‘ISLAND OF DREAMS’

Photographer - Tobi Brun

ISLAND OF DREAMS

When the morning light greets,
I wake up in my island of dreams,
So pure and sweet,
As if there is no grief.
Ocean so clean,
Bents swing like the sea,
Birds return in the spring,
There is no autumn with any sadness to meet.
There is a sanctuary,
Up that hill,
Where the wind sings a song
Of my ancient scars,
Made of the sun's gold and the kingly red,
Like my soul growing higher
To give my most precious to you.
Under the morning's clear sky,
So easy to wander.
I love the way the birds scream,
In this endless silence.
My mind comes like waves at the sand,
For the things that need to be changed,
For the things I want to say
With my existence.
I wish to make a better world,
For you and me,
My soul is here to reach.
Like a tree that will flourish,
My soul’s in need of turning into a bloom.
We didn't come in this world,
To be silenced...
Always when the morning sun greets,
I wake up in my island of dreams,
My soul is the last one to give up on these dreams,
So, take my hand and let's go,
To the island that's real...

Laima Gulbe-Testa's grandmother was a literature teacher and taught her to read and write very early. She remembers reading an article about an asteroid coming close to the Earth already at preschool age feeling so proud about being able to read complicated words. During her twenties she fell in love with the English language and began expressing herself in English. Her native tongue is Latvian. But her interest in songwriting led her to write in English even more. In her writing she's mostly interested in different social groups, global warming, the end of mankind and which direction mankind is taking, psychology and freedom of mind. She has an active Instagram page - https://www.instagram.com/laima_27treecrowns/

‘An Accusation Of Betrayal’

Photographer - Tobi Brun

An Accusation Of Betrayal
A poem about the fire at Winter Street Studios, December 20th, 2022

Here stands what’s left to cherish – If it still has any worth?
An accusation of betrayal, a death and then - no birth.
I find no consolation - the grave was not the goal.
Two second flight, a long goodnight.
The price more than the toll.
Fire uncontrollable, the same as boiling hate.
Once the flame is lit – there’s no manning the gate.
And we, we had no part in it, like many stories told.
Anger, once unleashed, consumes more than it’s owed.
This accusation of Betrayal - it didn’t take its leave-
It lingers in the Artist souls and in the canvas weave.

Toria Hill is a living, working artist who works in Acrylics and Mixed media at her studio inside the Winter Street Studios in Houston Texas. In December of 2022 another artist, filled with anger about what he perceived as a betrayal, set a bomb off inside the building and this fire consumed the entire building which held the life work of over 100 artist - including Toria Hill. Although she is not a poet, she had onn piece that, although damaged by smoke, survided the fire. In her pain, anger and loss she scribbled these words across the canvas. It lives to day to remind us all what a spark of anger can do. It is her only publicly diplayed poem today. www.toriahill.art / IG: toriahill.gallery FB: @toriahill.art

‘ON THE CAMPUS LAWN’, ‘DEFINITIVE’ & ‘MIDNIGHT THOUGHTS ON BEING A GOOD DAUGHTER’

Photographer - Tobi Brun

ON THE CAMPUS LAWN

Under the green shade of a massive Maple
a twenty-foot poster of an aborted fetus
blocks out the picturesque views of spring.
This display of disembodied flesh
split open, meant to shock us
out of our young adultness.
The consequences of a human stain
irreverently hung.
That poor, unlived life
is what they want us to feel.
Shame is soft tissues, unsown,
in technicolor mega-vision.
Shock those Baby Bodies,
crushed in the political machine;
the shiny temporal intoxication
of co-ed independence.
The big consequences
of our lived lives, condensed
into thousands of copulating moments,
our millions of uncensored collisions hang,
with all their cellular baggage
in the spring air.
But even with all that,
we do not engage.
We ignore those giant posters on the campus lawn.
We carry on with our lives, unshocked;
bound for the tasks ahead,
the afternoon yawning away
beneath the green shade of a massive Maple.

DEFINITIVE

tension lifts and is also lifted
digging between the gaps of the old ways
language gave us gendered rules
embedded in bits of colonialized turf
they were dug up- fenced off-
turned into a private golf course
my lowercase i with its little severed head
is cracked away at the putting green
the divots of grass get strewn about
he him and she her grow wild in the lost rough
but time and space cannot be borrowed
and everything returns to junk eventually
we sing
i me mine i me mine i me mine
until it hurts and the words sound like gibberish
their thoughts float unsubstantiated,
all the articles escape into the atmosphere
they are at the north pole drilling the core
you are at the south pole observing emperors

MIDNIGHT THOUGHTS ON BEING A GOOD DAUGHTER

Tonight, she infiltrates my dreams
with that little sting of irritation from her presence.
She compliments my blouse
But only in that step-motherly way
that makes me want to tear it off.
That tension between us runs in circles
churning over hot, unspoken words
Holding us all the way through
to an end that never comes.
What I want to say feels cruel
to her now frail body,
she could never hear me then,
and now those words are lost to time.
That teen self
full of snark and exasperation-
has deflated
into a mature, understanding adult.
Still, I want to smash all the angel figurines
In the downstairs bathroom.
I want to tell her cancer to go to hell.
I want not to read the long letter she’s sent me-
her life story-
typed in italics and printed on lavender paper
with her signature curled out on the end page.
I want to be annoyed
at her full-bodied boasts
about vitamins,
or the tiny bags of almond powder
in the freezer
about how she’s never been bored before,
or what her higher-self says during her meditations.
I want not to watch her grow weaker
I want not to wonder how much time she has left.
Tonight, she infiltrates my dreams.
And I say out loud: “This is not my fault!”
“I’m not a bad daughter.”
I’m annoyed at the conversation we will never have.
The messy soup of feelings,
which boils too hot and cools too quickly.

Hannah Behrens is a poet, freelance writer, and writing coach. She has an MFA in Creative Writing from the University of Colorado. She is a native of Boulder, Colorado, and has lived in the Netherlands since 2016.

‘Mushak’ & ‘Ode to the Banal’

Photographer - Tobi Brun

MUSHAK

Rain and wind lashed the windows
while Stan Getz blew warm gusts
of tender samba over us
You spoke about Etheridge’s drum
and how he ran off at 16 to join the army and escape Paducah
Mark began playing the drum
as you plucked the kalimba
and sang preverbal cosmic incantations
channeling the fourth dimension
And now the feast:
haddock with thyme and lemon
and a basket of rich black Lithuanian rye
Our ersatz glasses filled with
Bordeau that Andy brought
And the last of David’s Irish whiskey
David: whose earthly remains sit
in a box near your door with the words
‘Going home’ and an image of a seagull soaring
In friendship and communion we gathered at your table
covered with lovingkindness, art, books and candles
You spoke softly of those who’d gone to the faraway country
from this aching planet of sorrow and war—
Then Mark saw the mouse
darting shyly from a crevice
Perhaps he wished to join us
for it must be lonely huddling in dark, drafty spaces
avoiding cats, and traps and poison
Always unwelcome and feared
Perhaps this was Mushak, Lord Ganesha’s vehicle,
called the great ‘remover of obstacles’
whom he rides across the heavens
I promised to order you a Havahart trap
and release your Mushak in Lynn Woods
and you smiled and began singing
a lullaby in French about a mouse
that you used to sing to your daughter – un petit souris verte
We polished off the whiskey and the Bordeau
You brought out the key lime pie and strawberries
And then we cleared the table.

TIME IS AN EMOTION

In this place—
time is an emotion
In this room—
time is not wasted
It is cherished and anticipated
Here clocks are vestigial, meaningless machines
Here time is non-linear
Here time is a lie
Mother, your universe is 125-square-feet
This room is your harbor
Your next port is eternity
We know the latitude and longitude of our hearts
Mother, not too long ago
We were rich with time
Our faces were smooth
Our steps were strong and decisive
If we didn’t talk to one another
for a week or even a month
It wasn’t a problem
No feelings were hurt
No assumptions were made
Now when we sit together
I am full of questions
hungry for details
Now your voice is full of ashes and
I imprint your every word and gesture
into the rich dark soil of memory
Time is an emotion
like no other
in the heart’s lexicon.

Linda Werbner is a Salem, MA-based writer and therapist. When she isn't cooking eggplant parm in her garret, she enjoys picking her banjo and making quilts for friends and family.

‘Curbed Curiosity’

Photographer - Tobi Brun

Curbed Curiosity

I worked in Manhattan for one summer.
Every day during lunch,
I’d buy myself a hotdog from the corner,
Walk further down to where nobody was,
and I’d sit on the curb and eat.
Mouth full and hands full,
I’d stare at the building across the street.
White bricks, and a red door
with an OPEN sign on it.
Graffiti sat cloaked over the bricks as hundreds of people
walked passed it.
Sometimes, I would show up to the curb and the graffiti
would be gone. If I looked closely, I could still see it.
I guess over time, stuff like that never goes away.
Someone almost went in it once,
I was hoping they did.

It was the weirdest thing,
one Monday I sat on the curb
and the building was gone.
It took me a good 10 minutes to realize
that something wasn’t right with this picture.
I was bored, and I didn’t know why,
until I realized. My curiosity got the best of me
and I went back to the hotdog stand after
I proudly scarfed down two.
“Another one?”
“No thank you, I have a question. What happened
to that building across the street? They got rid of it? What was it?”

“Yea, they came on Saturday.” He said.
“It was some sort of museum. It's a shame,
nobody knew about it.”

Pasquale Gee is a 30 year old writer from Brooklyn New York. After posting his writing anonymously online, and it going viral, he decided to publish his first poetry book in 2022, and his second in 2023. Instagram : @pasqualegee_

‘THIS IS MY DAY’, ‘BOBOLINKO AT SOMEWHAT SWEET SIXTEEN’ & ‘NEPTUNE’S HIPPOCAMP’

Photographer - Tobi Brun

THIS IS MY DAY

The sun gets a little too familiar
with me as I’m trying hard to wake up.
His persistent hand on my arm feels warm.
I trudge downstairs, put on coffee, cat fur
on my grandmother’s 1918 cup.
Weather.com says prepare for a storm
around five. Prepare what? Have a party?
Right now I must go to work. I’m not free
to take off, get on a plane, and smell roses
in Naples. My car smells like Burger King.
I warble along with “Draggin’ The Line”
and almost hit a dog. A hawk poses
on a billboard for a church. Everything
turns foggy. My car stalls on an incline.

BOBOLINKO AT SOMEWHAT SWEET SIXTEEN

You were my first.
Was I yours?
You said I was. Maybe
you were being discreet,
even then, at sweet sixteen,
when we stole Mary Jane candy
from Ben Franklin’s which we
ate naked.

NEPTUNE’S HIPPOCAMP

A comet hit Proteus, birthing you.
I could walk across you in just one day,
small as you are, a dark world, hard to view.
A comet hit Proteus, birthing you,
Hippocamp, half fish, half horse, not a true
picture of you, secret of the skyway.
A comet hit Proteus, birthing you.
I could walk across you in just one day.

Kenneth Pobo (he/him) is the author of twenty-one chapbooks and nine full-length collections. Recent books include Bend of Quiet (Blue Light Press), Loplop in a Red City (Circling Rivers), Lilac And Sawdust (Meadowlark Press) and Gold Bracelet in a Cave: Aunt Stokesia (Ethel Press). His work has appeared in North Dakota Quarterly, Asheville Literary Review, Nimrod, Mudfish, Hawaii Review, and elsewhere. @KenPobo

MAYBE LATER THE QUID

Photographer - Tobi Brun

MAYBE LATER THE QUID

(One Act Play)

Scene

Backstage is a narrow hallway. Between two windows is a sideboard with a vase of cut flowers, a tray with decanters, mixers and a bowl of ice.

Stage front is the den. An easy chair with a reading lamp is extreme left, not easily seen from the hallway. A sofa, right, faces the chair.

Characters

Wilma – in her mid-forties, full-figured but quite attractive. Her hair is going gray and in a style that is slightly dated.

George – early fifties, tall, pale, slender, soft physique, hornrims, scholarly look. In brown slacks and turtleneck,

Frank (Wilma’s husband) – Forty-eight, tall, dark, athletic.

Curtain

Wilma enters backstage left. Frank is two steps behind her. She is in a dark knee-length satin party dress. She stops and begins unsnapping the buttons on the back of her dress. Then she leans against the sideboard and removes her shoes.

She is obviously miffed. Frank is in a dinner jacket and he has a conciliatory expression.

George, Stage front, is seated in the armchair reading a magazine. Wilma and Frank take no notice of George, and he pays no obvious attention to their arrival.

Frank: Come on now! Show some understanding! You know these things come up.

Wilma (stops and turns around): It never happens when you have a golf date. And this is the first time we’ve been out together in months! Surely, they could have gotten somebody else!

Frank: Look, baby, we sweated for years. We couldn’t have kept a house like this on what we were making before. I worked my tail off for this situation, and damned if I’m going to let it slip through my fingers because the night shift can’t…

Wilma: …can’t get along without you?

Wilma, carrying her shoes, exits stage right. Frank steps behind the sideboard, fetches a large Styrofoam cup from a compartment and mixes himself a drink. Faces stage front, and after a pause, faces the direction she has exited.

Frank: You make it sound like you think I like being called to the plant at night.

Wilma (from offstage): That’s certainly the way it looks…

Frank: Look, it’s Friday night. The plant is closed tomorrow. Now, if the night shift doesn’t make production tonight, I’d have to call them all back tomorrow – cost us tons of overtime. But I don’t expect you to understand!

Wilma (entering stage right, now dressed in shorts, pullover shirt, and slippers. She has a novel in her hand.): Oh, I understand all right! You knew we had planned to go out, and you, Mr. Big Shot, Mr. Fixit, couldn’t arrange to have somebody…

Frank: Well, I’m sorry. I know you’re disappointed. But I’ve got to go.

Wilma: You’re going to the plant dressed like that?

Frank: I keep some work clothes down there.

(Frank reaches to kiss her, but she pulls away. He carries his drink, exits stage left. Wilma places the book on the sideboard and puts some ice in a glass).

George: Mix one for me, will you? Bourbon and soda, a little ice.

Wilma: GEORGE! What are you doing here?

George: Entering without breaking.

Wilma: How did you get in?

George: Trade secret.

Wilma: If you don’t get out of here this minute, I’m calling the police!

George. Call away, sweetheart. I won’t try to stop you.

Wilma: George, you’re insane. Why on earth are you here?

George: It’s not for larceny. Nothing I would need to steal.

Wilma: (Stepping closer to George) Surely you’re not here after me?

George: I’m just now realizing what a sexy lady you are, but no: I do not currently have rape in mind!

Wilma: Then why, George? Why are you here?

George: Maybe a little quid pro quo.

Wilma: Never mind the Latin. Give me a straight answer. And I might not call the police after all. I might just smash something over your head!

George: I hope it won’t come to that. Anyway, I’m here for confirmation and then a bit of justice.

Wilma: Justice? George, I’ve never done anything to you!

George: Perhaps not. But you’re the quid.

Wilma: So, I’m ignorant: tell me what that means.

George: Tit for tat, Love.

Wilma: It still doesn’t make sense.

George: Okay. So, you and Frank went to the Baxter’s party this evening. Right?

Wilma: So?

George: And while you were at the party, Frank was called to the phone?

Wilma: Yes.

George: And what was the nature of that call?

Wilma: It was from the plant. Some trouble with the night shift. He said they needed him right away. This happens from time to time.

George: But you found it particularly annoying tonight!

Wilma: Yes, I did. We’ve had this party on the calendar for a month. He knew I was looking forward to it.

George: So, he told you he was going to the plant? That was his cover story?

Wilma: Cover story? Just what are you implying?

George: No implication, Darling: That call didn’t come from the plant.

Wilma: Of course it did! Who else would have called him?

George: You know, I think this must be the first time I’ve see you up close! And I must say I like what I see! Now, I’ve known Frank for years. We were never what you would call close friends, but I always rather liked him. We were in Jaycees together. And we see each other once in a while. Why, we were even thrown into a foursome of golf just a couple of weeks ago.

Wilma: Oh, he’s deep into golf now that he’s plant manager…says it’s for business reasons. But what does this have to do with that phone call?

George: The call came from my house. Now, how about that drink?

Wilma: You called Frank?

George: No. The call came from my sweet loyal Miriam. In short, Dear Lady, I am cuckold!

Wilma: Frank and Miriam? You’re putting me on! I don’t believe you!

George: Okay. Let’s start with the Baxter’s party. Miriam and I were planning to attend. Then yesterday at the office I saw some problems with our monthly report, which is always due on the third Friday of the month. So, last night I brought home a briefcase full of data and got to work on it. It was after three this morning when I finally got it straightened out. With me so far?

Wilma: Yes.

George: So, I was a bit tired when I got home after today at the office, but I was resigned to the party – Miriam simply doesn’t miss parties. But when I got home, she was waiting for me. She said I looked bushed and that since I had been up most of the night, and it wasn’t fair for me to have to go to the Baxter’s. I told her I’d be all right in going, but she insisted we skip it. Of course, I could see right through her.

Wilma: It sounds like she was just being considerate.

George: Oh, sure. But she had her face on.

Wilma: Her face?

George: Yes, her face. She’d apparently been home for an hour or two, but she still had on her public face. You see, she spends an hour in the morning putting her face on; then when she comes in for the evening,she spends a half hour taking it off. So, there she was at six o’clock in a robe, but with all that glamorous makeup in place, and her hair not far from being public-perfect. I chose to go along with her ruse, and I went to bed right after dinner. It was about nine when she looked in on me and assumed I was asleep. I heard her whispering into the phone, making the call you thought came from the plant. Then she dressed and tiptoed out.

Wilma: You’re not just making this up?

George: Hardly.

Wilma: And you somehow get the idea she was talking to Frank?

George: I’m sure of it. You know something I like about you, Wilma? You’ve got eyebrows. Real eyebrows, not the pencil marks that go on after the real things have been massacred.

Wilma: George, I think you’ve hatched some kind of fantasy, but I want to hear all of this. We’d better have that drink. I’m having a double.

George: The same for me.

(She mixes the drinks, steps down into the sitting room, hands his drink to him, takes a seat on a sofa facing him.)

George: You know. I’ve always been fascinated by you, from a distance. But my, my, up close you are scrumptious.

Wilma: You’re not so bad yourself. So, you were in bed. And you heard Miriam on the phone.

George: And she dressed and went out.

Wilma: Okay. I can accept that. Were you surprised by this?

George: Hardly.

Wilma: You and Miriam haven’t been getting along of late?

George: Oh, we get along all right. But we’ve been in different worlds for some time now.

Wilma: How so?

George: Well, for all those years she was the super-efficient housewife and hostess. Soccer mom, Queen of the PTA.

Wilma: Oh, I remember seeing her at PTA, looking so elegant…and her picture was in the paper all the time! We all envied her.

George: I can’t imagine why.

Wilma: Well, most of us at PTA were working moms, stretched to the limit. And there she was so chic…why, she was just like a little June Cleaver presiding over those meetings…so much poise…

George: But now both of our kids are gone. No soccer mom, no PTA. She still does Junior League and Tuesday Night Bridge. But she has added Cotillion Club, the Masqueraders, two or three more. And we go to everybody’s drop-in or reciprocal. She even goes alone to some of them when I can beg off.

Wilma: Quite an agenda.

George: We rocked along for a while, but then she began to notice that many in this little crowd she relishes are career women! So, she felt she had to be fulfilled! Had to get herself something meaningful to do. A job, in other words.

Wilma: I heard she had gone to work. I was surprised.

George: She’s on her third or fourth gig by now. Says it gives her independence.

Wilma: You resent her independence?

George: Not her independence, per se. But, you see, other things changed. She not only took on a job, but a new persona. No longer the conservative empress, she’s now a socially active career girl, a forty-eight-year-old who wants to look thirty. She diets and does aerobics. Bought a ton of new clothes. And she makes her face up as if she’s going on camera. She even seems to talk a new language, the jargon of the workplace supplemented by the hours she spends in chat rooms.

Wilma: I haven’t seen her for some time, but I bet she looks fabulous.

George: That’s what I hear! I married Sandra Dee. Then there was June Cleaver, which wasn’t so bad. But now – get this – she’s Audrey Hepburn! That’s right. Skinny as a rail, the Hepburn hair, the whole ball of wax. But so bored with her husband! Except for parties, we just never spend any time together. And believe me, this wasn’t my choice! I get my own breakfast and leave before she does. We do have dinner together. But I fix my own and she fixes hers - dietetic stuff I can’t stand. Then, if we are staying in, I read or watch television, and she closets herself with Internet.

Wilma: Except for the meals and Internet, sounds a lot like Frank and me. If he gets off work early enough, he heads for the golf course. I still fix dinner, though. But back to Miriam: independence and all, this doesn’t necessarily mean she is having an affair.

George: I’m not claiming any psychic powers here. But I suppose I saw it coming. She was getting that far-away, longing look, almost like she was in some kind of romantic dream. But, of course, none of this was directed toward her husband. Then a few weeks ago the look seemed to take on a new intensity. I knew something was up.

Wilma: You could have been imagining all this.

George: No way! I had some positive indications that hanky-panky was going on. But since I didn’t know who she was carrying on with, I just kept my mouth shut.

Wilma: So, you decided it was Frank? Well, I just don’t believe it!

George. Tonight should prove it, even to you!

Wilma: You heard Miriam make a phone call and then leave your house. But did you actually listen in on the conversation?

George: I wasn’t on an extension if that’s what you mean. But I heard enough. I know she asked someone on the other end of the line to page somebody. And after a pause, she literally purred through the phone.

Wilma: But still, what on earth makes you think it was Frank she was going to see?

George: As I said, I was sure she was carrying on with someone. I would have played detective, but I don’t think I would be very good at it. But then the facts just dropped in my lap!

Wilma: The facts? What facts?

George: A few weeks ago, I saw them together in Rosie’s having an intimate drink.

Wilma: What’s so wrong about that? They’ve known each other for years. Remember, they were in high school together.

George: Yes, it sounds innocent enough, doesn’t it? And I wasn’t busy at that moment. I could have followed them, but I really thought nothing of it. And I didn’t mention it at dinner. But she did! She told me she had taken the day off to visit Georgia over in Maysville. Georgia is the sister she seldom sees – it’s a fifty-mile drive.

Wilma: Then Miriam lied to you?

George: No other way to put it. Did Frank happen to mention this innocent drink to you?

Wilma: No, he didn’t. But having a drink with Frank and lying about it? That doesn’t prove that she and Frank are having an affair.

George: There’s more. And I didn’t relish the job of bringing you the bad tidings, but maybe this is better than finding it out through the gossip that is sure to follow.

Wilma: Gossip? Have you been hearing gossip about Frank and Miriam?

George: No, I haven’t, but I suspect there is already talk about them at work.

Wilma: At work? Where does Miriam work?

George: You mean you don’t know?

Wilma: Know what?

George: Well, brace yourself: Miriam is in public relations…at the plant where Frank is now general supervisor!

Wilma: Miriam works at the plant with Frank? My goodness!

George: That wouldn’t be the expression I would use.

(Wilma stands, takes George’s glass, approaches the sidebar, mixes two drinks and slowly returns to George. She hands George his drink and takes her seat.)

George: Another thing I especially like about you, Wilma: your legs! You have healthy, provocative legs.

Wilma: They’re too fat! And Miriam has such trim legs. I envy her ankles.

George: Rot! The older she gets, the more her legs will resemble pipe stems. But yours are something I could build a dream on.

Wilma: Well, thank you. But back to the subject: how long has she been working at the plant?

George: Oh, seven, eight months.

Wilma: Frank has been going to work and seeing that sexy little thing every day!

George: Unless she is visiting her sister!

Wilma: Frank has always been a flirt, but I just can’t imagine…something like this would usually tear me to pieces, but I guess it just hasn’t registered yet.

George: You said a while ago that the routine around my house reminds of you and Frank. How so?

Wilma: It’s a long story. For years we were struggling financially, four kids, you know, and Frank was just a line supervisor then, and I worked part-time. So, when Junior got to high school, I took a full-time job, especially since we wanted a bigger house. But even with the added income, we were going into hock – for a while we had three of them in college at the same time! But then they made Frank general supervisor – that was four years ago. The pay was great, and we’re in much better shape now. But, of course, he’s working longer hours, and there are those damned night calls. Still, I just never imagined…

George: I can assure you I am not imagining…

Wilma: Of course, I didn’t know he was seeing her at work every day, but even if I had known – oh, I don’t know. But it is strange he never mentioned to me that Miriam works at his plant.

George: There’s an obvious answer to that.

Wilma: And you are convinced that they are…uh…

George: Misbehaving.

Wilma: Thank you for that euphemism. Do you know where they are going tonight?

George: First, he’s going to the plant and park in the lot. She’s probably picking him up right now. I could guess where they’ll go from there.

Wilma: Do you know how long this has been going on?

George: I’m sure of three weeks, but I suspect it has been a little longer than that.

Wilma: I just can’t take all this in. I just never thought Frank…

George: And until a few months ago I never thought of Miriam going down this road. But I saw it unfold before my eyes.

Wilma: So, what are you going to do now?

George: Do? Miriam is toast. I dread breaking all this to the children, but I’ll not be spending another night with her.

Wilma: Divorce?

George: Certainly. How about you?

Wilma: I just don’t know, George. You’ve obviously known about this for a while. Me? It has just now hit me in the face.

George: You mean you could go on with Frank, knowing what he has done?

Wilma: I’ve got a lot of thinking to do. You see, when I took on a job it was simply because we needed the money. And, frankly, by now, with Frank so tied up, I’ve come to depend on the job as an outlet – just to see some people I like. Moreover, even with Frank’s new pay scale, the money is important. Junior has at least another year in college – he’s in Navy ROTC and he’ll be an ensign when he graduates, but we still have another year’s tuition to worry about. And Elizabeth is getting married next summer – weddings aren’t cheap. So, the idea of throwing Frank out right now would have to be carefully considered.

George: That’s your business, of course. But I’ve had all I can stand.

Wilma: Maybe I’ll look at it that way after it all sinks in. Oh, I don’t know. Maybe if I had paid more attention to him. He’s been on me for some time about being more stylish, and about losing weight.

George: Losing weight? Wilma, how any man could look at you and want to change anything!

Wilma: George, you’re just being kind…to a scorned housewife. I know I am overweight!

George: Rubbish! Miriam eats all that rabbit food and she works out, so she can stay so tiny. That Audrey Hepburn look turns a lot of people on, but to tell the truth, she looked better to me when there was more meat on her bones. No, Sweetheart; you stay as you are!

Wilma: But I’m still stuck with a husband who obviously has eyes for a size 4. I suppose we could consider marriage counseling. Had you thought of that?

George: Emphatically no! Can I have another drink?

Wilma: Yes. I might not have one. I had at least one at the Baxter’s. But, what the hell: this is an unusual evening, and I can sleep as late as I like in the morning. (She stands and takes his glass) George, would you take your glasses off?

George: What?

Wilma: Your glasses. I’ve never really seen your eyes.

George: Okay. (He removes his spectacles).

Wilma: (She bends over until her face is only a few inches from his) Hazel! I thought as much. You know, you should wear contacts.

George: For crying out loud: why?

Wilma: You are hiding your best feature, that’s why. You’re kinda cute with your specks off.

(She goes to the sideboard.)

Wilma (at the sideboard): I think you should leave when you finish this one.

George: I don’t want to go, Wilma. I want to be here when Frank gets home.

Wilma: When Frank gets home? He might be late. Once or twice, he’s stayed at the plant all night.

George: He won’t tonight. Miriam will be sneaking back home in an hour or two.

Wilma (Hands him his drink): Here you are. (She takes her seat) Now, what’s the point of you being here when Frank comes home?

George: I told you: tit for tat.

Wilma: You told me that, but it doesn’t make sense.

George: What’s not to make sense? He’s been shacking up with my wife; when he gets here, he can assume I’m shacking up with his!

Wilma: But you aren’t!

George: Wouldn’t he assume that…coming in and finding me here? And you looking so fetching?

Wilma: He won’t necessarily think that. Your presence here even at such an hour wouldn’t automatically mean I had gone to bed with you!

George: What about when he gets a call from Miriam?

Wilma: Why on earth would Miriam be calling here?

George: To warn Frank.

Wilma: Warn Frank?

George: To warn him that I am in bed with his wife.

Wilma: That’s ridiculous. Where would she get such an idea?

George: From the note she’ll find on the table in the entrance hall.

Wilma: A note saying what?

George: Saying that Frank has been romping with my wife, so I thought I would romp with his.

Wilma: But George, you aren’t! You said you were not planning to rape me!

George: Minute by minute that idea becomes more appealing, but no, that’s not in the plan.

Wilma: Then what is the plan?

George: I just want to see the expression on Frank’s face when he finds me here. And it gets sweeter when he answers the phone and talks to Miriam.

Wilma: Then you expect Miriam to call here as soon as she reads that note?

George: I’d bet the farm on it. Frank will come waltzing in, all flushed from his antics, and he’ll find me here. He’ll babble and stammer and ask some foolish questions, maybe even get angry. And then the phone will ring. Miriam will read him the note. That’s what I most want to see.

Wilma: George, that’s diabolical!

George: Maybe sadistic is a better word. That’s the way I picture it.

Wilma: I have to admit it sounds like a cute little drama.

George: And all the while, I’m with such an attractive companion.

Wilma: I’m duly flattered. Nobody’s said such things to me in some time. But before these drinks take effect, we need to think clearly. While I admit I’d like to see this farce played out, I just don’t think it is too smart.

George: I thought it was brilliant.

Wilma: As a stage farce, maybe. But as a practical matter you might be cutting your throat.

George: Oh?

Wilma: All right, let’s be practical. You want a divorce. On what grounds?

George: Why adultery, of course.

Wilma: You think it will hold up in court? All you’ve got is the drink at Rosie’s, and the fact that she sneaked out tonight. That’s hardly proof.

George: Oh, I don’t even need tonight; I’ve already got the goods on her.

Wilma: The goods?

George: I told you I knew something was going on – something besides my imagination. Well, you see, the glamorous Miriam was just too careless about detail. Would you believe that on two occasions she paid for motel rooms on the family credit card?

Wilma: And you found the receipts?

George: Of course. They came with the monthly statement. I went by the motel to tell the manager he’d made a mistake, but he convinced me there was no mistake – he even described Audrey Hepburn! That’s enough to take to court. I’ll take her to the cleaners. We’ll sell the house and then split the equity. But she won’t get a penny of alimony!

Wilma: Okay, so you’ve got a case. But what about Miriam? She’s got a note that says you’re shacking up with me!

George: True.

Wilma: And when Frank finds you here, and with me, well, not exactly dishabille, but perhaps dressed for accommodation? That amounts to countersuit!

George: I guess I hadn’t thought of that.

Wilma: And what about me? Suppose I decide to get a divorce, say, after we get Junior out of school and we pay off Elizabeth’s wedding? Frank can always claim that I had an affair with you!

George: I see your point. It takes the wind out of my sails.

Wilma: Let’s think a minute. Maybe we can salvage a little something out of tonight…

George: You’re feeding my fancies…

Wilma: None of that. Not tonight, anyway. Look, when you came here, where did you park?

George: I didn’t. I walked.

Wilma: Did anyone see you?

George: I don’t suppose so. I thought you would be home from the Baxter’s by the time I got here. Your back door was unlocked, so I came in and made myself at home. If anyone had seen me, I suspect the police would have come calling.

Wilma: Perfect. Now finish your drink and get the hell out of here.

George: I don’t want to go home.

Wilma: No, don’t go home. Go somewhere, a motel, anywhere but home.

George: And?

Wilma: Things won’t play themselves out like you had planned, but close enough. Try this: Frank comes in thinking he’s gotten away with another tryst. He brushes his teeth and is about to enter the bedroom. The phone rings. Audrey Hepburn Miriam reads the note to him. He gulps and steps into the bedroom and finds that I am not there. He may go to bed by himself, but I doubt if he’ll get any sleep.

George: Where will you be?

Wilma: In Elizabeth’s room. He won’t look for me there. Aw, he won’t look for me anywhere – he’ll be too stunned. I sleep late on Saturday mornings. When I get up, I might ask who was on the phone last night. You see, I’ve gotten sadistic too. He’ll mumble something, anything but the truth. I’ll accept whatever he says and shrug it off – just let him wonder how much I know…

George: Then you aren’t going to confront him about all this?

Wilma: Not frontally. I told you about the situation with the kids; I’ve got to stay the course for a while. But he’ll know! He’ll know that I know! That’s enough for now.

George: When will you confront him?

Wilma: Oh, I don’t know. I’ll just let him stew. And when he finds out that you have left Miriam, he’ll stew even more, especially since it will dawn on him that I’m sleeping in Elizabeth’s room every night. He may come to me then with a big confession, which he’ll see is a waste of time.

George: You’re really cool! And here I was hoping you’d be all broken up, and with my shoulder to cry on.

Wilma: With your glasses off? I’m a pushover for hazel eyes. But, no, it’s time for you to go.

George: Can I call you tomorrow?

Wilma: No, George. I’ll be puttering around the house while Frank has the shakes. If you should call, it would give him some ammunition. And I can’t call you – I don’t know where you’ll be. How about this: I’ll call you from work Monday.

George: That’s a long time…

Wilma: I’ll give you a blow-by-blow. Should be worth the wait. Now go!

George: All right. Maybe this scenario is better than the one I had in mind. But I do hate to go. You’re such a…

Wilma: All that’s music to my ears, Hazel Eyes. But let’s follow the script. Out, now!

George: No goodnight kiss?

Wilma: Not with so much at stake, and with my self-control eroded after, what, three, four drinks?

George: Well, I’ll only say you’re the loveliest lady I ever didn’t seduce!

(George rises and approaches the door)

George: Wilma, do you suppose we…I mean, later…

Wilma: We’ll keep in touch during this siege. And afterward? After a graduation and a wedding? Who knows?

(Wilma stands. George comes to her. They embrace and share a modest kiss. She watches as George leaves.)

Curtain

Roy Haymond, Jr. a career classroom teacher, the writer and briefly of a smalltown weekly. Pubs in obscure journals in 16 states and Canada. Retired to a rural enclave, writes and plays tenor sax.

‘The Delicate Peas’ & ‘Time Flies... Slowly’

Photographer - Tobi Brun

The Delicate Peas

The Delicate Peas—

charging.

Puttin’ up their dukes

sweatin’ scents and

knocked up against the rounding walls

of scratched iron ropes

holding all the burden.

An enclosed load:

trailing

down

down

to a scraped iron bottom

baring the eye of a silver abyss

staring up a disapproving lid

hijacked from another vessel

sizzling shots of oil

punching and staining the o p e n air.

Can’t get no type of handle on it!:

The punches, stains, and sizzles—

hollerin’ and fingerin’ insults,

now sticking to surfaces.

Underneath, candy corn flames

spittin’ shades of cornflower blue

instigate a heat of confessions.

Peas testify in clusters ‘stead of one by one

causin’ all that troubled water

to pop-up speech bubbles

exhaling streams of cuss words

theys regret soon as theys say ‘em

so—

they make ‘em repent &

‘vaporate all that smoke

in to the thin air.

Time Flies... Slowly

Blank pages eat space

migrate reams of time southward

nest waste without haste.

Annette Young is indebted to the glints of writing that have now entered her life as a tool to hone aspects of joy. Teaching also silhouettes such aspects. Her hope is to continue these embryonic writing encounters so that they become daily fixtures of exploration that are a fulfilling meal that sample various glimpses of daily observations in organic life transactions. She has had the fortune to have a piece of poetry entitled, Swooped, published in From Whispers To Roars Volume 5 Issue I, as well as Spectacle Of Spectacles, published in The Write Launch. She was also graced with the occasion to have her short fiction work, Utensils, published in an anthology entitled, Below The Poverty Line.