THE EXHIBITION
•
THE EXHIBITION •
‘Passengers’
Martin B. George is a world traveler and writer. He seeks to connect people through the art of story, or simply make them laugh. A proud member of the LGBTQIA community, his interests include painting, reading and exploring international cuisine. Find him at @the_wandering_nickel on Instagram to follow his adventures.
“Passengers”
I met her in Thailand. An accident, the exactness of which escapes me. Could’ve been a lighter. Maybe some tobacco.
Not that it matters—the circumstances in which you meet someone, the how. The important part is the act of meeting itself. The exchange of human pleasantries. The learning and memories, the entropic tune, the breath of fresh air. The gathering of facts, the divulsion of personal details, and the subsequent formation of a friendship destined for impermanence. The acceptance of some new soul into your sphere, even if it be saddeningly temporary.
The meeting.
That’s where the substance really lies.
*
We sat side by side on the ferry, passing a spliff. Studying the darkling waters of the Gulf of Thailand; the moon no more than a glimmer, its fluorescence unable to fight through the oppressive nighttime clouds.
“Reminds me of a Van Gogh painting,” I remarked.
“Who?”
“Really?” I answered, all incredulity. “Starry Night, you know, the suicidal painter who severed his ear?”
Understanding dawned.
“Ah, you mean Van Gogh?”
“Is that how you pronounce it?”
“It is in the Netherlands.”
*
Her name was Lieke.
She was from the small town of Steenbergen in the south of the Netherlands; the third daughter in a family of farmers. Generations of cattle-rearing and cheesemaking, of shoveling shit and bottle-feeding runts, of tilling land and pulling weeds. Generations of dedicated laborers working what land they had.
And she was one of them.
There were a dozen chickens, the names of which I don’t recall. There were pigs too, but they didn’t have any names. She used to name them, she said; although, she stopped when she learned what death looked like, when she heard the blood-curdling scream of boar and sow alike. But now, older and hardened, the slaughter had become as routine and mundane as brushing one’s teeth. She even joked that Canadian bacon was just as likely Dutch. There was a flock of sheep raised primarily for wool, with grazing their secondary purpose. Rarely were they sold for butchering or killed to feed themselves—for even though she had reconciled one animal’s death, neither her nor the remainder of her family could stomach the notion of slaughtering something so young; and, in this nuanced manner, they abstained from the consumption and commoditization of lamb. Other than a few horses, a herding dog and some cattle, the rest of the land was dedicated to botanical life: wheat, tomatoes, feed crops.
She extolled the place, speaking with fondness and pride, and but for one neighboring family, there was nothing but genuine affection expressed.
Yet, the subjects were not proportionately discussed, and indeed this neighboring family occupied as much of the conversation as her family and the farm they tended to. I listened and learned. Of the children she said very little, other than that there were four of them, two sons and two daughters. The mother’s name was Ilse, and she was a strict disciplinarian and, perhaps paradoxically, a spineless zealot.
Other than that, I gathered nothing.
She was too busy talking about the father.
His name was Willem, and his beliefs were as antiquated as an abacus, as outdated as a mimeograph machine. A man as irascible as he was ignorant. A truculent man who loved repeating himself, loudly and long-windedly. He supported Geert Wilders and his Party for Freedom, and like them desired a Dutch world devoid of Islam and its practitioners. A xenophobe who arbitrarily assigned blame to the Turks and other immigrants. A fundamentalist, he happily sermonized on the sacrilege of homosexuality. Black Pete was a staple of his Christmas décor, he considered the atrocities in Indonesia ancient history. In general, he believed that the only people of color worth allowing were the ones on national sports teams. He was a proponent of gender norms. He was an altogether distasteful and unpalatable man. A stubborn, prickly vestige of a past best left unrevived.
And yet, he was a man whose ideological principles, although once ostracized, were not dead—they were far from the fringes, and they were spreading like an infection. A moral pandemic where twisted thinking was contagious. Where hate had been normalized. Where it was winning politics. Where it was ubiquitous.
Because of people like him.
*
I understood the anger, the disgust, the shame. I understood the need to release those emotions.
But her reaction was different.
The length at which she spoke of Willem, the subtle seething, the almost unnoticeable agitation, it all suggested something deeper. Something personal.
A family feud beyond repair, perhaps. Or an individual wrong. An interpersonal conflict maybe, between the two of them. She had been equivocal about the children, the mother. Were they somehow involved?
*
Waves lapped at the ferry as we gently waded the waters. Cigarette smoke danced briefly around us before disappearing into the night’s fog.
The thirty minute trip from Koh Samui to Koh Phangan was coming to an end. Already passengers were collecting their luggage and lining up to disembark. We put our cigarettes out and joined the queue.
I felt unsatisfied. We had arrived at our destination, but the conversation hadn’t reached its proper conclusion.
We walked to the street. I was staying in Haad Rin, but she was going northwest to Haad Yao.
Before she went searching for the best priced tuktuk, I asked if she wanted a farewell joint. She shrugged her shoulders and we made our way down to the beach. We took our shoes off and stood in the sand, smoking.
“Why are you so mad at Willem?” I asked.
Lieke took a deep drag, debating.
Then she whispered:
“He took Mila away from me.”
“Who?”
“His daughter,” she said. “He exiled her to Belgium to stay with relatives. We were in love. And now that’s gone, because of him and his perverse beliefs. He ruined everything.”
She pushed the tears from her eyes.
“I loved her,” she wept. “We were in love. We still are.... I still am....”
THE END
Martin B. George is a world traveler and writer. He seeks to connect people through the art of story, or simply make them laugh. A proud member of the LGBTQIA community, his interests include painting, reading and exploring international cuisine. Find him at @the_wandering_nickel on Instagram to follow his adventures.
‘Feathers and Bones’ & ‘Erosion’
Sierra Tufts is a writer living in Pennsylvania who received her MFA from Arcadia University. Her flash fiction has been published in 805 Lit + Art. She has also published poetry in two anthologies—Hey There, Delilah! by Wingless Dreamer and New Voices – Spring 2024 by Moonstone Arts Center.
Feathers and Bones
I lied to a priest
at the age of eight.
My sins would be forgiven
if I was sorry.
There are only three things
bodies need to survive—
forgiveness isn’t one.
I was a bride for the first time
at the age of nine.
I walked down the aisle toward
a wrinkled, balding man.
He presented my husband—
a thin, tasteless wafer I was
told became His body.
I took back my original sin
at the age of fourteen.
I stained every spec of white
with the blood dripping
from the gaping holes
where I ripped apart my wings
and scattered the ground with
feathers and bones.
Erosion
Raindrops falling down a windowpane
You leave me
S-l-o-w-l-y.
Your laugh, a
chuckle
giggle
chortle
snicker
I can’t remember.
Were those earthen locks softer than the blanket I clutch?
A smile that lit up a room—an exaggeration?
I rip through the pages,
Entreating one photo after another
“Please remind me.”
Still those raindrops fall off the edge
to oblivion
Another piece of you
fades
away.
Sierra Tufts is a writer living in Pennsylvania who received her MFA from Arcadia University. Her flash fiction has been published in 805 Lit + Art. She has also published poetry in two anthologies—Hey There, Delilah! by Wingless Dreamer and New Voices – Spring 2024 by Moonstone Arts Center.
‘Bunhill Field’, ‘Dinosaur Footprints’, & ‘Only the Forest Remembers’
Andre F. Peltier (he/him) is a Pushcart and two time Best of the Net nominated poet and a Lecturer III at Eastern Michigan University where he teaches literature and writing. He lives in Ypsilanti, MI, with his wife and children. His poetry has recently appeared in various publications both online and in print. His poetry collections Poplandia and Ambassador Bridge are available from Alien Buddha. He has another collection forthcoming in 2024: Petoskey Stones from Finishing Line Press.
Bunhill Field
Early spring in Islington,
hyacinths poking through,
daffodils in bloom,
even the magnolia trees
exploding.
Walking three blocks
to Bunhill Field
through London sun
and crowded sidewalks.
Bunhill Field,
eternal home of Daniel Defoe,
John Bunyan.
The grounds where Isaac Watts
forever sings “Joy to the World.”
And behind the hedgerow,
William Blake watches his city
rise around him.
Romantic prophet,
forging the reign of Urizen
who watches and waits.
Urizen watches and builds
the walls of his
chartered metropolis.
Urizen builds walls
and hammers mighty chains
to keep his people in check.
And there lies William Blake,
visionary with crown of light
and trees full of angels.
South in Peckham Rye,
those angelic trees
glowed and pulsed,
sending letters of love
and rebellion to the dungeons
of the Tower of London.
Wordsworth called him a madman,
and mad he was, but those visions,
from the heart of Islington,
awaken the grand city
and guide us toward tomorrow’s
fantastical sleep.
Dinosaur Footprints
Aqua-marine spray paint
on weathered ply-wood:
“DINOSAUR FOOTPRINTS, NEXT LEFT.”
Not knowing what to expect,
we signaled, pulled into the gravel lot,
and stepped out to the blast furnace
of June in northern Arizona.
Under an awning,
folding tables filled
with turquoise rings,
necklaces, bracelets, all for sale.
Local mothers keeping
food on the table
and love in their hearts:
“You guys want a tour?”
a young woman asked.
There was a crumpled five
in my pocket,
I handed it to her, and we set out
across hardened Jurassic mud.
“Here, dilophosaurus,
they probably didn’t actually spit venom
like in the movie,
and there, our state dinosaur, sonorasaurus.
You can tell its giant gate
by measuring one print to the next.”
As we walked back in time,
200 million years to when
that shallow sea covered the Moenkopi flats,
as we stepped back in time to witness
the pinnacle of 19th Century
Navajo freedom,
we sipped our bottled water
and munched week-old trail mix
from out our shiny new REI backpack.
“And here,” she said,
spilling water at our feet
to highlight the indentations,
“you’re standing in the print of a T. Rex.”
70 million years of wind, rain, erosion,
and there we stood.
We thanked her, wished her luck,
and headed out.
We had to make Kayenta
for those 1:00 PM fry bread tacos
and our lunch date at
JoD’s laundromat.
Only the Forest Remembers
Only the forest remembers
and us.
The sturdy, low boughs
held us in our youth
as we climbed.
The upper twigs swayed
and bent in the wind.
From the tops,
through leaves and clouds,
the sailboats shined
on silver waters.
Waters running from
Chicago to Alpena,
Detroit to Montreal.
The waters follow that highway
of sorrow and forgetfulness,
Mackinac to Mobile,
Timbuktu to Shangri-La.
Only the forest remembers
the broken shale.
Knee deep shards
lined the gulch
carved by ancient ice and snow.
When the glaciers receded
and the Pleiades fell
to sandy shoreline solitude,
when sumac burned crimson,
vermillion, jasper before
November’s gale,
before Friday nights at Curtis Field,
water and wind worked their magic
and the Devonian hexagons
bleached in the drought
of August.
Only the forest remembers
and those warm midnight stars.
We found Sagittarius
in the eastern sky
and The Dipper’s double glow.
Ptolemy knew the archer
was thirsty.
Ptolemy knew when
the hunt was lost.
And with that J. C. Penny telescope,
we knew the lunar mountains.
Shadows cast ‘cross craters
and ‘cross benighted minds
of childhood’s fancy.
With astral projection,
we never looked back.
Only the forest remembers
those long days
spent as mountain men, trappers,
and Allied soldiers
slinking across enemy lines
to blow ammo dumps
and liberate France.
Each broken branch a Winchester
or an M1 Garand.
Each of us, Lee Marvin or John Wayne.
“Say your prayers,
you Nazi bastards!”
we called wading through trout lilies
and barberry thorns.
“We have you in
our sights!”
Only the forest remembers
and us.
Those long, lazy afternoons
biking through the trees.
Catching air off exposed roots,
we soared like harriers.
Rounding embankments
with no hands.
“Look ma!” we called to no avail.
Parents weren’t watching.
Our summers remained
unsupervised, remained free.
They’d call us for dinner;
we’d run home for tacos
or hamburgs and hotdids
before returning to the woods
to live out grandiose lives
until bedtime called
us home again.
Andre F. Peltier (he/him) is a Pushcart and two time Best of the Net nominated poet and a Lecturer III at Eastern Michigan University where he teaches literature and writing. He lives in Ypsilanti, MI, with his wife and children. His poetry has recently appeared in various publications both online and in print. His poetry collections Poplandia and Ambassador Bridge are available from Alien Buddha. He has another collection forthcoming in 2024: Petoskey Stones from Finishing Line Press.