A dream? (DeAndrea Farries)

It’s raining, and I am in the middle of it. My clothes are soaked, and my hair is sticking uncomfortably to my forehead. I stare down at my reflection in the pools of water, and the image makes me frown. I look like some sort of bum. My clothes are heavy with water, and they hang awkwardly off my frame. My baggy pants would fall down to my ankles, if I wasn’t holding them up. I should have put a belt on this morning. “Hey, hey! Boss!” I had dazed off and didn’t notice that someone was calling me until I bumped into a body. They hit the ground and I glanced down. “Oh, hey there Brice.” Brice is a scrawny little kid, who looks a lot younger than he already is. And as clumsy as he is naïve. I didn’t bump into him that hard, but he’s a featherweight. I’m surprised that a gust of wind didn’t blow him away. The boy is just as soaked as I am, though his smile counters my frown. “B-Boss-“ “Stop calling me that, kid. I have a name.” “Sorry…um, Elliot. I’ve been looking for you all day! The crew’s been wondering where you went off to last night.” He gets to his feet and tries to dust off his pants. I guess he forgot the fact that mud was wet. Instead he smears the mud making a much larger mess. He eventually gives up and I shake my head. “Go tell ‘em that I just wanted some alone time. I needed to breathe. I can’t be around you guys every fucking second of the day, kid.” Brice nodded, his hair getting in his face as he does so. “Yes ma’am... er, Elliot.” I sigh and begin to walk again, passing him. I wave back to him lazily. “Tell ‘em to stop sending you around like an errand boy. Communicators exists, they should use one.” … The rain finally calms down, and so does the hustle and bustle of the people. I make it to the other side of town, just as things began to clear up. As I walk I spot a small café and, deciding that it was best to find some shelter, headed inside. The place is small, and cramped. And it’s obvious that I wasn’t the only person who had this idea. I push past people, and awkwardly bump into furniture, until I find an empty table. Once seated my shoulders slump, I exhale audibly, and I relax. “This is better than nothing.” I close my eyes, for what seems like a second before I hear voices. They are close, and I realize that they are directed at me. “Is she asleep,” this person’s voice is soft and low. They’re probably whispering. “Looks like it,” this voice is different. Their tone has a husky edge to it, yet it sounds even. I open my eyes and sit up quickly. My vision is blurry at first, but it clears as I look up from the table. How long was I asleep? “Oh, we were too loud.” Two women stand before me. Though they aren’t much taller, It feels like they are looming over me. They are both peculiar looking people who seem out of place, while at the same time belonging. They are dressed in the same dull colors that populate the city, but the color looks as if it is more of an obligation. The tallest is thin and her limbs are a bit long and lanky, yet still athletic. I can only tell that she’s female from the soft features of her face. Her hair is styled short, and the color of sand. And her eyes are the gray of the clouds outside. Her clothing compliments her figure while at the same time disguises it. The other woman is small, yet is shapelier. She has more weight on her than her companion, but not much. Her hair is also short, and styled in a pixie cut. It is white, and I assume that it’s been dyed. She is dressed more feminine with a shirt that exposes her shoulders and has loose sleeves. The shirt is tucked into a skirt that hugs the curves of her thighs and stops above her knees- “Can we sit here?” How long had I’d been staring at them. How long have I been staring at them?

Fluorescent Adolescent

Fluorescent Adolescent

 Krysta Walker 

Down at the playground, there was this awful seven year old named Mavis. Mavis had this hobby, a dear past time of hers that entailed kicking me around the jungle gym. I remember this one time, Mavis kicked me so hard, it sent me right up the big kids slide and I couldn’t come down until Ms. Turner wobbled into the yard and got me down herself. Through all the tears and snot that seemed to be oozing from my face, I caught a glimpse of old Mavis slumped in a corner laughing till water squeezed from her squinty little eyes.

Anyway, it was around Christmas time and Mavis was in fine form. I had bruises all over my shins and things and my head was sore from where she had tried to yank one of my long red braids right off my scalp.

I was busy in my playroom at home, the snow was falling outside my window like dollops of sour cream. I was reenacting Mavis’ most recent act of terrorism with my Barbie dolls.

 Barbie marched right up to itty bitty Kelly and smacked Kelly’s lunch right out of her little doll hands. Kelly smiled blankly down at the spilled goods while Barbie scooted off to a corner to laugh and snort and live happily ever after. I opened the window and stuck Barbie in the snow, forcing her to deal with her issues.

My brother, Scott, was standing out in the blizzard, stupidly trying to light a cigarette, and the noise from the window nearly made him drop the match.

“Christ, Brenda don’t go sticking your dolls in the snow when I’m out here! Cheese and crackers I thought you was momma.” He was shaking so bad that this time he actually did drop the match along with the cigarette in the snow.

“She needs to learn a lesson! Barbie needs to learn it’s not okay to drop Kelly’s lunch, or kick her shins, or poke her with pencils, or yank her pigtails.” I rubbed my head.

He looked up at me sympathetically. “Mavis giving you trouble at school again?” I nodded.

“Well listen, Bren. Mavis is a bad kid. And you know how Santa feels about bad kids, right? So just you wait ‘til Christmas day. You’ll be wakin’ up with all kinds of goodies and all ol’ Mavis’ll find in her lumpy stocking is a big brick of coal!” I smiled. Then I sneezed, and Scott bustled me back into my room since I was letting all the heat out.

The next few weeks, when I went to school and took my beatings from Mavis, I did it with a Kelly smile on my face, picturing Mavis’ piggy face all screwed up with tears when she finds out that all her gift is good for is smoking on the fire.

Mavis took no mind, and even came up with some of her greatest tricks that winter. I was smiling when I found my books frozen under the ice in the little pond behind the school. I chuckled a little when I saw a frog hopping and twitching in my sack lunch. I even managed a feeble “Oh, Mavis,” when her oversized feet landing on my little fingers had caused me to double over in pain.

I had that smile super glued to my face all the way until when they let us out for a week before Christmas. I had the time of my life that break, playing with Scott in the snow. Getting money in the mail from my grandparents. And on Christmas day, when I saw that shiny red Radio Flyer tricycle, all I could think of was the fact that, at that exact moment, Mavis was unwrapping her coal.

Imagine how heartbroken I was when, upon my return to class, I found Mavis sporting a brand new bright pink fleece coat and shiny red boots.

“Look what Santa brought me, everyone! Look what Santa brought me!”

I was betrayed. I had trusted Santa. This man whose mantra was “be good for goodness sake”!

For goodness sake.

With a peculiar animal cry that was quite muted on account of my scarf being wrapped tightly around my mouth, I launched myself onto Mavis and began raining on her head with punches and slaps. I freed my mouth and fastened it on her cheek.

It was quite a spectacle.

When the principle asked me why I punched and bit Mavis and what did she do to me, I growled through clenched teeth; Ask Santa.

And that was my first school suspension. 

Janette

Krysta Walker

               The sky was overcast and threatening rain. Most people hurried from place to place, avoiding the rain that hadn't come yet. One woman stood in place on the side walk. She checked her watch and glanced anxiously around her, pulling her coat tight. She shuffled in the cold, puffing out her cheeks. She bent to adjust the strap on her red heels.

            You stood on the opposite street. You looked at her, wondering what she was waiting for. You checked your own watch and realized how long you'd been outside the restaurant. Your cigarette had long ago burnt out, you having only smoked half of it. Everyone was probably wondering where you went. You looked through the window behind you at the people laughing and drinking wine. If you peered hard enough you could see your party towards the back. They were all smiling politely. They held onto their drinks awkwardly, not wanting to be the first to finish.

            You shoved your hands further into your pockets, touching the lint. Your attention went back to the woman across the street. She had gone into the convenience store and was buying something from the cashier. She walked back out to the sidewalk, hastily opening her purchase: a carton of cigarettes. She slid one into her mouth and shoved her hands into the pockets of her coat. She rummaged through her purse then seemed to deflate as she dropped the cigarette inside. You felt the lighter in your pocket. You pulled your hand out of your pocket and checked the time. You'd been outside for twenty minutes.

            Your hands were freezing. Your jacket was not heavy enough for the weather. An icy drop landed on your head followed by several more. The woman checked her watch one more time then held out her arm, hailing a taxi. As the yellow car pulled up to the curb, she wiped the rain from her face, or were they tears? She climbed into the car and drove away.

            You looked at the sky before walking back into the restaurant. As you sat at your seat, Sarah looked at you curiously. She touched your face with her napkin, asking about the rain. You muttered something. Her parents laughed. Her father punched you gently in your arm and wondered aloud at where you had gone.

            You looked outside at the rain and thought about the woman. You gave a vague answer. No more questions were asked. You had overcooked steak and two extra glasses of scotch and the rain continued to fall.  

Into The Ravine

Krysta Walker

They held hands, fingers overlapping, pulling strength from each other. They looked over the rocks, past their feet; saw the rushing water and debris like an evil tempest, a quick escape.

 She looked at him, he looked at her. Her hand was lifted and brought to his mouth.

"I love you," spilled his love.

"And I love you," poured hers, down her face, dripping from her quivering chin. Not quivering with fear. Not weeping in sadness, but in excitement; readiness.

He took a final squeeze. She took a final breath.

They closed their eyes.

And they jumped.

The Green Vase

The Green Vase.

Krysta Walker

Amelia held the vase in her trembling hands.

Freshly green. Forest green.

Four years ago she had received this vase. A wedding gift. For four years, that vase had held a multitude of occasions.

Valentines Days.

Birthdays.

Funerals.

Several times it was home to dead leaves and wrinkled stems.

Two years ago she had aimed and flung vase, water, and dead plant at Harold. She missed and later glued green pieces together. She did a horrible job. Several pieces weren’t recovered.

She had stared at the reflective surface, not seeing herself. She'd wondered why she wasn't enough.

A fresh bunch of flowers were placed in the broken vase when Harold returned. It sat in the foyer of their apartment, the only witness to a sinking marriage.

Sick green. Pale green.

The vase was knocked from its perch in the heat of an argument. The carpet saved its fall but took a bit from the top. The vase was launched at a wall when Patricia accidentally called Harold's house instead of his office.

Jealous green. Mealy green.

One year after she flung it, Amelia and the vase watched as Harold grabbed his suitcases from the foyer and the vibration from the door gently shook the house.

Amelia sat in a dark room holding a broken vase.

The broken vase that sat in a broken home for four years.

She saw all the effort she had put into her marriage in that vase. Chipped glue. Peeling paint. Dead stems.

Dead love.

Dead green.

Broken promises. Broken home. Broken woman.

Broken vase. 

The Mailman's Funeral

The Mailman’s Funeral

By Krysta Walker

On the day of the mailman's funeral, mamma spat on his grave. I suppose that was when I knew. Or maybe I knew long before. Maybe I’ve always known. How’d he'd wink at me and shoot me a quarter every time he delivered our packages. One year, on my birthday, he gave a card with five one hundred dollar bills inside. Grandma said, one night as she sat in our kitchen helping my mother make dinner, that our old mailman, Mr. Gabriel, had never winked at anyone and that he sho' nuff never gave nobody a card filled with hundred dollar bills on their birthday. Maybe that's when I knew.

               Anyway, I was sad to see him go, sad to see mamma so sad. I guess that was when daddy knew too. I don’t think he wanted to know, but grandma used to say that you can’t stop knowledge once it starts flowing into your brain.

               Sitting there at the funeral, I saw realization change the color of daddy's face. I saw years of lies redden his forehead and force his eyes over to my face. I watched as his eyes settled over all the features that never quite resembled him but did resemble someone else; the mailman.

               I wondered if he would spit, just like mamma had, but for different reasons I guess. He looked like he would, his mouth all puckered and the red on his face deepening. I wondered if he would hit me. He never had before, but if he would, this would be the time. It was never too late to start as Grandma always said. He didn’t spit though and he didn’t hit me. He always had a pretty tight handle on himself.

               I think later on that night he hit mamma though. I'm sure he did. Just as I am sure she hit him back. But at the mailman's funeral they both just stood there next to each other.

               It was 97 degrees that day. Mamma had forced me into a sweaty purple velvet dress with long black sleeves. I could feel a heat rash developing on my lower back where the velvet was the itchiest. I didn’t scratch it, though it itched like the dickens. It didn’t help that I was thirsty. My throat felt like it was splitting in two.

               I would peek over at my mother ever so often, wondering whether or not to ask for a drink from the bottle of water she kept in her purse. I decided against it every time. At that point, she seemed to forget that I was there. She'd mutter to herself ever five minutes or so. Things I didn’t quite understand.

"Idiot...you promised...stupid...promised."

I remember thinking that her words reminded me of something. A hot Saturday that I was forced to stay inside. The mailman dropped off the mail and an extra letter for my mother. I read it over her shoulder and could only catch a few words.

"Elise...soon...promise....swear...leave....promise."

               A lot of the words were hard to read, he had very small handwriting, and before I could get any further, my mother snatched it away and sent me to clean the basement.

That’s what I thought of when she muttered at the funeral. I couldn't understand her, but felt that I wasn’t supposed to. So I pretended not to hear.

               Daddy didn’t though. Every time she muttered, he'd get more and more frustrated until he finally popped and hissed at her:

"What in Sam Hill are you murmurin' about, Elise!?"

One of the ladies in the front row shushed him and he simply went back to stewing in his fury.

               Lord I was so thirsty. But I knew if I left the pew, I’d get in trouble. Mamma might rise out of her stupor just in time to see me slip away and switch me across the back of my legs with her purse strap. I couldn’t risk it. So I stayed in the seat getting dryer and dryer, mamma cried harder and harder, daddy got madder and madder and the mailman, my father, got deader and deader. 

Rebekah Wheeler- Visit

Visit

You’ll have to find new 
things to worry about.
What to do with all this
space, for instance; halves
of rooms strain with pert
emptiness, as if clamoring 
to draw in your wasp-eyes.

Build a nest with the dead
husks of overused cardboard
boxes. Climb inside, sleep forever