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

Portrait of a Man and His Daughter

Portrait of a Man and His Daughter

Krysta Walker

In this photograph, we are sitting on the porch swing that sat on the patio in our backyard. You are smiling, that tired smile you get after you've worked a long day but still wanted to spend time with us. I have my small arms wrapped around your wide middle. My face is buried in your chest; a smile missing two front teeth is stretching my face. Your arms were around my shoulders. I was 12 years younger and had no knowledge of endings. There is no inclination of how fleeting life can be, no shadow of grief darkening my features, no death lurking in every corner of our house. There is only you and I, sitting on a broken porch swing with our arms wrapped around each other.

Here, you are alive. Here, I am young, innocent, smiling.

Happy.

In this photograph, I don’t miss you because you have never left. I don’t think about how life could’ve been because there is no other way life could be.

In this photograph, you are smiling. You are wide at the middle, full of wonderful evenings at the dinner table with your family. Not thin in a hospital bed. Here, your face is clear, glowing with life. Your smile is not obstructed by tubes. Your arms are strongly wrapped around me, shielding me from inevitable heart ache. Not limp on top of hospital sheets.

This is how I’ll remember you, in this photograph.

Kevin Hodge- Scatter Brain Thoughts

Okay yo girl gotta girlfriend
That's cool
But when she start spending more time with her
Than with you
How you feel?
The egotistical to play the fool
Attraction plus subtraction
Equals threesome minus two
Now you solo
Hans
Pun intended
Stories from the belly of the beast
I'm within it
Something special bout the ghetto
And these streets
I'm defensive
Like the bulls
See the forest for the trees despite the wool-
Scatterbrain thoughts (3)