Pm sept 2017

Perspectives Magazine Where inanimate objects and animals have their say | September 2017

Perspectives ~ September 2017 ~ 1

About the Magazine

ISSN: 1920-4205 Frequency: Biyearly Founding Editor and Designer: Monique Berry

Contact Info  : http://1perspectivesmagazine.blogspot.ca  : perspectivesmagazine@gmail.com

The Founder’s Perspective

INANIMATE OBJECTS Boat ...................................................................................................... 3 An Old Wooden Skiff by Louis Bourgeois Coffee Mug ............................................................................................ 4 Blue Hawaii by Terry Sanville Plush Toy Giraffe ................................................................................. 7 From the Giraffe in the Lobby of a Metropolitan Hospital

by Carolyn A. Martin Earring................................................................................................... 9 My Year of Solitude by Christy Callaghan Engagement Ring .............................................................................. 11 The Engagement Ring by Teige Weidner Forrest Gump’s Ping Pong Paddle ................................................ 12 Ping Pong Warrior by Michael Heiss Shoe ...................................................................................................... 14 My Sole Complaint by Hali Denton Sugar Bowl ......................................................................................... 15 The Sugar Bowl Tells Its Story by Sharon Auberle Transmission Lines ............................................................................ 16 Transmission Lines by John C. Mannone

ANIMALS Canary ................................................................................................. 17 Freedom by Aziz Dixon Turtle ................................................................................................... 18 Truly Yours, Red-Eared Slider Turtle by Linda Simone Catfish .................................................................................................. 19 Catfish by Elaine Mintzer Swallow ................................................................................................ 20 Soaring by Gayla Mills Dog ....................................................................................................... 21 Sweet Lady and Me by Barbara Rady Kazdan Gray-Haired Squirrel ........................................................................ 22 The Gray-Haired Squirrel by Sherri Levine Cat ........................................................................................................ 23 Lazy Day by Misti Chamberlain Dog ....................................................................................................... 25 Thanksgiving Goes to the Dogs by Gary Hoffman Dog ....................................................................................................... 26 Finding God’s Toenail on a Woofie Walk by B. Lynn Goodwin Opossum .............................................................................................. 27 Song of the Opossum by Lucille Lang Day Elephant............................................................................................... 28 The Elephant Path by Fabiyas M V Prairie Hawk | Rodent ....................................................................... 29 Prairie Hawk; Winter Rodent Dreams by Duane L. Herrmann Horse .................................................................................................... 31 Whipped Fear by Tanushka Dangayach Spider ................................................................................................... 33 They Are Watching by Mel Goldberg

The 2nd issue of 2017 is here and I am thrilled! A shout out to the Creative Writers Opportunities List—a yahoo.com writers group (CRWROPPS). It sent many talented writers my way.

For the sake of our new readers, let me explain about the “Inspirations” box. I always wonder what motivates the writer. Why they chose the object or animal. I was curious and thought readers may be asking that question, too. So, I published the answers. I think you’ll be inspired! Ideas come from the oddest places.

As always, I extend a hearty thanks to my contributors and readers. The writers’ unique perspectives make the content an interesting read. The readers support the magazine and provide valued feedback.

Until next time, keep trying to imagine what it’s like to live in another’s shoes.

Monique Berry Founder

Photo Credits

Special Notice

Front cover courtesy of Karramba Production|adobe.stock.com. See individual pages for other credits.

Perspectives ~ September 2017 ~ 2

All rights revert to individual authors.

NO PHOTOCOPIES ALLOWED

BOAT An Old Wooden Skiff

By Louis Bourgeois My planks too worn to be fixed the barnacles too thick to scrape the holes too big to be glued.

Here I lie upside down on the grass retired forever to decay and dust.

Never again will I ride on the lakes and lagoons with fishermen filling my empty well with dark fishes.

Never again will children pull alongside of me their shadfish, red snapper, or speckled trout.

Never again will hunters hide me with cane where mallards, teal, and gray ducks drop before their guns.

The pelicans and martins that flew over me— I shall never see them again on the open water.

Never again will the alligator roll alongside of me or the nutria or the otter.

The millions of mullet that jumped into the sky as I passed over them will now jump for another.

I lie here and the rain dissolves me.

Children break me, and the tide keeps coming in, and the wind keeps blowing off the bayou.

I wrote the poem based on a picture on my wall several years ago.

Š Alex_Po - stock.adobe.com

Louis Bourgeois is the Executive Director of VOX PRESS, a non-profit literary arts group based in Oxford, MS. Currently, he is assembling his Collected Works, which will be published by L.S.U. Press in the fall of 2018.

Perspectives ~ September 2017 ~ 3

Š ArenaCreative - stock.adobe.com

Perspectives ~ September 2017 ~ 4

COFFEE MUG Blue Hawaii

by Terry Sanville What do you do when your life's purpose changes and you become unsure about what your purpose is? Blue Hawaii found a new path in an unexpected direction. Maybe the same will happen to you.

E

very morning, when the cupboard door opened, I’d see their wrinkled faces, still full of sleep and dreams. But lately, only the old man peered in at us cups and mugs. He never picked me anymore, hadn’t for years. I’d been tucked away in the back of that dark cabinet, gathering dust next to the newish mug celebrating fifty years of Elks Club membership. I’d been stuck there so long that my white finish dulled and developed spider web cracks, like the wrinkles in the old man’s forehead.

As time passed I’d become quiet, content to listen to the chatter of the other coffee mugs as they waited to be used, to be the lucky ones to see the world outside, to touch the lips of our owner, to be clasped for warmth on cold days. But there were always a few of us who lived to complain.

“Did ya get a load of the old guy’s breath?”

“Yeah, it’s like he doesn’t care anymore how he smells.”

“Naw, there’s more to it ­– he’s been spiking his coffee with booze.”

“And he almost fell a coupla days ago…tossed me across the carpet. My coffee left an ugly stain.”

“It’s gotten worse since the Missus is gone. She was the kind one.”

“Yeah, she always washed me right away in hot water…scrubbed gently with a soft sponge and that sweetsmelling soap.”

“There ya go again with that smell thing. What are you, some kinda ninny?”

Their chatter reminded me of my early years, from the very beginning of my existence.

I

came out of a white-hot kiln and sat on a shelf with hundreds of others just like me, a new line of manly mugs to be shipped from our Tokyo factory to America and Europe. They designed my handle to be huge enough to encircle four fingers, my mug to be twice as large as a normal-sized coffee mug.

After we cured for a few days, a group of chattering women in a small room hand-painted our faces. Our group got an island scene: a jagged volcano, palm tree and a beach in the foreground, with a girl in a grass skirt dancing next to an azure sea. Blue Hawaii was carefully painted under the beach scene. I later found out from my owners that Hollywood had just released an Elvis Presley movie with that same name.

“Where do ya think they’ll send us?” one of the mugs asked.

“With my luck, probably the Sahara desert.”

“Boy, aren’t you the grumpy one.”

“I think we’ll be sent to an island with trees and dancing girls,” I offered.

“That would be totally cool.”

“You’re nuts, all of ya. It doesn’t matter where you start, its where you end up.”

“Ain’t that the truth.”

“Yeah, well I’m goin’ to Hollywood. Some head director will be sippin’ java from me on a shoot.”

“And you’ll get stepped on by one of the film crew.”

We all laughed.

As luck would have it, our lot got shipped to Oahu and I ended up on a glass shelf, in the gift shop of the Royal Hawaiian Hotel, within sight of Waikiki Beach. But I wasn’t there long.

“Come on, honey,” the pretty blonde crooned to her dark-haired man. “We’re leaving this afternoon and you haven’t bought us a single souvenir.”

“Yeah, this has been one swell honeymoon. But I don’t need any souvenirs to remember our time here.” He pulled the woman to his side.

Her face reddened but she didn’t resist. “All right, all right. But don’tcha want one of those coffee mugs to remember Honolulu? I’ll be pouring your morning cup of Joe from here on out. And I like the painting…think maybe I can do something like that.”

“Okay, okay. I’ll buy it.”

I was stuffed into a suitcase among mounds of dirty clothes that smelled of sweat. The next thing I knew, the woman hauled me out, washed me under a faucet, and set me upside down on the counter in a bright but empty kitchen. The house seemed large without furniture and I had a great view through an open window that looked onto a white-capped ocean. The air felt warm and smelled of the sea.

In the beginning, I got used almost every day, filled with black coffee that the Missus perked in a silver pot next to the pot of bubbling oatmeal. Both of my owners were new to Southern California. Having left some place called New Jersey, they’d driven across the country to Huntington Beach. The Mister worked in a broom factory, while the Missus stayed home and tended house and her garden.

As time passed the cupboard filled with other cups, mugs, and glass vases for the flowers. The vases spoke some weird language that us cups couldn’t understand. But at least I had others to chat with, and we made fun of the vases but envied them for their prolonged use outside the cabinet.

“Get a load of that long-necked one,” a cup said, referring to a vase that had just arrived. “With all those ridges, she’ll be tough to clean.”

“Yeah, and one tip over and she’s a goner.”

“You should talk. You’ve got enough chips out of ya to make ya look like some ancient Greek goblet.”

“Well, at least I’m useful…and the Mister likes me.”

From our very beginnings, we all worried about getting broken, thrown into the trash and disappearing with the weekly garbage pickup. I learned that the more a mug got used, the greater chance for being dropped. But life outside the cabinet felt worth the risk. I enjoyed the times I spent resting on the deck railing as the Mister smoked his pipe and stared off into the blue horizon.

Once a week the Missus would invite the neighborhood women to a coffee klatch, although some of the ladies drank tea – yuck! But I never got chosen

Perspectives ~ September 2017 ~ 5

(Continued on page 6)

COFFEE MUG CONT’D because of my size and only heard about what happened from the other cups. Sometimes the women would bring little humans with them who made a racket in our otherwise quiet home. I always wondered why my owners didn’t get one of those small humans. The Missus seemed sad whenever the little ones left and sometimes I would catch glimpses of her weeping at the kitchen table.

But I really envied the vases. The Missus spent much of her time cooking meals for the Mister and working in her garden. Every few days, she selected a vase to display her newly cut roses, lilies, orchids, marigolds, and big sunflowers that she grew in the shade of a green apple tree.

I could smell the tree’s blossoms in the warm spring and looked forward to the day when she took everything out of the cabinets and installed fresh lining paper.

But I continued to be shuffled to the back of the cabinet. I felt safe but unused. I think the other cups felt sorry for me because they always included me in their conversations, even the new replacements, who seemed to arrive more often as the years flowed by.

My humans grew old: the Mister lost his hair, the Missus’s golden curls turned gray, then white. Then the Mister stayed home all the time and I got chosen more often than before. His hands seemed skinny, with large brown spots and bruises on his arms. And he seemed to have shrunk, his hand flailing around in the cabinet trying to grab hold of one of us. More than a few mugs took their final fall to the kitchen floor because of those flailings.

Then the Missus disappeared. The vases became like me, seldom called on to fulfill their life’s purpose. The scent of fresh flowers disappeared from the house and a stale garbage stink settled in.

W

ith only the Mister in the house, things changed a lot. The other cups and mugs disappeared until only the Elks Club mug and myself remained.

When, the Mister hauled me out one morning, I saw my fellow mugs crowding the kitchen sink and heard their mutterings.

“Jeez, I got green stuff growin’ down there…and it’s startin’ to itch.”

“Yeah, well I got little islands of bug poop floating on top of month-old coffee.”

“This is worse than being stuck in the cabinet.”

“Tell me about it. My entire surface gives me the creeps.”

“And you stink.”

“There ya go again with that smell thing.”

“Shut up. The old guy will have ta wash us at some point.”

“I don’ know. He might take one look and throw us out.”

I could almost hear the bunch of them gasp. As for myself, the Mister made it a point to quickly rinse me after he finished his coffee, probably because I was nearly the

last mug he could use before being forced to wash the others. He drank spiked coffee more often during the day and watched the soaps on TV, falling asleep on the bed with me balanced on his chest. More than once he woke to wet coffee-stained sheets. But I’d become his main mug, his favorite, and tried to make the best of it.

A dreary winter gave way to a blindingly bright spring. The Mister slept in late and struggled up by noon.

He walked with a limp, one hand on a hip while rubbing his back with the other, staring at the world through bloodshot eyes. One morning, with a trembling hand he snatched me from the drainboard. I flew into the air, turning end over end. He made a grab for me. But I fell beyond his reach and crashed to the floor. I hit at a sharp angle on my bottom edge and split in two.

The kitchen quieted, the mutterings from the unwashed masses stopped. Then the racket started up.

“Well, that’s the end of ole Blue Hawaii.”

“He had a good run, longer than any of us.”

“Yeah, but I’ve had more time outside the cabinet than any of you.”

“Will you shut up? The poor mug just cashed it in.

Have a little respect, will ya.”

“Maybe the old guy will wash the rest of us now.”

“Maybe. Or we might join Blue Hawaii in the trash.”

“He wouldn’t dare.”

The old man stood over me for the longest time. With a groan, he bent to scoop me up and laid my pieces on the kitchen table. He slumped into a chair, fingered my halves, and stared out the window, as if remembering his long-past honeymoon, the Missus, and a lifetime of companionship.

From a kitchen drawer he removed a tube, spread clear glue over my edges and pressed. My break felt clean and the halves fit together almost perfectly. But could I hold hot coffee, and would the booze or dish soap dissolve the glue?

He set me on the kitchen windowsill in full sunlight and washed out the other cups. I could hear their cheers as he scrubbed each vigorously then set them on the drainboard to dry.

I stayed on that windowsill for days and enjoyed the view of the outside world: the ocean and the wispy clouds floating over the offshore islands. The Mister spent afternoons outside the house, coming in for supper with stained trousers and dirt under his fingernails, his bald head and arms browned by the sun.

Then the magic began. He filled me with water and stuffed me full of marigolds, the flowers once again scenting the kitchen. Throughout the house he set out roses, lilies, and sunflowers in their glass vases. The vases’ chatter signaled their approval; I began to understand some of what they said. The house smelled fresh. I reveled in my own fresh start, my new purpose so late in life, but such a beautiful one. I couldn’t ask for more.

Terry Sanville lives in San Luis Obispo, California with his artist-poet wife (his in-house editor) and one skittery cat (his in-house critic). He writes full time, producing short stories, essays, poems, and novels. Since 2005, his short stories have been accepted by more than 240 literary and commercial journals, magazines, and anthologies including The Potomac Review, The Bitter Oleander, Shenandoah, and Conclave: A Journal of Character. He was nominated twice for a Pushcart Prize for his stories “The Sweeper,” and “The Garage.” Terry is a retired urban planner and an accomplished jazz and blues guitarist – who once played with a symphony orchestra backing up jazz legend George Shearing.

Perspectives ~ September 2017 ~ 6

PLUSH TOY - GIRAFFE From the Giraffe in the Lobby of a Metropolitan Hospital

By Carolyn A. Martin I’m stationed at the gift shop door.

They pitch me as Plush. Demure. Steady on her feet.

I tell them She eats her greens at every meal would draw more parents in. No one’s listening.

The asking price? A nickel less than a Benjamin – nowhere near my worth.

My parents in their department store would hang their necks and blush.

I get through boring times by batting eye-lashed eyes at gray-haired volunteers.

They help me dodge security to elevator up to where the salad bar is spread. I eat and don’t complain.

Know what’s astonishing?

No one’s stopped me yet– even when I cruise into a private room to see my friend who pats my horns and make me purr.

She commiserates about sore throats.

I cuddle with her IV pole.

When I show her how I spread my legs to drink from standing pools or close my nostrils for a sandy storm, she laughs, We’re in West Hills, not West Africa!

Before I leave, I lick her brow – careful of the stitches stretching crown to ear – and review our nightly game. She’ll make night nurses frown when she describes her wild guest in plush detail.

I won’t let them see the elevator door closing on my four-foot frame.

(Previously published in The Visitant.)

About three years ago, my partner's mother was in the hospital for emergency brain surgery. When we went to visit her, we would pass a gift shop where that plush beauty resided. My imagination took off from there.

From English teacher to management trainer to retiree, Carolyn Martin has journeyed from New Jersey to Oregon to discover Douglas firs, months of rain, and clear summers. Her poems and book reviews have appeared in publications throughout North America and the UK including “Stirring,” “CALYX,” “Persimmon Tree,” “How Higher Education Feels,” and “Antiphon.” Her third collection, Thin Places, was released by Kelsay Books in Summer 2017. Since the only poem she wrote in high school was redpenciled “extremely maudlin,” Carolyn is amazed she has continued to write.

Perspectives ~ September 2017 ~ 7

Š 290712 - stock.adobe.com

Perspectives ~ September 2017 ~ 8

EARRING My Year of Solitude

By Christy O’Callaghan

I

can’t find my mate. Maybe you’ve seen them? About 12mm, round, silver with a black Tree of Life and curly cue branches, oh, and a post in back. Looks just like me. I’ve spent day after day in that blue bowl up there, the one with the chipped lip, waiting. I’m giving up hope.

We were her go-to adornment, but now I lay around with other earrings piling up on top of me, smothering me. She doesn’t even pick me up anymore.

I’m Tree by the way. It’s nice to talk. It’s been a while. Without my mate and without my person wearing me, I’m nothing. Before the day Other Tree got lost we were the stars of the earring bowl. My person said we went with everything. I miss her cool finger tips and the lavender scent of her lotion. I miss Other Tree.

I loved when my person polished me with that special cloth to make me all shiny. Her fingers carefully pushing me through the soft flesh of her pierced lobe. Turning me upright so I looked my best. Other Tree and I always knew when she didn’t feel well or was tired or stressed or sad, which seemed like all the time. Why would she abandon me?

There were so many years of hospital trips, doctors’ visits, secret naps when no one was looking. I kept watch and would dig into her neck with my post to wake her up if someone came along. I’d comfort her, whispering in her ear through all the procedures, medicine, whiffs of sterile wipes, infusions of black liquid or blood, throwing up, and crying. Her cool finger tips would rub my surface when she was scared and spin me when she was nervous, but always returning me to my proper upright position.

The last time Other Tree and I were together was for her final big procedure at the hospital. She was so excited.

I remember her scarf tickling me as she bounced to the music in the car. She kept twirling me and chatting with her husband. My persons port was comin’ out! She hated that thing. I’d watch her run worried fingers over the spot in her chest where it protruded out and rub her neck where the tube went into her jugular. It caused her neck pain. I could tell. Sometimes it was so bad she’d take me or Other Tree out to rub her right ear.

For bigger medical events, Other Tree and I were typically left inside a pink silk pouch with a zipper and a snap to keep us safe. This time they said we could stay with her. I was so glad to be there to whisper words of encouragement. She needed it too.

My person laid on her back so long waiting for the doctor that it felt like he’d never arrive. She wasn’t asleep, but drugged. Her hands were strapped to her sides and head turned so I was facing up. I saw the whole thing. It was awful. I could tell she wanted to fight back as they

pushed a hand down on her throat and pulled the purple triangle port and long tube from her chest. Then stitching her up. All the while discussing the movie she was about to see with her husband. It’s called a spoiler alert! She stayed still, tears rolled down her face towards Other Tree.

When they were done, she got dressed and went to the movie anyway. She wasn’t fidgety, just mellow in a notlike-her sort of way. I kept whispering how proud I was of her, how brave and strong. Her fingers stayed in her sweatshirt pocket, never reaching to turn me upright.

That night there wasn’t a second plink in the blue bowl with the chipped lip, no Other Tree. For days, she’d run her cool finger tips over me, rub me against her cheek, but never back in her earlobe. I asked her “what happened?” and “why am I alone?” I never got an answer.

I think it’s been a year, she’s wearing turtle necks and scarves again. No finger tips rub my grooved surface anymore. “I’m sorry I didn’t hear Other Tree fall or I’d have dug into your neck or whispered in your ear. Please don’t be mad at me.” I’ve shouted to her though the pile of other earrings, but nothin’.

Then today she picked me up! The cool finger tips with the shallow prints rubbed the dust out of my grooves and used the cloth to polish the tarnish. It was kinda embarrassing to have all that yuck come off me. I’d really let myself go. I started feelin’ like myself again. Her hand squeezed around me and I grew all warm insider her fist. I was so happy that I dug my post into the unpierced flesh of her palm.

“Thank you,” I whispered. My year of solitude started to drift away by the comfort of the skin I’d learned so well.

She started saying stuff about closure and letting go. That I’d served my purpose and she didn’t need me anymore.

“What?” I shouted.

Her cool fingers opened and I fell.

“I’m sorry!” I called to her, but as I landed in a pile of used tissues in the bottom of the waste basket I wondered if she ever heard me. If she ever cared. Well, you’re here now. I hope you’re listening. Anyway, it feels good to share.

I took a memoir workshop over the summer and we had a prompt to write a good bye so I wrote about losing my favorite earring at my last big medical apointment after being ill for 13 years. I was heartbroken. Everyone kept telling me it was the universe telling me it had served it's purpose, which made me more upset. Anyway, I saw your prompt and rewrote the piece for the prompt. Mainly I wrote it for the submission. What's funny is that I've been looking for a replacement for the earring for 1.5 years and after I sent the piece to you I found it! Maybe the universe is trying to tell me something.

Christy O’Callaghan lives in Upstate New York with her husband and two kitties. Each morning she gets herself charged up with a 2.25-mile swim at the local Middle School and is an avid sea glass collector when she is by the ocean. She is a Community Health Educator focused on Reproductive Justice by day. By night she creates oil paintings and pen and ink illustrations. She has recently begun to write again after a prolonged illness and is a member of the Mohawk Valley Writers Guild. You can follow her on Instagram @christyflutterby.

Perspectives ~ September 2017 ~ 9

Š Carlos Marquez - stock.adobe.com

Perspectives ~ September 2017 ~ 10

ENGAGEMENT RING The Engagement Ring

By Teige Weidner

skin of her knuckle tear as I got stuck. She didn’t seem to notice but I still feel bad about it.

W

e’ve been together for 17 years 10 months and 14 days. Sure we spent a few hours apart every now and then, but those are the exceptions that prove the rule. Her and I are perfect together.

I remember the first time the lid lifted and the sun broke through on me. Her face was the first thing I saw.

Her eyes were wide with surprise and sparkled with tears, the happy kind. Her hands covered her mouth and I caught the first glimpse of my new home.

Things have changed over the years. We’ve both taken a few knocks and we’ve grown and shrank with the seasons, but we’ve done it all together. I’ve nestled my way into her, making a spot where only I can fit.

When she takes me off to clean me, you can see the dimple and the perfect line I leave in her skin. That’s how much a part of her I am.

One time I got lost. It was a cold, winter day and we were playing with the kids in the snow. One of them fell and called for help. She took off her gloves and picked the snow packed kid up. I helped her brush the ice crystals off her son’s face.

But the cold made me loose. She put back on her gloves and went in the house. When she pulled her hand out, I stayed.

I wanted to scream for her like her son did. She wasn’t leaving me on purpose, she’d never do that. I knew how much her heart would hurt when she realized I was missing. She’d run her thumb over my imprint and get mad at herself.

The next time I felt the glove move and I saw the light, it wasn’t her face but his. He was smiling and was so happy to see me. He hid me in his pocket. He told her he loved her with or without me. He told her he didn’t care if I was lost.

Then I felt him reach in and grab me. When he opened his hand, he was on his knee and looking up at her. She started jumping up and down and swatted at him saying, “Where did you find it! How long have you had it!” She promised to be more careful with me.

She kept that promise until last night.

When she reached for me, her grip was rough and angry. She didn’t twist me to loosen me up first. She ripped me from her finger like I was on fire. I felt the

When she held me up in front of her face, she was just as beautiful as the first day I saw her. Her eyes were filled with tears, the angry kind. She was yelling and brandishing me like a weapon. I wasn’t made to hurt people.

When he turned his back and grabbed the doorknob, she threw me. I hit him in the back, but I don’t think he noticed. I bounced off and landed in the corner, next to the kid’s shoes.

As the door slammed, she dropped to her knees.

When she put her hands on the floor, I was certain she was looking for me. But she wasn’t moving. She just stayed there in that spot. I begged her to move, to find me and nestle me back into my nook, but she stayed still as a statue, except for her shaking.

The sun rose before a small voice broke the perfect silence, “Mommy, are you ok?”

In an instant she was back, “I’m fine, baby, just looking for my hair tie.” She stood up and brushed her hair out of her face.

“I’ll help!”

“It’s ok, Baby, I’ve got more in the bathroom. Let’s get some breakfast.” They walked back around the corner and out of sight.

I’ve lost track of how long I’ve been here. I figured one of the kids would see me by now, but they’re always in such a rush. Each time they come home, they throw their shoes down and I get driven farther into the corner and deeper into the carpet.

I’m worried if something doesn’t change, he’ll never be able to find me again and give me back to her.

I know, at least I hope, she still wants me back.

I got excited when I saw the call for submissions from Perspectives. The more I read of the magazine, the more I fell in love with the concept. This story formed from the combination of losing and finding my wedding ring and watching the Bachelor in Paradise, where one unfortunate candidate had to return an engagement ring. I looked through the backlog of Perspectives and saw that rings had been done before, so I started writing other pieces. After a few failed attempts, I came back to this story and am thankful I did.

Teige Weidner (pronounced like Tiger with the “R”) lives in Portland, OR with his wife and son. He spends his days working in the outdoor industry helping people get out and enjoy our beautiful world. When he’s not writing, you can find him playing guitar, banjo, saxophone, or any instruments he can get his hands on.

Perspectives ~ September 2017 ~ 11

Š jurra8 - stock.adobe.com

Perspectives ~ September 2017 ~ 12

FORREST GUMP’S PING PONG PADDLE Ping Pong Warrior

By Michael Heiss

A

long Jeep ride brought us to the competition center. It was a standard gymnasium, not much different than something that would be found in a high school in the middle of America, with glossy-stained pine benches and walls that were freshly painted and still had the smell of wet paint. Each wall had a different national flag mounted on it. The bleachers were full of people from each of the four countries being represented in today’s tournament.

Russian generals in their stark green uniforms; Chinese dignitaries in their neck-buttoned suits accompanied by their own generals in khaki green and draped in red and gold ribbons. The soldiers behind them stood staunch and upright and didn’t budge a muscle.

Aside from the different shapes of their eyes and the tint of their skin, the Chinese and Russians could’ve been related.

On the other side of the gym the Koreans and the Americans were assembled. The South Koreans were proud of their powder blue ribbons. The Americans were similarly dressed, but unlike them, the Americans were quite a diverse bunch. Black and white faces blended together with the multicolored pins and ribbons pinned to their chest, creating a blur of some kind of inverted Monet, making sense up close, but from a distance melded together into a hodgepodge of pigments. The different shades of blonde and brunette hair seemed to move up and down like a blanket being shaken in the wind.

In the center of all of this was a single green PingPong table. Ah - the field of battle. It was standard and unadorned with the exception of the usual components: starched white net and polished brass fasteners. Lights were fashioned above it to add to the drama of the event.

Sergeant Forrest put us down in a chair that had his name on it and revealed us to the gym. The pulse of the place felt like being in a baseball stadium during the AllStar game. The crowd roared when Sgt. Forrest first entered and roared again when we were revealed. The younger American servicemen that were in attendance chanted “U.S.A! U.S.A!” and I felt the fibers in my spine stiffen harder. I watched as Sgt. Forrest walked away from us, shook hands with all of the competitors and then returned.

It was go time. The lights in the gymnasium dimmed with the exception of the spotlights that hung down just above the table, creating a halo around the battlefield and blocking out the images of the men surrounding us. You could hear them, but not see them. The cheers slowly quieted to a low murmur of anticipation.

He reached out his hand and took me, removing me from my home and firmly placing me in his palm. I felt

every muscle in his hand tighten as finger after finger found their natural position. I twitched inside a little bit as his right index finger met the edge of where my rubber surface met the wood. It always tickled the first time he grabbed me. He tapped my rubber surface with his offhand, a test of my hardiness. I sprung back instantly, never wavering in my firmness.

We approached the table together. His attitude was serious. He was always serious, but now I could feel the blood pulsing through his hand. When we reached the edge of the green-painted Masonite, he grasped one of the white balls laying on the surface and gave me my warm up. A few bounces on my front followed by a few on my back. He loved my tacky surface. He appreciated my dedication. He knew I was ready. I knew he was ready.

Just as we finished our warm-up, a large man in a green uniform approached from the darkness and greeted us. He had many medals and they shimmered in the overhead lighting. Sergeant Forrest saluted him. I would’ve too if I could. He returned the salute, followed by, “We’re all proud of you, Son, win this one for the boys,” before turning around and returning to the darkness. Forrest nodded his head as the man walked away and turned back to the table. His brow bent and his eyes squinted. His pulse slowed. He was prepared for battle.

We volleyed for serve. He always took it easy during the volley. He didn’t want to give away any of his skills until the match had begun. I felt good, and certainly wasn’t going to let him down today, especially with a crowd like this focused on him. The weight of the free world rested on his shoulders today. We would serve them well.

Of Course Sgt. Forrest won the serve. He hadn’t lost one before. Confidence was high on our side. After all, Forrest Gump was the best there had ever been, and the best there might ever be. He gazed down the table and stared at his Chinese adversary. His eye glinted, his palm muscles contracted, and the thin white Ping-Pong ball floated up into the air. I focused on it, studying its rotation and anticipating the impact on my rubbery surface. As it began its descent, and its speed increased, I knew that now it was my time to shine.

I had written this while I was studying for my MFA - I did a collection of short stories that featured a number of different narrative voices and perspectives - this one being the 1st person inanimate object. I haven't submitted it anywhere because I was genuinely looking for a call that wanted this specific kind of piece - and here we are! As for Forrest's ping pong paddle - well, I like to think of myself as a whimsical person, and it just came to me. Thanks again for the opportunity to give it a home. I think Perspectives is a perfect fit.

Michael Heiss is a storyteller from Queens, New York. He teaches at Hofstra University and the Johns Hopkins University Center for Talented Youth. His work has appeared in a number of online journals and received a Silver Educators medal from Scholastic's Young Writers' awards for teaching creative nonfiction. He loves chocolate, sleeping under the stars, and creating possibilities.

Perspectives ~ September 2017 ~ 13

SHOE My Sole Complaint

By Hali Denton You tell me how much you love me, how you will never part with me, as you fondly stroke my toes, admire my shapely heels, revel in what my presence says about the way you want to seem.

And yet, you don’t respect me. You force me along with you, mile after weary mile, over the adamantine surfaces of office buildings, streets and malls in your endless, endless wandering.

You linger in shops, fingering straps and laces, buckles and cut-outs, canvas and patent leather.

What are you looking for? Are you planning to replace me, me whom you claim to love?

You expose me to the unspeakable in the satisfaction of your own needs. You don’t know what it’s like, that intimate contact with the foul amalgamation that is a city sidewalk, the floor of a movie theater, a gas station bathroom. You trample me underfoot, soak me in sweat then complain that I smell, carelessly kick me aside at the end of the day.

What have I done to deserve this from you, you who say you love me? I have never let you down, pinched you, rubbed you raw in tender spots.

I have sacrificed myself, never dreaming that someday you would want to leave me for someone newer, more stylish, someone you will someday love as much as you love me.

I had written the first draft not long ago, at a workshop in response to a prompt to write a persona poem from the POV of an inanimate object, and then after the workshopping process, reworked it, presented it to my local writer’s group, reworked it again, and then decided to send it in response to the call. So it was meant to be!

© Karramba Production - stock.adobe.com

Hali lives and writes in Juneau, Alaska, in the heart of the Southeast Alaska rainforest, where she devotes her time to poetry, music, and drawing. Her spare time is spent drinking coffee and trying to stay out of the rain.

Perspectives ~ September 2017 ~ 14

SUGAR BOWL The Sugar Bowl Tells Its Story

By Sharon Auberle When you brought me home from that street of shops I thought it was forever.

The others in the store on that dim and dusty shelf were happy for me -the teapot from China, the scarred wooden spoons, that rose painted silver mirror, they all had stories too you know, mostly about love and sorrow, about days gone by and being left behind.

I sweetened your life for awhile and you loved me for it but, sadly, you've grown tired of me and I'm cast away again into that dark shop of discards, once more that limbo place where I wait to see my fate, where I learn yet again to speak the language of lost things.

When a friend forwarded me your submission guidelines I was amazed at how perfectly my piece fit. I wrote this recently for a small book a friend and I are doing where we each do a number of sketches and the other writes to them, a sort of exchange ekphrastic. She had sent me a little drawing of a row of antique shops and I happened to glance at my sugar bowl which came from such a place and the poem happened. The book is due for publication sometime this autumn, so the poem is currently unpublished. Our book title is Dovetail.

Š oksix - stock.adobe.com

Sharon Auberle is the author of four poetry collections, three of which also contain her photographs. A Pushcart Prize Nominee, her poetry has appeared in numerous publications and anthologies. Auberle is currently service as Door County, Wisconsin’s Poet Laureate.

Perspectives ~ September 2017 ~ 15

TRANSMISSION LINES Transmission Lines

By John C. Mannone I’m an erector set version of Optimus Prime, my massive steel structure stands like a geodesic cowboy-soldier on a green hill, angled with sharp metal welded into latticework bulging smart muscles, robot arms with ceramic gloves hold heavy reigns that harness electric horses miles away.

I’m charged with enough electrified strength from transformer backpacks to carry out my mission: to deliver, with lightning speed, your current needs.

"Transmission Lines" is an old poem; I had barely started writing poetry seriously (May 2004) when I wrote this one (Sep 2004). At the time, I was a nuclear consultant. I think it was while I was driving to Charlotte (I live in east TN between Knoxville and Chattanooga) that I was intrigued by those transmission towers and how the sunlight played on them. For a moment, I saw the likeness of Optimus Prime in its silhouette.

After I saw your call, which I liked quite a bit, I thought of my raccoon poem, but I wanted to find one on an inanimate object. I scoured my files and find this one. I revised it recently to 1st person (instead of 3rd) to satisfy your guidelines. I am glad you like it.

© waraphot - stock.adobe.com

John C. Mannone has poetry in Blue Fifth Review, New England Journal of Medicine, Peacock Journal, Gyroscope Review, Panoply, Inscape Literary Journal, Baltimore Review, Pedestal, and Pirene's Fountain. He’s the winner of the 2017 Jean Ritchie Fellowship in Appalachian literature and the recipient of two Weymouth writing residencies. He has three poetry collections: Apocalypse (Alban Lake Publishing), nominated for the 2017 Elgin Book Award; Disabled Monsters (The Linnet’s Wings Press) featured at the 2016 Southern Festival of Books; and Flux Lines (Celtic Cat Publishing). He’s been nominated for several Pushcart, Rhysling, and Best of the Net awards. He edits poetry for Abyss & Apex and other venues. He’s a professor of physics living near Knoxville, TN. http://jcmannone.wordpress.com Perspectives ~ September 2017 ~ 16

CANARY Canary

By Aziz Dixon Life is the pits, if we label it thus.

Many times I’ve been down the mine, the coal mine of the mind, singing sweetly until the air turned foul.

I have a fine cage, and often I perch and I watch Mr Nafs, the master-craftsman, who makes them different each one, for Papageno and his birds.

Mine is hand-crafted, of course, from burnished tryharder, but for others he hammers and bends addictanon or travel-I-must, drinksolve, or no-money no-cry.

Remarkable they are, often seen only from outside. Each day I practise my song, to make it shine inside, this home from home, or to make it bigger still, or to imagine it’s not there at all.

And in my dreams Papageno comes; ‘You have a choice,’ he whispers to me, ‘there’s life outside,’ and the key to them all, these gilded cages, is inexhaustible love-enough.

Thank you, Papageno! Ya Rauf, help me to fly, O bringer of healing wings, bismillah, fly toward the One.

When I first wrote this poem I had in mind the cages. Now, as I write more, I find I can fly free like a canary.

© Fotokon - stock.adobe.com

Aziz Dixon draws on local Pennine and Welsh landscapes and life experiences. He has been published in ‘Pennine Ink’ and online with Irwell Inkwell and Algebra of Owls. He launched his latest collection, Poet Emerging, with a reading at the Burnley Literary Festival 2016 and on Radio Lancashire, England. He has recently published in Grapevine (Lampeter), Moon Magazine, Panoply and Perspectives (Ontario), Strix, The Fat Damsel and Light, no 4 (Departure: Fall 2017) Email for contact: edmundazizdixon@gmail.com Perspectives ~ September 2017 ~ 17

RED-EARED SLIDER TURTLE Truly Yours, Red-Eared Slider Turtle

By Linda Simone Hey! You there, sneakered and racing along the river bank!

Maybe I’m half-blind, but you don’t scare me!

Staring at my ruby ear?

Haven’t you ever seen a mobile home?

Green dome from the finest ribs— Protection—and it grows!

I’ve no need to gripe about space or complain, like you, of ice, gale or rain.

Batten down the hatches, I say, and pull my head in.

On sun-drenched days like this,

I never sweat UV rays, my pals stacked to worship old Sol—piggyback.

Linda Simone is the author of Archeology and Cow Tippers. Her Pushcart-nominated poems appear in numerous journals and anthologies, most recently in Bearing the Mask: Southwest Persona Poems (Dos Gatos Press, 2016). A native New Yorker, she now lives in San Antonio, Texas.www.lindasimone.com

Maybe I’m ancient, but here’s a word of advice: Slow down! Don’t sweat the wrinkles!

And always turn your face skyward.

© Flirichef - Pixabay.com

Perspectives ~ September 2017 ~ 18

CATFISH Catfish

By Elaine Mintzer In this chapter, I’m a catfish sliding through muck, trailing my Dalí barbels, swallowing everything.

Above me, carp fan their golden tails and nibble mosquitoes hatching on the surface.

Above them, a bright eye that traverses the blue.

A dim eye that follows the black.

At the bottom, we theorize about life above the surface.

We’ve heard it will be like this:

A last meal.

A pierced cheek.

A line that draws us out of the depths, into the lethal air, its absence of pressure.

The blinding light.

A many-limbed creature, grasping a long antenna or whisker.

Its eyes gleaming at our introduction as it removes the hook, for which I am grateful.

It is rumored that afterward I will be cut -- tail to throat -- to the bone.

What is after?

It is a reprint, first appearing as a finalist for the Jack Grapes Poetry Contest in Cultural Weekly on October 6, 2016. Fish appear frequently in my poems. This particular poem began as a response to a Facebook post from a friend who said, “There’s a Chinese Proverb that says if you want to know the definition of water, don’t ask a fish.” © Brandy McKnight - stock.adobe.com

Elaine Mintzer has been published in journals and anthologies including Borders and Boundaries, Mom Egg Review, Subprimal Poetry Art, Lummox, Lucid Moose Lit’s Like a Girl anthology, The Ekphrastic Review, Cultural Weekly, Rattle, and The Lindewood Review. Her work was featured in 13 Los Angeles Poets. Elaine’s first collection, Natural Selections, was published by Bombshelter Press in 2005. She writes and teaches writing in Los Angeles.

Perspectives ~ September 2017 ~ 19

SWALLOW

© johnwilhelm - stock.adobe.com

Soaring

By Gayla Mills

M

om told me I’m four dimensional. There are three axes, she explained when I was a mere tweet, but we float on the fourth. I liked the idea of floating, especially when I was snuggled close to her and my sibs, warm.

Then one day I felt ready, confident and eager. I spread my arms, stretched, and I was off, traversing the fourth dimension on the southeastern wind current that alternated between 40 and 60 degrees in slope. Whoo, it picked me up higher and I found myself flushed with boundless nowness. The earthly things dropped as the scents, colors, richness of the air drew me forward.

Effortlessly, I closed my eyes for a moment so I could better sense the pieces of molecules of particles of world that pressed in around me, as I rushed through them, floating, soaring. So this was the fourth dimension she had spoken of.

Feeling giddy with its newness, I abruptly flipped my feathers and headed straight down toward the trees. I could feel the tips roughed up by the air as I used one force against another to plunge swiftly. Then feeling mischievous, I robbed gravity of its reward and turned 37

degrees on the western axis, 110 on the northern, and 52 on the fourth. With what I must say was an elegant reversal, I drew up to the scented branch covered with soft spines and grabbed hold. Not bad for a first run, I thought.

Unable to bear my new existence silently, I felt my full throat. I let loose, crying out in the gleenal scale that I had heard in late evening. This, of course, is the scale reserved for intense feeling, and it seemed fitting. I was pleased to be joined by my clitchmates, who responded with the sleelie scale of pride. They had witnessed my journey in the fourth dimension and celebrated it with me.

I knew with a certainty born from my success that the possibilities to soar would always be.

I wrote my first draft of this piece while teaching a freshman composition class. The theme that year was the human/animal divide, and I asked them to write a story from the perspective of an animal. I always write and read aloud with the class to model the process for them. The version I sent you was similar to the original, with chopping and polishing. I didn't pin it down to a particular bird until I sent it to you--I simply imagined a small bird new to flying and tried to capture a different sensory perspective with some new vocabulary.

Formerly a writing professor, Gayla Mills now publishes personal essays, flash fiction, and occasional tweets at sixwordwriter. Her essays have appeared in Spry, Prairie Wolf Press, Skirt!, The Truth about the Fact, Greenwoman, and more. Gayla’s chapbook of personal essays, Finite, won the RED OCHRE LiT Chapbook contest. She has a long-life interest in the inner lives of animals.

Perspectives ~ September 2017 ~ 20

DOG

© Barbara Kazdan

Sweet Lady and Me

By Barbara Rady Kazdan

S

he took me to Good Doggie classes, where an ugly, pug-faced man – I called him Bully - tried to get us dogs to train our owners. I played along because of the treats. I sat, stayed, waited to be called, then raced over to my Sweet Lady to collect a cookie (I’m a sucker for bacon-flavored). One day, Bully made us and our humans line up single file. We had to weave in and out of the line, without stopping to get in the face or sniff the butts of the other dogs. On our turn I was doing just fine, thank you very much, until this puny Pekingese tried to sink her teeth into me. Did I snap back? No. In the Good Doggie way, I walked on by.

But did I remember? Oh yeah. On that pesky little Peke's turn, when she got to me I bared my teeth in my mad dog imitation. Set her straight. After that, Bully had the gall to call me aggressive. Me? Happy go lucky, great with kids, even cats, me? He sent us to a fencedoff area, like I had fleas or something. The nerve! We never went back.

Guess I showed them who was training whom. I taught Big Guy to let me ride shotgun, window open.

And sneak table food to me. Next I helped Sweet Lady scrap the “no dogs on furniture” nonsense.

One day, Big Guy left in a screaming loud truck with flashing lights. He never came back. Since then I’ve stuck to Sweet Lady like glue. I even follow her into the bathroom. Every time.

I’ve trained her well. No Stupid Human training manual necessary. I just taught her what I need and expect. Take meal time. I like company when I eat, so I’d stop eating and follow her if she walked away

before I finished. She’s a grandma, right? She’d freak out if I didn’t eat. She got with the program.

During TV time, she thinks I hit the remote by accident, but I can’t stand shows with eardrum-piercing sirens or beeping noises.

After I moved in a guy dug up the yard, and put an extra collar on me - what, one wasn’t annoying enough?

I found out fast that stepping from our driveway into the street had shocking consequences. Sweet Lady takes that collar off before our walks, but I stop on the driveway and won’t budge, so she drives me out to the street. I’m a 55-pound sheepdog. When I pull my weight she’s no match for me. So that’s how we roll.

She’s learned some tricks herself. If I won't go out before bedtime she rings the doorbell; I'm a sucker for that. Someone might be outside! I don’t bark when people come over; I can’t wait to meet them. The UPS man gives great tummy rubs. Fix-it guys stop working to play with me.

Family visits are the best. Everyone hugs a lot. I stand on my hind legs to get in on it. The kids cry, “Let’s do another group hug, Grandma!”

For me, a dog’s life is great. Sweet Lady takes me everywhere. At yoga I play with the teacher’s dogs. The people fuss over me, especially Ed - he gives super back rubs. The hairdresser keeps milk bones for me. I have to "shake" before she hands one over – hey, small price to pay.

I tolerate Candy Man, a nice guy, but a bit of a perv. He checks my heart and ears before getting up in my business, get my drift? I put up with it because he gives me tasty tidbits after he gets his jollies.

Don’t tell my friends but I wimp out when the sky cracks open and makes deafening noises. Sweet Lady puts my squeezy-tight coat on me and holds me on her lap. But when she’s sleeping, her lap disappears, so I sit on her chest. She wakes up and pushes me off. Go figure.

When she gets her purse - a sure sign she’s going out – if she says “You’re going,” I trip over myself with joy. But if she says, “Just Mommy,” I slink off to the living room. I’m sad when she takes her suitcase along but then Annie feeds me, plays, and sleeps over. (She calls me a bed hog.) Just like I’d never run away from home, Sweet Lady always comes back. No worry there.

I trained her well.

This essay was sparked by my keen awareness that in the relationship between dog-owners and their pets the dog is often in the driver's seat. I shared it first with my writing club; their reaction spurred me to fine tune it.

Always asking, “What’s next?” Solo, sassy Barbara Rady Kazdan loves back roads travel and forward thinking.

Find this empty nester and lifelong social entrepreneur enjoying close friends and her shaggy sheepdog in Silver Spring, Maryland, en route to far-flung family, and online at http://www.achievingchangetogether.com/publishedessays.php Perspectives ~ September 2017 ~ 21

SQUIRREL The Gray-Haired Squirrel

By Sherri Levine Sometimes I can have the best intentions, but still not find what I left behind, like when I can’t find the nuts I buried in the summer.

Each time it happens I scold myself for not paying attention.

What distracts me?

My mind wanders too much in the grass.

I worry about going home, telling my mate what has happened— Will she cuk, muk-muk, growl, bark, or whine?

Will she chase me up a tree thump on my back until I fall to the ground?

Or worse yet, will she threaten to leave me for another, younger squirrel with a better memory?

I originally wrote it in the third poem, but when I saw your call, I changed it to the first person (so to speak).

© GeorgeB2 - Pixabay.com

Sherri Levine is a poet and short fiction writer. She lives in Portland, Oregon where she teaches English as a Second Language to adult immigrants and refugees at Portland Community College. Her work has been published in the Timberline Review, the Hartskill Review, Voice Catcher, and Sun Magazine. She is the Poetry Editor of Voice Catcher magazine. She escaped the long harsh winters of upstate New York and has ever since been happily soaking in the Oregon rain.

Perspectives ~ September 2017 ~ 22

CAT Lazy Day

By Misti Chamberlain Abigail Rose Pooftail

A rustle, a curious sound awakens me, adventures abound!

A crumpled paper catches my eye Attack it, pounce, it must die!

A grumble from the other room tells me to be quiet, calm down.

Sleep Furry thing the voices say But they don’t realize, they’re wasting their day Too early, you see Is the excuse that they use To get me to sleep, but hence, they forget I am royalty.

I play with the blinds, until at last I can see Through the window and watch The morning’s activity.

I yawn I stretch, I yawn some more One more stretch, jump to the floor I parade to the kitchen Where things are astir A quick bit for breakfast, A tummy rub and Puuurrrr I curl up on the couch, The floor, The Rug, Anywhere I want…oooh now chasing a bug.

We were assigned in class to write from a perspective other than our own. I decided that my crazy furball would be a fun experience to write about. It wasn't much after that that my professor posted your link on the publication submissions section of our class. I thought I would send it in and see what happened. I appreciate you accepting my work. I am so excited. © StockSnap - Pixabay.com

Misti Chamberlain is an experienced Artist and Curator with a demonstrated history of working in museums and the higher education community. Her career as a curator has given her the opportunity to tell the story of history through visual displays. She is an advocate for Arts in Education and strongly believes that art and creativity can make a difference. She is a strong arts and design professional working toward a Doctor of Philosophy (Ph.D.) focused in History/Art History from Union Institute & University. In her spare time, she loves to write and create art as a means of escape from her hectic schedule. Spending time with her fur-baby gives her a lot of inspiration for writing.

Perspectives ~ September 2017 ~ 23

Š Olga Marc - stock.adobe.com

Perspectives ~ September 2017 ~ 24

DOG Thanksgiving Goes to the Dogs

By Gary R. Hoffman “Well, cat, isn’t it about time for you to do your famous David Copperfield trick and disappear? From some rumors I’ve heard, I wouldn’t choose under the bed in the guest bedroom. I hear there are dust bunnies under there the size of raccoons. And yes, I know your name isn’t just cat. It's Miss Muffin. I haven’t, however, ever seen you produce any Muffins. I have seen you puke up some pretty disgusting hairballs. And don’t come in during the middle of dinner and scroff up one of those things. Kind of ruins the ambience.

“Oh, there’s the doorbell. Time for me to go greet people.

People always like to see we of the canine persuasion. But, I’ll see what I can do to change that.

“Look at the end of the hall. It’s Mary Ann holding one of her famous green bean casseroles. At least they’re famous to her. She always brings them over before they are finished cooking so she can put the onion rings on at the last minute, and they will be piping hot from the oven. I think she’s just too cheap to use her own electricity to finish cooking. I see she’s carrying the dish out in front of her. Maybe I can change her plans for this year.

Yikes. That was a glass dish, hard on the head, but she now has half of the casserole down the front of her dress on or the floor. I’ll clean up the floor. They really aren’t bad tasting.

“Now my master Ryan is trying to explain to her how dogs don’t jump on people they don’t like. He says I only did that because I like her. What a joke.

“And here comes Aunt Queenie behind her. Humans say other humans give their animals silly names, but this woman is named Queenie Rose. She wears enough cheap perfume to take out the olfactory systems of three extralarge bull elephants. I’ll have to get to her sometime before everyone sits down to eat. I’ll latch onto her leg and hump her. I’ve done that before and then she says she feels dirty, and she goes and washes up. Takes off a lot of the wonderful aroma with her washing.

“Here comes the new guy who just married one of the nieces in the family. Some of them are meeting him for the first time, so they are all shaking his hand. How in the world does that let you get to know each other? A good butt smelling works a lot better. We canines have perfected that. You really know another dog after that kind of introduction. You just have to learn how to stand still even if the other guy has a cold, wet nose. Maybe they’re healthy, but it’s annoying.

“Everyone is gathering at the table. I’ll just go lay in the corner until everyone is situated and then slip under the table. I see little Jeff is now in a high chair at the table.

That means he is probably eating real people food now.

That’s one good thing my family does. There is no kid’s table. Everyone eats at the same place, kind of like my mom did. We all ate from the same side of the table, breakfast, lunch, and dinner.

“If little Jeff doesn’t like turkey, I’m sure he’ll drop a lot.

I’ll be right there to make it look like he ate it all. Hope he doesn’t drop a lot of brussel sprouts. I’m not real fond of them.

“Oh, here comes the turkey. Boy, I could do a number on that bird. Time to take my place under the table while everyone is distracted.

“What’s this? Jean is already playing footsie with Wayne, Melba’s husband. Looks like some things never change.

Payton Place all over the place.

“That was a whopping good meal. I got lots of scraps from Grandpa Jed as well as the stuff little Jeff tossed on the floor. It’s now time to retire to the rec room with most of the men. Unfortunately, I can’t undo my pants for some relief like they can. I guess I’ll just turn over and let someone rub my belly. Everyone seems to like that, and it will help my food digest better. Oh, here comes Fred. He’s always ready to give a good belly rub. A football game is on. Life is good, although I never quite understood football. You want the ball, bite the hell out of them and run. Works for me.

“And these football players aren’t very good at fetching. If someone throws them a ball and they miss it, they just leave it on the ground. I at least go after it, pick it up, and return it to the person who threw it.

“I hear people at the front door. It must be time for some of them to leave. I’ll mosey up there and slip out. I think I am in need of my doggie potty. It’s a good thing I’m not embarrassed to do my thing in front of other people. Cat always sneaks in her covered box. Such a wuss. And thinking of cat, she never made an appearance today.

Maybe it’s because I accidently bumped into the door on master’s bedroom and it shut. I’ll bet she wouldn’t argue about her sand box being anywhere, now.

“I guess it’s time for a nap. This place won’t be jumping again this much again for another month when Christmas rolls around. Maybe I’ll ask Santa for a pretty little canine poodle. I’m not sure what I’d do with her, but I’ve seen things like that on television. After that trip to the vet when they performed some kind of operation on me, I never understood the attraction of females. But maybe I’d get lucky, and she’d like to chase cats.”

This was one of those stories that just popped into my little mind one day. Had no idea if it would ever get published. Didn't write it with that intention. I have owned dogs for many years, but my health limits me now to take care of one.

Gary R. Hoffman has published over three hundred and fifty short stories, non-fiction articles, poetry, and essays in various publications. He has placed over one-hundred and fifty items in contests. He taught school for twenty-five years and lived on the road in a motor home for fourteen years. He now resides in Okeechobee, Florida.

Perspectives ~ September 2017 ~ 25

DOG Finding God’s Toenail on a Woofie Walk

By B. Lynn Goodwin

W

hen Mommy says, “It’s time for our woofie walk, Eddie,” I jump. Then I grab Heart Pillow and shake him back and forth. And some days I have to shake Monkey Man too. Then I keep turning while Mommy tries to fasten the leash, and once she gets it attached, and gets her cell, and gets the door locked, we are ready to go.

But when we out on the morning of August 21, 2017, everything was different. Well, not everything, but the air was different. Gray. Not ash gray but not morning bright either. Weird. “What’s up, Mommy?” I asked, but either she didn’t hear me or didn’t understand what I was saying.

Even though I know she was tired, because we didn’t walk until after 10:00, she took me up to the park. I love the park. But it was still grayish. Sort of like clouds blocking the sun, but bigger. Darker.

“Don’t look at the sun, Eddie,” Mom said. “It could burn your retinas.”

“What’s a retina?” “…And you won’t be able to see,” she said as if I hadn’t even asked about retinas.

We were headed up the path between two sides of the greenbelt when I saw five women, looking through dark glasses with white cardboard rims.

“Want to see?” one of them called. Usually they’d say, “What a cute dog,” but everything was a little weird that day.

“I’d love to,” Mommy said. “Cisco glasses,” she said reading from the cardboard frame of the glasses a woman with swingy dark hair handed her.

She put them on over her regular glasses, and moved her head back and forth. Bet she can’t find it, I thought, but she said, “Wow! It looks like God’s toenail, but it’s the sun instead of the moon and it has red behind it.”

Whatever that means.

Then she turned to the mom with the glasses and said, “Thank you so much!”

As we going back she said, “That was a once-in-alifetime look, and I got to see it even though I never got eclipse glasses.”

So? “And I get to see it because I was walking you. Love you, Eddie.”

“Love you too, Mommy. She didn’t hear, but I was proud anyway.

c B. Lynn Goodwin

Eddie McPuppers, our terrier, misses being a columnist for a Petfinder newsletter. When we walked on the day of the eclipse, he “told” me it would make a good column, so the idea came from the event. I had already seen the call and hoped you’d like his unique voice. I am honored to be his typist.

B. Lynn Goodwin owns Writer Advice, www.writeradvice.com. She's written You Want Me to Do WHAT? Journaling for Caregivers (Tate Publishing) and Talent (Eternal Press). Talent was short-listed for a Literary Lightbox Award and won a bronze medal in the Moonbeam Children’s Book Awards and was a finalist for a Sarton Women’s Book Award. Her manuscript, Never Too Late: A 62-Year-Old Goes From Wannabe to Wife was recently picked up by Koehler Press. Goodwin’s work has appeared in Voices of Caregivers, Hip Mama, Dramatics Magazine, Inspire Me Today, The Sun, Good Housekeeping.com, Purple Clover.com and elsewhere. She is a reviewer and teacher at Story Circle Network, and she is a manuscript coach at Writer Advice. She always has time to write guest blog posts and answer questions. She loves working one on one, trouble-shooting, and helping writers find what works.

Perspectives ~ September 2017 ~ 26

OPOSSUM

© daynaw3990 - Pixabay.com

Song of the Opossum

By Lucille Lang Day The city has left me homeless.

I live in a garage in Oakland, subsisting on cat food— Science Diet or Tender Bites.

I'd prefer a hollow tree and bird eggs, but I take what I can get.

This isn't the worst of it.

One night of sex with a stranger with a pointed snout and snaky tail, and I get an urge to clean my pouch.

Two weeks later

two dozen babies cling to my swollen nipples, and he's nowhere to be seen.

Still, I'm blessed each day with an orange bowl of fresh water.

The gods watch me through a window. I'm glad the cat has a small appetite.

I wrote "Song of the Opossum" after an opossum visited my dining room deck several times to eat the remains of food left out for my daughter's cat.

Lucille Lang Day is the author of ten poetry collections and chapbooks, including Becoming an Ancestor, Dreaming of Sunflowers: Museum Poems (winner of the 2014 Blue Light Poetry Prize), and The Curvature of Blue. She has also published two children’s books, Chain Letter and The Rainbow Zoo, and a memoir, Married at Fourteen: A True Story, which received a PEN Oakland Josephine Miles Literary Award and was a finalist for the Northern California Book Award in Creative Nonfiction. Her first poetry collection was selected by Robert Pinsky for the Joseph Henry Jackson Award in Literature, and her poems, stories, and essays have appeared widely in magazines and anthologies. Her work has received nine Pushcart nominations.

Perspectives ~ September 2017 ~ 27

ELEPHANT

The Elephant Path

By Fabiyas M V It’s in our genes that this ancient path lies.

Yesterday, a few men made a tarred road across our path in the forest. It’s ironic that we’re trespassers today.

Shattered pieces of bright light make holes in the canopy of our privacy. Horns pierce our peace. We get trauma from a newly put up fence of wire. Those old monkeys were gentle.

They neither destroyed nor disturbed.

We rest on our path.

Two guys pelt us with missile-shaped stones.

Barbarism spews from the bottom of their mind.

Our patience is as large as our size. Mind’s cataract cannot be removed either with a surgery or laser rays. © Duncan Noakes - stock.adobe.com

Fabiyas M V is a writer from Orumanayur village in Kerala, India. He is the author of ‘Kanoli Kaleidoscope’, published

by Punkswritepoemspress, USA, ‘Eternal Fragments, published by erbacce press, UK and ‘Moonlight And Solitude’, published by Raspberry Books, India. . His fiction and poetry have appeared in several anthologies, magazines and journals. He won many international accolades including Merseyside at War Poetry Award from Liverpool University, UK, Poetry Soup International Award, USA and Animal Poetry Prize 2012 from RSPCA (Royal Society for Prevention of Cruelties against Animals, U K). His poems have been broadcast on the All India Radio. He has an MA in English literature from University of Calicut, and a B Ed from Mahatma Gandhi University.

Perspectives ~ September 2017 ~ 28

PRAIRIE HAWK

RODENT

Prairie Hawk

By Duane L. Herrmann

Winter Rodent Dreams

By Duane L. Herrmann

Over the fields and prairie creeks and tree lines endless miles of countryside, I survey my domain, All MINE! All MINE! The wind past my eyes lifts me up or down.

A sound carries on the wind and I know food is near.

I see motion and swoop down, the meal... will be mine.

Curled up safe in prairie home I sleep the winter away I dream of summer runs through tunnels grass, some stored here for this long sleep.

It’s not safe to be topside while blizzards rage, there is no cover for protection and my kits need be safe beside.

Come summer sun we will run, enjoy new grass and live above.

AH! Life is good!

© yukoncharlie - stock.adobe.com

Prairie Hawk was written while I was driving on an isolated two lane highway on the top of the horizon where I could see the landscape stretching for thirty or forty miles around me. I could see tree lines which marked creeks and field boundaries and felt as if I could be a bird soaring over it all. A bird would rightly claim all it could see as its own. Finding a meal would indicate this was a bird not a human. And, yes. I did write the first draft of this while I drove. When I was a child writing was forbidden to me, I was expected to work. My first job was given to me when I was two and a half. My work continued and increased until I left home at 17. To compensate, I taught myself to write in the absolute darkness (flashlight and lamp were forbidden too), so now I can write without looking down at my lap. The writing is not the easiest to read, but that is minor.

© Chris - stock.adobe.com

Winter Rodent began from a storybook in my first and second grade classroom. The book showed a cutaway view of a rodent burrow with different little rooms for different activities. A few years ago I had tried to write about a rodents life in a country meadow. When I read your call for submissions, I searched through my poetry file, only found two, but three could be submitted, so I wrote this one.

Duane L. Herrmann is a survivor who lives on the Kansas Prairie where he communes with trees on hills in the breeze and writes. He is published in Midwest Quarterly, Little Balkans Review, Flint Hills Review, Inscape, Orison and others in print and online, in this country and elsewhere.

Perspectives ~ September 2017 ~ 29

Š Ian Dyball - stock.adobe.com

Perspectives ~ September 2017 ~ 30

Whipped Fear

By Tanushka Dangayach

Crack! My leg hurt. I spun around to see the man holding my worst nightmare.

I

watched him. My knees wobbled. Just the sight of him made me shiver. Willy, sensing something was wrong, rubbed my snout, whispering, "It's okay Joey". But it wasn't. I could smell the man's weedy breath from a mile away and as he came close, the sight of his beard sent pangs of unease down my throat. He reached his filthy fingers out to touch me. I jerked my head back, spun around and galloped to the other end of the rink.

My heart ticked like a clock. I was shaking all over and as Willy came close, he reached out a loving hand and hugged me. I took deep fast breaths, still aware of the man, who cursed behind me.

Pulling away, Willy reached for my hind leg. Rubbing it gently, he set it down and took me by the reins.

Leading me back to the man, he looked over at me with sad eyes. He was worried. I could feel it. But so was I. The man came into view again and when he came close, I didn't shake. I just stood. Willy my unbuckled one side and handed it to the man. Was Willy going to leave me with this monster? Slightly pleased, the man flared his nostrils.

"Trot," he commanded keeping a tight grip on the lead.

Trotting, I circled around him. His eyes watched my every move. I couldn't take it. Standing up, I pulled tight on the reins and screamed, "Stop! Stop doing this to me!"

The man clenched his teeth and looked at me with wild eyes. Willy, sensing something was wrong, walked close to me and whispered in my ear, “It’s okay Joey. He won’t hurt you.” Patting my neck, he walked away and in my peripheral vision, I saw him give the monster a nod. The man whispered “Trot.” again through his clenched teeth and tugged on my reins.

I trotted in a circle around him. Focusing on the foliage around me, I prayed “Please end. Let this be over,” over and over again. I heard him mutter and as I turned my head, I got a whiff of his alcoholic breath. Immediately, my instincts kicked in and a deep grunt emerged from my throat as I lay my ears back and bucked.

The man went flying. As he lay on the dusty ground, he watched me with a frown and rubbed his hair. Willy, running to help the man, smirked at me with an irrepressible grin. Holding my tail high, I dragged my reins along as I walked over and stuck my mouth into a bundle of grass.

The whip. I remember when I first felt the whip. It was like a needle saddle had hit me in the back. I had seen my mother struck by it, but I never knew how it felt till I saw Knight.

Knight was a black stallion I met a few years ago when I had stayed with Mayor Ross. It was a cold winters night and after being blanketed and fed a warm bucket of oats, I was taken to the stable. The first thing I saw was Knight. He was a bright clean stallion, with a wellgroomed mane and heavy-set muscles. Knight was the tallest horse I had ever seen. At 16 hands he had managed to touch the top of the stable and now, winked as I passed by. But appearances can be deceiving. As soon as Willy left, Knight's groom strode in. He smelled like alcohol too and walked with a whip in hand. The stallion stiffened. Opening his stable, the man walked in and held the whip high over his head. Knight sunk to a corner. I closed my eyes. I heard a Crack! Opening my eyes, I looked to see the black horse turn around and reveal his true colors. His back was splattered with cuts.

Some, caked like leeches stuck to his skin; others, still bleeding, with blood dripping down to his tail. I’ll never forget that horse. The way he was treated.

Now I stare at the same object of torture. Sidestepping, I tried to move away as he brought that filthy object near me. Thrusting it in my face, he wiggled it hard and I felt a jolt of anxiety run through my veins. He pulled it back.

Clasping it with both hands, he scrubbed his eyebrows and hit me hard. Pain rocketed up my legs and I looked at the man with a gaping mouth. How could he be so cruel?

He hit me hard again. Whipping faster, he muttered “Why won’t you move, you stupid horse?” He hit harder.

He hit me till I couldn’t take it. Tears seeped in my eyes and I fell to the floor.

This piece is based on a true story. I actually saw a horse whipped by a man. It ran to a corner and was coaxed back. When the man tried to get close to the horse, it moved away and reared. I could see how scared the horse was and I wanted to understand how he felt. Immediately, I wrote this story.

Tanushka Dangayach is a freelance writer, often working on poetry, short stories and now, on her first book. She has a blog and is known for her short stories as well as bits of advice that she loves to give. Her work is mainly aimed at major problems around the globe and she works towards increasing awareness through her stories. You can find out more at https://storyspillerblog.wordpress.com.

Perspectives ~ September 2017 ~ 31

Š Matyas Rehak - stock.adobe.com

Perspectives ~ September 2017 ~ 32

SPIDER They Are Watching

By Mel Goldberg

T

his morning I awoke with an itching on my leg. I recognized immediately it as a spider bite. And I saw a spider perched on the bedpost at the foot of my bed.

“That wasn’t very nice,” I said. “Why did you do that?” I expected no response. I have never had a conversation with a spider before but I do talk to my dogs and cats.

Imagine my surprise when I heard a shrill high-pitched voice that seemed to come from inside my head. “Why not. It’s my nature to bite. I am a carnivore.”

I sat up in bed and draped my legs over the edge. The bite continued itching so I took some salve from the drawer of my night stand. “Maybe, but I am usually kind to spiders. I don’t kill them. I trap them, take them outside, and set them free.”

“Yes, I know. Usually. But I know you have killed spiders in the past.”

I squeezed the tube and rubbed some salve on the bite. I looked at the spider that had a black body about the size of the last digit of my little finger and hairy legs. Then I started to get bit upset. “And just how do you know that?”

“That will take a lot of explanation and I don’t think you’re interested.”

“I am interested. And I have time, this being Sunday. I had planned to relax and do a bit of writing today.”

“I knew that. But do you know about the Peruvian Desert about 200 miles south of Lima, on the plain between the Inca and Nazca Valleys?”

“As a matter of fact, I do. I spent a month in Peru a few years ago. I spent two weeks in the jungle and two weeks in the mountains. ” “Well, do you know that in that desert is an assortment of strange symbols humans think can only be seen and appreciated from the sky?”

“I know. I saw the Nazska Lines on a special flight from Lima to Cusco. We flew over Pampa south of Lima.

“Then you know that one of the symbols is a spider 46 meters long. You’re a writer, aren’t you? Why didn’t you write about it?”

I planned to, but I haven’t. . .”

He cut me off. I thought I heard him chuckle when he said, “A long time ago in a galaxy far away.” Then he shook his head. “But let me be serious and tell you a story. You might find this hard to believe but about two million years ago, back during the Pleistocene geological epoch, a Neanderthal named Og-Mur the wise, looked up at the sky one night.”

He didn’t answer but continued. “Through the mists rising above the trees, he saw a faint arc of light that streaked across the sky, speeding toward earth from a planet in a distant galaxy. He grunted to his cave-mates who came out to look. The next morning Og-Mur led his group to where he thought the object had landed.”

“I repeat. How can you possibly know what happened two million years ago?”

“I said you’d find this hard to believe. And even though you cannot possibly comprehend, I will try to explain it to you anyway. When Og-Mur and his group trekked to the area that would eventually become Peru, they saw something at the bottom of a great hole. It was larger than the horned animals they drew pictures of on the walls of their cave. It had a huge hunched back, eight eyes, and a head with curved fangs.”

“You expect me to believe you?”

“They wondered if it could be killed and eaten, so one of the pre-humans grabbed a spear in his gnarled and dirty hand and threw it. The spear bounced off the armorcoated body. When the Great Mother - that’s what we call her, the Great Mother - hissed, the terrified band ran back to cringe in their cave. A few days later when they had settled down, Og-Mur led them back to the area. They discovered only smooth dirt. The hole had been filled in and the area had returned to a plain again.”

“I learned about the Pleistocene geological epoch in school. But you still haven’t told me how you got all this knowledge.”

“Patience, human. That’s one of your great problems. Lack of patience. You want everything instantly and that’s why you miss the big picture.”

I raised my feet back into bed and propped a pillow under my head so I could look at the spider story-teller. “Just me? Or everyone.”

“Everyone. Just look at this puny planet. Wars. Killing.

Hatred. And everyone in a hurry to. . . . But I’m getting ahead of my story. The Neanderthals didn’t forget their fearful encounter. They drew story pictures of it on the walls of their caves next to pictures of the animals they hunted for food. Thousands of years later, the Nazca people remembered and etched figures in the surface of the desert. But the Neanderthals were more concerned with daily survival - hunting, gathering food, and building fires to keep warm. The Great Mother did not bother them.

They never saw it again. She guarded the giant egg sack that she had carried through space and buried in the earth.

And no human since has understood the significance of the landing of the Great Mother, what we call The Event.”

“Okay, that’s enough. I’m getting up. Do you expect me to believe that ridiculous story? You’re crazy. I’ll go and get a jar. Just hop into it and I’ll take you outside.”

“I really don’t care if you believe me or not. It doesn’t matter. You think my story is ridiculous? You think I’m crazy? You are talking to a spider, aren’t you?”

“Really? And how do you know that?

(Continued on page 34)

Perspectives ~ September 2017 ~ 33

SPIDER CONT’D He had a point. I placed my hands behind my head, laid back, and told him to continue.

they wanted was for some unfortunate worker to fertilize their eggs.”

“Thousands of spiders emerged from her egg-sack. They were not a huge as the Great Mother, but they were as large as today’s small ponies. They crawled to the surface of the earth and spread out over their new world to become the progenitors of all spiders.”

“What about the third type?”

“That’s a big word for such a small spider.”

“Typical human. Ridicule what you do not understand.”

“Sorry.”

I think he shook his head in disapproval. He wiggled a little and then settled down on the post.

“If you’re ready,” he said, “I’ll continue. These early spiders produced thousands of egg sacks from their bodies, each smaller than the ones before. The hatched spiders began to create immense networks of tunnels and caverns beneath the surface of the planet. They deposited their egg sacks and each of these thousands of egg-sacks produced spiders that spawned millions of yet more egglaying spiders.”

“What about evolution? Didn’t evolution play a part in your development?”

“Of course. Giant lizards eventually evolved to become birds, and giant lagomorphs evolved to become rabbits.

Spiders also evolved. As I said, their size also diminished over millions of years.”

“You still haven’t told me how you know all this.

Personally, I think it’s all an egg sack of sh. . .nonsense.”

I tapped my forehead with the palm of my hand and looked at the ceiling. “What the hell am I doing listening to a spider?”

“Patience, patience, human. You want everything all at once, even though you are not prepared to understand. it.”

I took a deep breath and fluffed the pillow under my head.

I keep a pad and pencil on my night stand and I decided to take notes. This would make a fascinating fiction story.

“So go on. I may be smarter than you think.”

“Taking notes is a good idea but intelligence has nothing to do with it. These are things beyond human understanding. We developed into three main types: workers, warriors, and drones. Workers’ function to expand the networks of tunnels and establish nests and breeding places into which they deposit food and other resources for the millions of spiders that were going to hatch. Warriors were larger than the workers. They’re the ones who developed the sizable hollow fangs which produced venom that they used to kill prey. They became hunters like black widows, brown recluses, and tarantulas.

Some spiders, like the Goliath, grew large enough to hunt and kill mice and other creatures larger than themselves.”

“Drones. Like me. Innumerable. Humans see us every day in every part of the world. And we have a single function to spy on humans and relay our information to the Great Mother through - are you ready for this? - the hive mind.”

“What the hell is a hive mind? You mean like the Borg in Star Trek?”

“The Borg are fictional but we always liked their message - resistance is futile. Let me explain it in a way you might comprehend. There’s a reason humans have an irrational fear of spiders. Whenever a human sees one of us, we see the human as well and collect information. We note the way humans move, the way they behave, even the way they think. And every spider in the world can see what every spider sees, can know what it knows. Like instantaneous wireless, this information is constantly sent and received.”

“Let me see if I can wrap my mind around this. Every spider in the world is somehow connected with every other spider?”

“Maybe you are smarter than the average human. Not only are they connected now. They are connected throughout history. In the history of your world, since the Great Mother arrived, when a human killed a spider with a fly swatter or a rolled up magazine or crushed it under a foot, every spider in the world knew what that human did. The Great Mother saw all and knew all.”

“That’s a lot of information. Does She have a megacomputer or something?”

“No computer needed. The Great Mother is far superior to any computer humans have invented or are ever likely to invent. Throughout our massive underground, the millions and billions in the spider army have planning for the future, spawning egg sacks by the trillions, ever expanding their growing network. The day will come soon when the drones will have learned everything they need to know.

They will relay the end information to the warrior spiders.”

“Why are you telling me this. I could alert the authorities or at least some pest control.”

II think he was laughing again. His body moved up and down.

“Tell the authorities? They’d lock you up in the nut house.

And to use one of your clichés they’d throw away the key.

I tell you all this because you are a writer and maybe before the end you can write the story. But remember what happened to Renfield.”

“Renfield?”

“Goliath? How big do they get? I know about tarantulas and black widows.”

“He was the man in John Seward’s insane asylum in Bram Stoker’s Dracula.”

“Goliaths are about the size of small white mice. Much larger than me. Too bad about the development of the black widows. They just weren’t into companionship. All

“And as I remember, he took to eating bugs and spiders.”

Perspectives ~ September 2017 ~ 34

(Continued on page 35)

SPIDER CONT’D He jumped from the bedpost and was gone. Although it was only ten o’clock in the morning, I poured myself a vodka on the rocks. Then I went to my computer and did some research. Warrior spiders can cover more than 300 feet in one jump. They are like the supermen of the spider realm. Some can even shoot poison from their fangs.

In the movie Arachnophobia, with John Goodman and Jeff Daniels, spiders wipe out a small California town. The next time the ground shakes and seismologists attribute it to another California earthquake they will probably be right.

But what if they’re wrong. What is it’s warrior spiders, ranging in size from fist-sized tarantulas and pony-sized giants rising up from their underground caverns in the deserts and the jungles, from the mountains and valleys?

What will happen if sticky webs with filaments as strong as steel cable are strung across the freeways and buildings?

The warrior army will approach and behind them will be the workers, the drones, and even the Great Mother.

Will governments will fall and centers of enterprise crumble? Has this been the Great Mother’s plan from the beginning, devised on that far distant planet. To take over our small, insignificant blue and green planet revolving around the weak star in the Milky Way galaxy?

We humans have been so busy fearing each other we have been blind to the real threat.

My research taught me something else. Some scientists believe the irrational fear of spiders is in the human DNA, a survival instinct passed on by our ancestors going all the way back to the dawn of mankind. And while every living being on this planet shares at least part of its DNA with all other beings, both living and extinct, from fish and mammals to snakes and birds. There is only one exception.

Spiders do not share DNA with any other earthly life forms.

The story had been written in draft form a few years ago when I visited Peru and saw the Nazca Lines from the air. I have long thought about the history of spiders from pre-historic times to the present. I edited the story before I sent it to you.

Mel taught literature and writing in California, Illinois, and Arizona, and was fortunate to be selected as a Fulbright Exchange Teacher to Stanground College in Cambridgeshire, England. He and professional artist, Bev Kephart bought a small motor home in 2003 and traveled throughout the US, Canada, and Mexico for seven years, finally settling in Ajijic, Jalisco, Mexico, where they joined the small ex-pat artist and writing community. Mel’s writing has been published on line and in print in The United Kingdom, The United States, Mexico, New Zealand, and Australia. His books are available on Amazon.

Perspectives ~ September 2017 ~ 35

Come back in April 2018 for more perspectives

Perspectives ~ September 2017 ~ 36