way he came, the harness tugging. Sweat poured into his eyes. The door to the roof creaked open. “What you wearing Reverend?” Akeesha stood in the archway. “Lord have mercy, child!” His heart felt like a bowl of confetti. Instead of fearing the worst, she had climbed inside the tower and took the stairs to the roof. “You could have answered me when I called. You done scared the daylights out of me, child.” “What you mean, your love greater than your judgment?” Akeesha asked. “Oh, oh, my darlin baby—we should enjoy this magnificent view of our city and thank the good Lord for the beautiful child that you are.” “I’m not beautiful.” “In God’s eyes and mine you are.” “You lyin’.” “I swear on my sweet Flo’s life.”
“Then why we waste all that time prayin when I’m already okay?” He caught a glint of the stud that she wore in the center of her tongue. “You not as smart as you think, Reverend.” Reverend Penniman let out a hearty laugh. “Well, I’ll tell you a secret, Akeesha, I don’t have all the answers. Sometimes I have to make it seem like I do or no one would come to my church.” “They won’t come anyway, lyin and all.” He thought about what Rose said, how the young have turned away from religion. “You know my daughter, Rose? She’d agree with you. You know she’s studied in India. Traveled the world. Says God is always expanding—not sure what that means.” He walked slowly toward the girl. “You know something, Akeesha?” “What, Reverend?” “You taught me something.” His voice fractured. “You taught me, child. And I’m truly grateful.” “Taught you what?” “Can we sit here, for a minute? I’m really tired.” He slid down the wall. The harness grabbed at his thighs as he sat. Akeesha walked like she’d been on the roof a hundred times, maybe she had, he thought. She sat next to him. “You taught me to accept you.” He slowly pulled the hoodie down so he could see her face. “I’ve always thought of you as one of my own. Flo, too.” Akeesha took his gnarled old hand. She spread each of his fingers to include hers. He felt love in her fingertips. The confetti in his heart flung out over his beloved Montgomery. It showered like a vital rain. “I think there’s only love in God’s house,” the reverend mused. “So much of life is good.” “Can we go to KFC?” Reverend Penniman smiled. “Not McDonald’s? We always go to McDonald’s.” “No. KFC.” “Sure enough. My treat,” he said. “I could take you to a fancy place where we sit at a table with a white cloth and linen napkins. We can order ribs. They have finger bowls with water so our hands don’t get all sticky. Eat as much as we want.” “No. KFC,” she said, standing and holding her hand out for the reverend to grasp. -~-
DC Diamondopolous is an award-winning short story and flash fiction writer with over 125 stories published internationally in print and online magazines, literary journals, and anthologies. DC's stories have appeared in: So It Goes: The Literary Journal of the Kurt Vonnegut Museum and Library, Lunch Ticket, Raven Chronicles, Silver Pen, Scarlet Leaf Review, and many others. DC was nominated for Best of the Net 2017 Anthology. She lives on the beautiful California central coast. Founder’s Favourites | Jan—Issue 6 | 12
Animism, a haiku By Gerard Sarnat
Fern Canyon stream bed grokked, rock looks to me just like Mother Nature’s brain.
Gerard Sarnat is a physician who’s built/staffed homeless clinics, a Stanford professor/healthcare CEO who’s been married since 1969 with three kids plus four grandkids and more on the way. Gerard Sarnat’s been nominated for Pushcarts plus Best of the Net Awards and is widely published including by Oberlin, Brown, Columbia, Virginia Commonwealth, Johns Hopkins and in Gargoyle, Main Street Rag, New Delta Review, MiPOesias, Blue Mountain Review, Brooklyn Review, San Francisco Magazine, and Los Angeles Review. KADDISH FOR COUNTRY was selected for pamphlet distribution on Inauguration Day nationwide. “Amber Of Memory” was the single poem chosen for his 50th Harvard reunion Dylan symposium. Collections: Homeless Chronicles (2010), Disputes (2012), 17s (2014), and Melting the Ice King (2016). Founder’s Favourites | Jan—Issue 6 | 13
© kadjan—Pixabay.com
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Pontificating Apologies By Jim Freeze
I
first met Clarence in 1972, in a bar in Greenberg, South Carolina. That night, when I walked into Smith’s Bar, I was still reeling from losing an assignment. I am a freelance writer, which is the reason I was in Greenberg in the first place. Just by fate I happened to sit down beside Clarence. I wasn’t in the mood to talk and only wanted a drink to help clear my head. But I learned one thing that night: you didn’t sit beside Clarence and not have a conversation. As I sat there trying to ignore any and all noise around me, Clarence began to pester me with questions. “What’s your problem fellow, did you lose your best friend? How many of those are you going to drink?” It was obvious he was not going to shut up, so I acknowledged him, “If you don’t mind, I’d just like to be left alone.” “I can’t do that my friend,” responded Clarence. “What do you mean you can’t do that?” “Just not in my nature. When I see someone in pain I’ve got to get involved and cannot quit until I get some satisfaction.” “You get satisfaction? I snapped. “What about my feelings?” “Your feelings will be all right,” Clarence replied. “Things always turn out for the best by the end of the evening. Yessiree, that’s been my experience. So go ahead and tell me what’s bothering you.” I thought I might as well; maybe he’d shut up “I came here from New York for a writing assignment, paid all my own expenses, and then got canned for no good reason.” “Your problem has already been solved,” Clarence declared. “How is that?” I asked. Clarence looked at me with an enthusiastic grin. “Me!, I’ve got great stories, which you won’t believe, but I assure you- they’re all true and I’d be glad to share them with you. I’ll even bet, when you get them down on paper, the stories will be worth a lot more than that other thing you were going to write.” “Clarence, you’ve at least piqued my curiosity. Give me an example.” “I can’t just throw out an example. I’ve got to start at the beginning. You know, a good story’s got to have a beginning, middle, and end.” “Okay, “get started then and I’ll see how long I can stay awake.” “Stay awake? Please! By the way,” Clarence asked, “what’s your name? I like to know who I am sharing with.” “Benjamin Bruce Brown,” I replied. “But you can just call me Bruce.” Clarence began, “All right, Bruce, try this one on… It was 1950. I was 28 years old, and I found myself resting on a picnic bench next to a general store in Moorestown, North Carolina. A small town- mostly- rural, mostly farmers, mostly rednecks, and, from the looks of it, you might think Moorestown was predictable.” Clarence stopped to make sure he had my full attention. I raised an eyebrow, my way of silently encouraging him on with the story.
He continued, “I’d traveled from Northern Virginia and only stopped in Moorestown because I was tired. A gentleman emerged from inside the general store to check on one of his gas pumps, looked up, noticed me, and began to walk toward the picnic bench. “His name was Caleb Munro. He owned the store. His tall, thin frame seemed to sag just a bit. His graying hair looked barely combed and his eyes were lined with a purplish hue, indicating he was a tired man. But something told me that he was also a confident man, and so I told him that I was looking for a place to settle down.” “Caleb responded, ‘You should consider Moorestown. It’s easy-going and friendly, and a place where I think you might fit in real nice. Why don’t you come on inside and have a bite to eat and something cold to drink? And what do I call you?’ Well, we exchanged names and pleasantries and I didn’t hesitate to take him up on his kind offer.” I couldn’t help but interrupt Clarence’s story with a question of my own. “What kind of store did Caleb have?” Clarence described the store. “Caleb sold everything from grocery items to farming tools to bib overalls and most anything else the average farmer could need. There was an old wood burning stove located in the middle of the main entrance area circled by a half dozen straight and rocking type chairs. An open cracker barrel stood at the end the main counter, accompanied by four large, clear jars full of different types of penny candies, resting on the countertop. The store was amazingly neat and clean which told me there must be a woman involved.” “It wasn’t long before an attractive late middle-age woman entered the store from a back room and asked Caleb about me.” I laughed.“And how did Caleb explain you?” Clarence gave me a slightly objectionable look. “He simply introduced me. He said, ‘This is Clarence and I told him he should stay and join our little group for a while. And, Clarence, this lady is my wife, Mildred, the brains and beauty behind anything good you might find here.’ I couldn’t help but interject again. “And how did that go over?” Clarence said, “Mildred just replied, ‘If you’ve got Caleb’s approval, that’s good enough for me.’ There was one other person there; a portly red- faced man, who was arranging things in some kind of order. He was cleaning, dusting, trying to look busy, and basically just milling around the store. Caleb introduced this other man as Herbert and said that Herbert had been working there for eight years.” “Herbert seemed fine when he said hello, but later on, Clarence told me that Herbert was considered to be moronic. He said, ‘He is not normal in any sense of the word. He can work and accomplish most any manual task. He seems to learn easily, but his IQ is that of a child no more than seven to ten years of age. He went through life pretty much like anyone (Continued on page 16)
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else, except that, if any complication arose, he was hopelessly lost’ Clarence paused for a moment before continuing. “I was really touched by the way Caleb spoke about Herbert. I could tell that he cared about him. Caleb went on to tell me that Herbert was most likely the best employee he’d ever hired.He then said to me, ‘I’m going to ask you to let me know if you see anyone making fun of or picking on him. That was a request to which I had no problem complying.” Clarence went quiet. I gave him what I thought was enough time for a reasonable pause before I had to say something. “Oh, come on! Don’t tell me that’s the end of the story?” Clarence said, “I’m just making sure that I was keeping your interest.I thought I’d be polite by giving you an opportunity to quietly fade away if you didn’t want to hear any more.” I took the opportunity to order another round but added, “You can’t quit now. Carry on.” So Clarence began to describe what life was like at Caleb’s store, “As time moved forward, I met and got to know all the regular customers. But I found myself reserving my opinion on the majority of them until I had been around them half a dozen or more times. I learned Caleb was a good man. He was one of those people who would love to help the whole world, but since he couldn’t do that, he settled on helping only those who were close by. He was also sensitive and susceptible to a hard- luck story. Everyone seemed to know that about him and was very careful not to abuse his friendship.” The bartender brought the next round, and as I drank, Clarence told me about the five regulars who came to Caleb’s store practically every day. He told me how they would sit in a circle at the wood stove, talking and telling jokes and complaining about politics and sometimes just spreading rumors. “One of the regulars,” Clarence said, “was Frank Gantry. Frank thought well of himself- too well. He was selfish and greedy. I remember someone saying he was the kind of farmer you wouldn’t give a watermelon to on a hot August day even if he came by and you were feeding watermelons to your hogs. Someone else told me if a generous feeling ever got into Frank’s heart it would die from malnutrition.” “Frank sounds pretty bad.”I had to admit. “Well, I knew at the time that Frank was not well-liked but for some unknown reason he was tolerated. One of the other regulars, a happy fellow who went by the name of Jackson Ross, was cheerful and always full of delightful stories. He was quick to offer good advice to anyone and was always optimistic. Jackson seemed to have no financial worries, and his outlook on life was that( money isn’t everything). His body had a healthy look to it, with a springy stride that boasted an easy smile on a pink, rounded face. “There was a third regular who went by the name of Jasper Gates. He was a real estate broker. His wife, a rich- but not pretty- widow, was filled with obnoxious nagging, which failed to keep his marital fires burning. Jasper was close to sixty years old but looked much younger, having the body of someone who worked out regularly. It was important to him that people thought he was well – to – do. He wanted to be a bigwig. He had a young twenty- year- old girlfriend, Darcy, on the side. He had furnished a small cozy apartment for her
and paid for her school. He bought her expensive dresses and other attire and people who knew about her said she looked like a blue-eyed angel. “Quinn Fletcher was the fourth member of the group and a one-word description of him was, tightwad. “He was a young Scrooge with a lot of money in the bank and was so frightened about his future financial security that spending money even on basic necessities, made him ill. Even though being tight, he wanted to find a woman who would be mad about him and one whom he could fall in love with and marry. She obviously would have to approve of his attitude and aspirations.” “Rounding out the group of five was Logan Flynn. He was a good-looking sort, very pleasant, always obliging, and even self – sacrificing to an extent. But you need not talk to him for five minutes before he started fingering the label on your jacket or falsely admiring your shirt and wanting to know how much you paid for it. He could have a contemptuous tone and probably thought little of your shirt or suit. If you named a price, he would declare with much authority that you had been robbed. He was always looking for bargains and would pay more for traveling than what he saved. If you acted skeptical about his crusade, he would threaten you with philosophy on life in general and on bargain hunting in particular. He could sometimes be a real asshole, many thought.” According to Clarence, by 1956 he had gained a reputation for delivering clever insults. But it wasn’t as bad as I had been led to believe, and maybe sometimes he did get in a good zinger. For example, there was one story he related about a lady by the name of Abigail Gilmore.She was a goodlooking woman about thirty, a platinum blonde who wore tight - fitting low-cut dresses and according to Clarence, was true whistle bait. Obviously, she was proud of what she had to show, and apparently, it was much in demand, judging from the remarks I heard from Clarence. She was known to be quite an exhibitionist Abigail would stop by the store a couple times a month. One time, when she was there, Clarence commented, “I heard about you at the dance last night. I’m told when the announcer yelled hoe – down, you were the first to hit the floor.” Clarence said he would apologize almost every time after an insult, but he never really meant it. The apology was just to make them feel better; he didn’t really care one way or the other. Clarence remembered a story about Frank Gantry. “You remember,” Clarence said, “he’s the one who thought so well of himself, and being a perfectionist, he had to have the perfect wife. Whoever she was, she would have to meet a list of qualifiers. According to Frank, she would have to be charming in manner, flawless in taste, graceful in movement, conversationally delightful, and, of course, of fine stock. Frank believed he had found that someone. Her name was Sandy, and they were soon married. They were without a doubt, the perfect couple.” As it turned out, Sandy found Frank to be clumsy at night and dreary during the daytime. She had her own checklist for the perfect man, and Frank didn’t measure up. So she got herself a couple of other gentlemen, one to converse with, an articulate encyclopedia type, and one to sleep with, an expert, in the field of love. From what I understand from Clarence, Frank discovered Sandy’s extracurricular activity, but for fear of ridicule, decided to suffer the secret humiliation, reasoning he preferred it to the public scorn of divorce court. Frank, you
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understand, was too self – centered to realize everyone already knew. Clarence also added some information about Jackson Ross, saying, “He began dropping by only two or three days a week, but he never lost his cheerful way of telling funny and uplifting stories. He remained the type of person who was comfortable with himself. I remember thinking one day that I would like to know what was in his Kool-Aid.” Clarence brought me up-to-date on what was going on with Jasper Gates during that time. “He came in one morning and the first thing out of his mouth was, That dirty little bitch’. Jasper looked at me,” Clarence said, “with a glaze in his eyes, as if he was going to throw something at me, but after a moment’s hesitation, he slumped lifelessly into a chair. His head dropped into his hands, and this big man began to sob unashamedly. He threw a wadded piece of paper on the floor. One of the other men picked it up, and there were just a couple of lines, which read: This is goodbye for good, lover boy, I’m going to get married, Darcy. “I’d given her everything,” Jasper insisted time and again. But we all knew the jewelry, furs, and fineries were not acts of kindness – not even love. They were barefaced bribes for him to chain her to him for his pleasures. Jasper said his life was ruined, and at sixty-five years old, he was stuck in a marriage he hated but could not afford to leave. His voice barely audible he asked. What the hell will I do?” Clarence continued filling me in on what was going on with the group of five. “Quinn Fletcher, that tightwad did find himself a wife. Her name was Jessica, but after four years she was ready to ask Quinn for a divorce. Quinn was not aware of Jessica’s secret desires. But somehow, everyone else in the group knew she wanted out. One day, before Quinn arrived, someone asked, ‘When, do you think, Jessica will ask for that divorce?” “Someone else answered, ‘Just as soon as she can find a man with more money and fewer brains than Quinn. Jessica doesn’t like brains in a man, you know.It makes him too hard to fool. Anyhow,she wants more money than Quinn can give her.” “Poor Quinn was going to be blindsided pretty soon,” Clarence alluded, “and I guessed he’d have a real difficulty in dealing with it. As it ends up, my intuitions were correct, because when Quinn was asked for that divorce, he could not justify it in his own head and had trouble rationalizing his predicament. Quinn was completely sure everything he had done for her was the right thing to do. What seemed logical to him now was to not let her go. Jessica turned to walk out of the house, so Quinn picked up a hammer and smashed the back of her head. That ingrate, that gold digger, that unreliable no good hussy, he thought. In his bitterness, he turned against everything he had believed in. Quinn was tried and found guilty, but was sent to a funny farm, not prison.” Clarence summed up the story, “It was rumored Quinn began to give away all his accumulated monies to complete strangers for no apparent reason. He began to do things like read about someone in a newspaper a thousand miles away, write them a check, and drop it in the mail without a note of explanation. I suppose, at the time, it was his way of rectifying how badly he had screwed up his own life.” Clarence finally got around to the last member of the wood stove group. “Logan Flynn actually took his passion for bargain hunting and turned it into a business. He started what
would become, one of the nation’s largest chains of bargain warehouses. Who would’ve guessed it, just goes to show, assholes can make it big.” Clarence continued his story. “The remaining years of the 1950s continued to bring change, but not so much inside the country store, until closer to the end of that decade. The meetings around the wood stove that had become so commonplace began to dwindle down to just two days, and then one day, and then every other week or so. And finally they were only a memory as the 1960s rolled in.” “November 1962 became the saddest month of that year,” a dejected Clarence remembered. “The life partner, the love of his life, and the reason Caleb got up every morning, Mildred, passed away from breast cancer. Caleb was devastated. He had always been strong during any rough situation, but this one seemed too much for him. Caleb and Mildred were so well – liked and respected in the community, the attendance at Mildred’s funeral surpassed any other, tenfold.” “While attending Mildred’s funeral,” Clarence said, “I was caught off guard when the minister spoke of Mildred joining her twin sons in heaven. What twin sons? I thought? I had been with Caleb and Mildred for twelve years and never heard them mention any children. After the grave- side service, I took the opportunity to speak with Caleb’s cousin, Marvin, and ask about the twin sons.” Clarence said, “Marvin told me the twins were named June and Jesse. June had joined the US Air Corps in 1942, the same day his brother joined the Marines. June served in Europe, while Jesse fought on the islands in the Pacific Theater. Coincidentally, two telegrams were delivered to Caleb and Mildred on the very same day in early 1943. They notified them of the deaths of their two sons in the service of their country. The two boys, serving half a world apart from each other, were fatally wounded on the very same day. Marvin said, by some miraculous faith, both Caleb and Mildred were able to find a way to carry on and even became more helpful to those in the community who were in need.” “Caleb struggled for the next two months, but was somehow able to pull himself together and resume a normal life. Some believed he even increased his efforts to assist those in need around him.” Clarence said, “I was convinced it was the one thing that actually held him together. It seemed to give him purpose and gratification in his life.” “The next six years of the 1960s,” Clarence said, “were filled with earth shattering events. Three major assassinations and a very unpopular war that took place in a country most people had never heard of, on the other side of the world. A war that tore the country apart and created a division in America unlike anything it had felt since the Civil War. This was a time when smiley faces were found on anything and everything, but there were few smiles at Caleb’s country store.” “In September 1968,” Clarence said, an old school friend of Caleb’s son, Jesse stopped by the store. His name was Reese, and was in town taking care of some things involving his dad’s property. The two were enjoying a conversation when Herbert walked by and caught Reese’s eye. His attention, quickly turned toward Herbert. He said, “Owen, is that you?’ Herbert tried ignoring Reese, who now was working his way around the counter and following after Herbert. Again, Reese said, “Owen Felton, I know it’s been almost thirty years, but I would swear that’s you zipping down
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(Continued on page 18)
the aisle.’ Herbert continued to ignore Reese, so he finally gave up. Turning back to Caleb, he said, “Well they say, everybody has a twin brother.’ Caleb asked Reese, who he thought Herbert was.” “Reese responded, ‘I believe he was in the same unit as Jesse and I at Camp Lejeune in 1942. But Owen went AWOL and was never heard from again. Owen was so nervous about going overseas that he began to have anxiety attacks, and then, one day, he was nowhere to be found.’ “Caleb then said to Reese, ‘Herbert has been working here since 1942, and he has a mental disability that would disallow him having any participation in the military.’ “Reese went on to say,’ I’m almost positive that is Owen Felton. I’d also like an opportunity to look beneath his left arm, where there would be a large upside down Y carved into his skin. Owen would’ve known that you, being Jesse’s father, would extend kindness because Jesse talked about you all the time. Jesse really loved you, I know you know that. One last thing, that night Owen disappeared, a guard posted near the gate was found dead, and there was speculation about Owen being responsible. Nothing was ever proven, but it was wellknown that Owen carried a grudge and despised that particular guard.’ ‘Well that doesn’t sound anything like my Herbert,’ Caleb replied.” Clarence finished this part of the story saying, “Caleb and Reese shook hands and bid each other goodbye, ending with an emotional father – son- type hug.” “In March 1969,” Clarence said, “Caleb was found at his desk, dead from an apparent heart attack. There was a 38 pistol lying on the top of the desk, minus one bullet. The police determined the pistol had recently been fired, but at, what or why, they had no idea. But the day before Caleb’s passing, Herbert was nowhere to be found until the next morning, when two young boys hunting in the woods behind Caleb’s store found Herbert’s body. Herbert was taken to the County Coroner, where a bullet was found embedded in his left side, under his arm. The bullet hole was recorded as being in the middle of a large upside down ‘Y ‘ that was carved in his flesh. The bullet was determined to be from a 38 revolver. There was never an effort made to match it to Caleb’s gun. I always wondered, was it an oversight, maybe? Poor detective work, I mean, that’s possible. Or was it best to just leave well enough alone?” Clarence, trying to finish this part of the story, said, “Caleb’s cousin, Marvin, arrived to take care of shutting down the store and dispersing of Caleb’s belongings.” While there, Marvin asked me, ‘Clarence, are you going to hang around? How long have you been here now?’ Clarence said he replied, “Close to twenty years now, but I think I will be moving on. I need to get a new lease on life, and I’ve seen enough pain and sadness to last a lifetime.” Clarence and I had been meeting every day, four days straight, and with me taking shorthand notes of every word escaping his mouth. On the fifth day, I asked Clarence, “How did you end up at Smith’s Bar?” Clarence replied, “Smith found me during a driving rainstorm, taking shelter in the recess of the front entrance to
his bar in June 1970. I must have a welcoming presence because he also asked me to stay and become a part of his bar’s subtle entertainment. Of course, I must’ve said yes because here I am. I’ve been here almost two years, and I know all of his regulars, probably better than he does. This is where my story ends, my friend, but I’m sure I’ll have more to tell you the next time you’re in town.” Clarence was right about one thing. After I had written the story, I was able to sell it to a prominent magazine for a lot more than the original story I was going to submit. As a matter of fact, it gained an amazingly large following, mainly because the story had been told to me by Clarence. The public clamored for follow-ups, but Clarence refused to offer up any sequels. I went back to Smith’s a few more times during the 1970s and talked with Clarence quite a bit, but it was mostly just chitchat. The last time I was there was in 1981, and Smith announced he had sold the bar. He was curious if I would like to take Clarence with me, knowing we had been fairly close over the past ten years. He said the new owner did not want Clarence, and that he would throw in the cage, perch, and all the extra bird food he had purchased. I believe I failed to mention that Clarence was a double yellow headed Amazon parrot. His species is well- known to have the highest ability to mimic human speech. But Clarence was not your normal parrot. Obviously, because he could speak both Spanish and English, conversing with reasonable competence on almost any subject ,such as politics, religion, sports, physics, and philosophy, not to mention being an expert at ornithology (the study of birds). By this time, Clarence was fifty-nine years old. I learned that yellowheaded parrots are known to have a lifespan of sixty to ninety years. During that last visit, I asked Clarence, “What do you think about the idea of joining me in New York City?” Clarence then informed me, “Bruce, my good friend, I have decided to go home, back to the Amazon, to live out my senior years. I’ve thought about this a lot, and I think I’ll find some of those young birds down there and try to teach them a thing or two about life. At least give them a jump-start before they begin spreading their wings and going to places unknown.” When I left the bar that day, Clarence was giving the patrons of Smith’s a hard time. They were shouting, “Shut the hell up, you dumb bird,” and Clarence was firing back,” Any of you assholes in here want a cracker?” I never saw or heard from Clarence again, but I am confident he is still alive and giving those young birds in the Amazon his advice on a daily basis. I’m willing to bet they secretly love him for the attention, and his stories, of course. -~-
Jim Freeze is seventy-three years old, retired and widowed. He was happily married for fifty-four years and has two grown sons. He began writing in early 2012 to have something to do. His short stories have been featured in many publications including Brilliant Flash Fiction, Calliope Magazine, The Original Writer and Literally Stories. Founder’s Favourites | Jan—Issue 6 | 18
That Arrowhead By John Grey
I found it while digging in the back yard. It could have been an arrowhead. But, then again, it might have been nothing but a stone coincidentally shaped that way. Who's to say it didn't pierce an enemy's chest? Only the elements, perhaps, the wind, the rain, that hone so much. It sat on the dresser of my room along with posters of my movie heroes did they really risk their lives fighting bad guys or were they merely Hollywood lounge lizards, wife beaters, war-dodgers, drunkards? a couple of sporting trophies was it talent or mere luck?
My father said he couldn't be more proud of me did that mean he could be less proud? and, every night, like maternal clockwork, my mother kissed me goodnight through duty or genuine affection? I still have that arrowhead. Or that rock. It's hard to be comforted when it's one thing or the other.
c Mark Kistich—stock.adobe.com
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in the Homestead Review, Harpur Palate and Columbia Review with work upcoming in the Roanoke Review, the Hawaii Review and North Dakota Quarterly. Founder’s Favourites | Jan—Issue 6 | 19
Founder’s Favourites Issue 6-Jan 2019
Thanks for spending time with my favourites.
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