Founder's Favourites - Issue 8

Founder’s Favourites Issue 8-Sept 2019 Alex Phuong Annejo Geijteman Debbie Richard Fabrice B. Poussin Gaiyle J. Connolly J L Higgs John Grey

R. Gerry Fabian Rhema Sayers Stella Mazur Preda

How to become a Founder’s Favourite

Content contains anything I find memorable, creative, unique, visual, or even simple. Accepted contributors will most likely write about things that are emotionally moving. Not sure I will like your submission? Take a chance! You have nothing to lose. And who knows? You may end up being among the founder's favourites!

Submit today! http://foundersfavourites.blogspot.com

Founder’s Favourites Issue 6-Jan 2019 | Monique Berry, Hamilton ON Canada Contributors Debbie Richard 4 Dayspring 5 Rebirth Stella Mazur Preda 6 A Soldier’s Prayer 7 The Farmer Gaiyle J. Connolly 8 Against All Odds 9 Variation Fabrice B. Poussin 10 Infinite Echo 11 Secrets of the Seasons 12 Conversation 14 Exhuming Relics Alex Phuong 13 Kate Winslet Rhema Sayers 15 The Monster under the Bed John Grey 16 The Rose Annejo Geijteman 17 Haiku (2) J L Higgs 19 Tikkun Olam

Why They're my Favourites Debbie Richard Dayspring; Rebirth— Warm tones of Dayspring and the phrase “trespasses submerged” in Rebirth.

Stella Mazur Preda A Soldier’s Prayer; The Farmer—The prayer speaks of emotion and honesty. The Farmer reveals a rough image but beauty and strength of survival.

Gaiyle J. Connolly Against All Odds; Variation—I find the journey from the title to the last line satisfying. Variation brings tension but ends in a positive light.

Fabrice B. Poussin Infinite Echo; Secrets of the Seasons; Conversation; Exhuming Relics—I find comfort finding new beginnings of deep mysteries. Next, the title and visuals in Secrets of the Seasons. A creative way to describe the facets of words.

And I love the atmosphere of the attic and the finding of letters.

Alex Phuong Kate Winslet —Love the memory collage of her movies.

Rhema Sayers The Monster under the Bed—Brings me back to my childhood and the forgotten era of nighttime monsters.

John Grey The Rose—I love the small as a child’s teacup visual and the odor it invokes in me at the end.

Annejo Geijteman Haiku—I enjoyed learning a new word “floof”. And the coolness of the fan in the second one.

Jeffrey Higgs Tikkun Olam—The Jewish theme is new for me. And being instructed to show kindness is refreshing.

Dayspring

By Debbie Richard To never tire of the crashing waves upon the distant shore, Or watch the great ball of fire arise from a blue abyss, Like a tangled web of seaweed pulls creatures from the ocean floor, Look skyward toward the heavenly light and be clothed in the warmth of nature’s kiss.

Allen G.—stock.adobe.com

Debbie Richard is listed in the Directory of Poets & Writers as both a poet and creative nonfiction writer. She was shortlisted for Best Poem in Adelaide Literary Award for Poetry, 2018. Her poems have appeared in Torrid Literature Journal, Adelaide Literary Magazine, Scarlet Leaf Review, WestWard Quarterly, Halcyon Days, and others. For more information, visit her website: www.debbierichard.com

Rebirth (Haiku)

By Debbie Richard Waterfalls cascade.

Wise men cleanse impurities, Trespasses submerged.

Totojang1977 | stock.adobe.com

A Soldier’s Prayer

By Stella Mazur Preda Let my heart never forget how to love though hate may surface at times Give me the strength and courage to endure though life may not be spared Grant that my soul and spirit survive though my body may be dead Allow our children and theirs to sample life without bloodshed and hate

Guide us to the peace we seek open our eyes and hearts to those in need Help us now to understand teach us tolerance and compassion Shower blessings on this world forgive us for the destruction we cause

Fotos 593 | stock.adobe.com

The Farmer

By Stella Mazur Preda Skin like well-worn leather, the face maps stories of his life; wrong turns and dead-ends scored deep into skin once supple.

Lengthy grooves conceal sad secrets.

The creases that tug at the corners of his mouth when he smiles raised six strapping sons.

Furrows – chin to cheekbones ingrained through perils of drought.

Nestled deep in the bumpy terrain azure eyes – like two sunlit lagoons; fresh folds at the corners – reflect recent loss of his wife of fifty years.

Paths of life are mirrored in his face, trophies of ultimate survival.

Martins Vanags | stock.adobe.com

Against All Odds

By Gaiyle J. Connolly She shouldn't have made it.

Alone, months at a time neglected no shelter little food.

Scarcely a drink.

Inclement weather, overnight chill, heat of the sun.

Against all odds, sheer will kept her alive in the harsh surroundings of the inner city.

Still, she can be seen between the cracks on the twelfth floor condo terrace . . . a persistent petunia.

Jogerken | stock. Adobe.com

Variation

by Gaiyle J. Connolly Blue sky chilled wine French bread Brie cheese cold meats.

Oh no!

Dark clouds downpour but then sunshine again.

Like Orpheus music their love made the sun come out.

Africa Studio | stock.adobe.com

Infinite Echo

By Fabrice B. Poussin So often have I traveled through the waves seeking beginnings of deep mysteries.

Particle erring in an unknown realm on its own I only find another stop.

I might rest above the hopeful clouds upon a setting sun to contemplate a destiny.

Mighty for a brief moment I pound the cage powerful in this dream of immunity.

There, is infinite silence except for a sound like the eternal drums of a dying heart.

Klavdiya Krinichnaya—stock.adobe.com

Fabrice Poussin teaches French and English at Shorter University. Author of novels and poetry, his work has appeared in Kestrel, Symposium, The Chimes, Founder's Favorites and many other magazines. His photography has been published in The Front Porch Review, the San Pedro River Review as well as other publications.

Secrets of the Seasons

By Fabrice B. Poussin What mysteries hold the light of the zenith sun not matched by the secrets of a full moon?

The marvels only a lord of the heavens can see, when in the night the king of the earth stays alert.

Giant of the seas, sovereign of the oceans deep and blue, expectant of the somber hurricanes.

Warmth of the first flakes of a winter cold, under the last deaths of the falls past.

Father to the new season of green and life, caught between the thin rain and a soft dew.

And a fourth, mother of earth’s rebirth holder of treasures, creator of unending renewal.

Юлия Колмогорцева

| stock. Adobe.com

Conversation

By Fabrice B. Poussin Speak they say, speak they beg, say something, create, make, put us together so we may rhyme; give us what we need, so we may too feel alive.

They can be so demanding, from time to time impatient, rude, loud, intolerant, and pointed, those silly words, blue, sad, smelly, infinite.

They want to be there on the mountain, flow with the torrents into the steams below, from the cold snow, to the warm oceans.

Shall one be so delicate with these touchy creatures, or skip them like a pebble on the sheet of the lakes, and watch the ripples, wavelets, and listen to the subtle whimper they leave behind, children, disconnected, unable to find meaning on their own without their friends on the deep and lost shore?

Syllables who want so much to grow older so fast, sing, play, perform, and leave a mark on eternity, building a home for the hearts they yet have to find.

Better than objects, full of so many indefinite souls, they journey at a speed unfathomed, free; should they be set in stone, or remain poetic chaos?

eikotsuttiy | stock.adobe.com

Kate Winslet

By Alex Phuong On one Labor Day afternoon, while driving down a Revolutionary Road, a simple, allAmerican girl named Kate Winslet was searching for something to do for her summer vacation. After driving for several hours, she saw a billboard with the headline, “TITANIC SAILS ONCE MORE!” She hesitantly resisted the urge to buy tickets for a summer cruise because of her fear of drowning. After stopping by Laguna Beach, she went into a library to check out a copy of her favorite novel, Sense and Sensibility by Jane Austen. Kate often identified with Marianne Dashwood because of their romantic sensibilities. She also enjoyed Shakespeare, and her favorite fictional character from the Bard was Ophelia from Hamlet. After returning home from the library, she became not just A reader, but The Reader. As she read a book about Steve Jobs, she pondered what life would be like if she were to have Little Children. She also feared Carnage because she wants to live happily ever after rather than suffer a miserable demise (which could have happened if she boarded that Titanic replica). As night began to present itself, she went to bed while letting her mind expand with the Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind. Curiously, this simple young woman is still nothing like the famous British actress because the Hollywood legend has green eyes while Kate’s Irises were hazel.

JPDC | stock.adobe.com

Alex Andy Phuong graduated from California State University-Los Angeles with his Bachelor of Arts in English in 2015 and was an editor for Statement Magazine. He currently writes articles and film reviews online. His writing has appeared in The Bookends Review, Society of Classical Poets, and Wilderness House Literary Review #12/4.

Exhuming Relics

By R. Gerry Fabian Sitting on a discarded chair in the attic, attempting to discard cluttered curios, I find an odd old faintly perfumed envelope.

Removing the love letter, I read the most sincere attempt at affection, noting the misspellings filled with the initial innocence of hopeful hand holding and the awe of our first kiss.

It is signed, Mary Jo. As I sit there, with the sunlight revealing scattering dust motes, my calcified cortex cannot reconstruct the time, or place or face belonging to these words.

Eugene Kravchenko | stock.Adobe.com

R. Gerry Fabian is a retired English instructor. He has been publishing poetry since 1972. He is the author of Raw Dog Press and has published two books of his published poems Parallels and Coming Out of the Atlantic. Gerry is currently working on his fourth novel, Ghost Girl. Visit his webpage at https://rgerryfabian.wordpress.com.

The Monster under the Bed

By Rhema Sayers There is something hiding under my bed, That growls ferociously when I come near.

It’s black and hairy with eyes shining red, And its snarls are frightening to hear.

But my beautiful Ariel, so gentle and sweet, A big dog of undetermined stock, Also hairy and black, will often retreat, Under the bed to chew on a sock.

Sometimes I think that it’s Ariel there, Under the bed, so sweet and so shy.

But it can’t be my dog, more likely a bear, That snarling beneath the bed does lie.

And yet from the darkness, back near the wall, I never hear the sounds of a fight.

I would think there’d be an incredible brawl That would last at least half through the night.

Quietly under the bed they repose, Content with each other’s company.

They get along so well, I suppose, Because they share the bed’s custody.

So when it’s time for me to go to bed, I long jump, flying several feet, So that my toes are not likely to tread, On any who might those toes eat, I wonder sometimes, whether or not, Dog and monster might just be the same.

But if they’re identical under the cot, Then is it real or simply a game?

So is it my Ariel, gentle and sweet, Whose personality the bed does change?

Are there two down there below my bed feet, Or one dog that is passingly strange?

Image by Henryk Niestrój from Pixabay

Rhema Sayers is a retired ER doctor who has taken up freelance writing as a second career. She has a passion for dogs and had eight at one time. Ariel, a very peculiar dog with a sense of humor, was one of the eight. Rhema lives in the Arizona desert near Tucson with three dogs and one husband.

The Rose

By John Grey A fortuitous rose, small as a child’s teacup, but a feast for senses in crimson equanimity.

Deep among the thorns like rubies in soil, or the leak of blood from a fresh love wound.

On my knees, in the bush’s cause, I inhale the wild ancestor, the elusive present occupant.

Juhku | stock.adobe.com

John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in That, Dunes Review, Poetry East and North Dakota Quarterly with work upcoming in Haight-Ashbury Literary Journal, Thin Air, Dalhousie Review and failbetter.

Haiku

By Annejo Geijteman Spinning fan soft light Melting ice cream drips slowly A summer nights dream

Haiku

By Annejo Geijteman Black white tufts of floof Soft footsteps in the hallway Loki says meow

Ian | stock.adobe.com

Glenda Powers | stock.adobe.com

Annejo Geijteman is a Dutch green haired writer and poet who loves the scent of coconut and the aftertaste of a well crafted short story. She lives with her long haired tuxedo cat Loki and an assortment of spoiled houseplants. She believes writing should always be true, even if it hurts.

xavier gallego morel | stock. Adobe.com

Tikkun Olam

by J L Higgs “Benjamin!”

“Coming.”

Benjamin placed the Tiffany lamp back on the shelf. Then he began descending the wooden ladder attached to the rail around the second tier of the antique shop. Dusting, sweeping, whatever it required to maintain the shop was his responsibility.

It was not an easy task. Especially since the shop never sold anything. Years ago, Benjamin had asked Moshe the point of such fastidious cleanliness. Moshe’s reply, “Cleanliness is next to Godliness.”

Almost as tall as it was wide, the antique shop had once been a bookstore. Now, the sole book that remained was kept in the backroom. Clocks, porcelain cups, bronze lanterns, china, pitchers, and many other seemingly unremarkable items crowded the shop’s shelves. Moshe had told Benjamin they were God’s earthly stewards and all God’s creations and gifts deserved respect, honor, and preservation, even down to the least of things.

Through the years, little about the shop had changed. The tiny bell that hung inside the front door still jingled just as it had the first time Benjamin entered the shop. That day, as his fingers reached toward the ancient push tab cash register next to the rotary phone on the shop’s counter, Moshe had appeared dressed in black, broom in hand.

“Who are you?” he growled, his eyes narrowed to slits with suspicion.

Benjamin’s initial inclination had been to run away, to escape. But he’d remained rooted in place, staring at the burly man’s bushy gray beard, side curls, and kippah. After stammering repeatedly, he finally said his name.

Shoving the broom into the black teenager’s hand, Moshe had said, “You. Benjamin. Sweep.” Mimicking sweeping, the tzizits hanging from his tallit swinging back and forth, he repeated his command. Bewildered, Benjamin did as he’d been told.

Stepping off the ladder’s last rung, Benjamin wiped his hands on the front of his bib apron. Despite its dearth of sales, the shop never lacked for customers. Each day, people of every race, color, creed, sex, age, etc… came to the shop from near and far. Be it children bearing broken toys or adults with something needing attention or repairs, the routine never differed. Moshe would take whatever they brought into the back room. After spending a few moments there, where he kept a copy of the Torah on a small wooden desk with a metal folding chair, he’d emerge with the item functioning perfectly and looking new. Any attempts at payment were always declined. Instead, Moshe would hand the customer their item and wish them a good day with a smile.

At first, Benjamin found Moshe’s generosity unsettling.

But his concerns were allayed when Moshe paid him that first Friday. Since then, every week as they closed the shop for Shabbat, Moshe would hand Benjamin his pay and say, “A good week, eh Benjamin. God gave us many opportunities to perform the mitzvah of tzedakah.”

At that, Benjamin always shook his head. While getting paid, like Moshe’s ability to fix whatever was brought to the shop seemed like miracles, Moshe’s constant talk of God made little sense to him.

“You called,” said Benjamin, entering the backroom.

Moshe, seated on the metal folding chair, his back to the doorway, did not answer. Benjamin walked over, touched him on the shoulder, and Moshe slumped forward. Benjamin darted from the room, snatched up the receiver of the black rotary phone on the counter and dialed 9-1-1.

An ambulance quickly arrived and the EMTs determined that Moshe had suffered a heart attack. Over their protests, Benjamin insisted on accompanying Moshe to the hospital.

While Moshe was rushed into the emergency unit, Benjamin stood alone with his hopes and fears.

For four whole days, Moshe teetered on a hair-thin line between life and death. Having no next of kin, no one was permitted to see him, not even Benjamin, who arrived early each morning and remained until late evening.

On the fifth day, Moshe opened his eyes and asked for Benjamin. As he stood beside the bed looking at Moshe, Benjamin did not know what to say. Smiling, Moshe patted his hand. Then he asked if Benjamin had been tending to the shop.

Benjamin told him the shop had remained closed.

Moshe sighed. “Shop must be open, Benjamin.”

“But… But people will come. I...”

“Let them come. Pshaw. Give me paper and pencil,” said Moshe gesturing toward the small cabinet beside the bed. With a trembling hand, he wrote, “bhvakasha elohim. lazor lcha msharet tsanua vneeman betikun haolam.” Then he handed the paper to Benjamin.

Benjamin stared at the strange words, shaking his head.

“Tikkun Olam,” said Moshe. “You, Benjamin, must mend what is broken.”

“But I...”

“Put hand on Torah. Say words.” He tapped the paper.

“Tikkun Olam,” repeated Moshe, firmly tapping the paper.

“Repair of the world. Is every person’s responsibility.”

“But...”

“No but!” said Moshe, agitation in his voice. “Is responsibility.”

“Fine!”

“Good!” Moshe fell back against the sheets and closed his eyes. Standing over him, Benjamin watched Moshe’s lips move, forming words like he was chanting, but in some foreign language.

Standing in front of the antique shop, Benjamin pulled out his keys and unlocked the front door. The tiny bell on the door jingled as if issuing a call. Benjamin turned on the overhead lights and headed to where he kept his apron and broom near the back room.

As he approached the back room, he hesitated, then entered.

Pulling the paper Moshe had written on from his pocket, he placed it on the desk beside the Torah and smoothed it out with his hand. He heard the tiny bell inside the front door jingling non-stop, summoning him. Heeding its call, he emerged from the back room. There was much work to be done.

J L Higgs' short stories typically focus on life from the perspective of a black American. He has had over 40 publications and been nominated for a Pushcart Prize. Magazines publishing his work include Indiana Voice Journal, The Writing Disorder, Contrary Magazine, Rigorous, Literally Stories, and The Remembered Arts Journal. He resides outside of Boston.

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/JL-Higgs-ArtistWriter-1433711619998262

Founder’s Favourites Issue 8-Sept 2019

Thanks for spending time with my favourites.