‘WILD DESIRES’ & Collected Works

Daniel Newcomb - “This body of work represents a small portion of over 30 years of my images, exploring the world's forgotten architectural sites. I intend to preserve these structures artistically. We should not forget these nostalgic series of dreams. They are displayed here for our memories; for our children's memories. As Jack Kerouac said "I realized these were all the snapshots which our children would look at someday with wonder...."

WILD DESIRES   

A boy is out there, in the desecrated world, his face a semblance of mine.

Black, chiselled and glossy.     

He carries himself,

the way I carry myself like porcelain 

delicate as first love. 

He knows a lot about life or so he chose to believe, enough to truly see it as vain.

But despite his profundity, he’s in mighty chains. 

A slave to life and his crude desires. 

His wild desires, more than often, on lonely nights cruelly attempt to seduce 

him out of the temple of sanctity. Some nights their ancient tricks blossom into limelight. 

Other nights, when his soul is underneath his feet, he makes a mockery out of them. 

On successful nights, he becomes an animal.

A beast crossing the web-thin line between morality & obscenity. 

He growls like a famished fox as the heat of unfettered desires tours his veins. 

He looks into the mirror but he’s no longer himself. His voice, no longer a forgery of mine.

His hands, weapons of assault, like rebels, always spurn his command of staying stiff,  they drift forth and back. His hands take him to places he had vowed a million times never to imprint again. He journeys unwillingly again into desecration. 

You can pick guilt like shards of glass on his black face. His hands are cold now, trembling, 

wet with remorse. His eyes are trying to unsee all the evil they just absorbed.

He returns, sullen-faced, to the dusky sitting room, like a bee lured by the sweet scent of nectared flowers. He returns to his brown wooden table to scheme another breakout from the prison of his ungodly desires. 

He’d long scrapped, like the bark of a mahogany, the notion of seizing his breath as an antidote to his woes. For it’s an open secret, his father’s joy courses like the Nile river across his black glossy face & his mother becomes restless like a toddler at the sight of him in pains.   

He’d also talked to his sisters about the darkness ravaging him like plague, seeking a torch for his darkness in their sisterly counsel, but their balm only worked for a few weeks, then like all other ways he’s sought out of this maze, it ended in smoke. 

Undeterred, he’s plotting another coup d’état against his draining desires. He’s been knocking God’s golden door since he was eighteen, now his knuckles are swollen & bleeding doubts. 

But he stays staid, an equestrian statue, before God’s golden merciful door. Hoping one day 

to absorb his liquid mercy like a famished foam.  

LOVE SONG IN A COLD WORLD 

It’s 3:16 AM WAT &

Slumber’s slowly departing the shore

Of my eyes like sunshine at the eve of dusk.

The night is a cemetery of dead

& decaying dreams. 

Darkness loves amplifying 

Like a wicked spell the eerie echoes 

Of losses wailing within the chambers 

Of my head. 

There are crickets outside 

My window serenading the night 

Into a form of delight,

Singing to phase the ghosts 

Stifling the breath of my gaseous 

Hope into oblivion.

It’s been awhile I weaved

A basket of verses I know 

Can hold water, it’s been 

Awhile I opened ajar the door

Of my dusty rusty heart 

To the classical ardour of love

Without suspicion. 

Time drifts and keeps 

Drifting by like tidal wave, 

Like caravans of tradesmen 

But the ghastly names

Of all I had lost to the wicked

Fangs of fate, keeps marauding 

Like gregarious sheeps 

The oblong street of my memories.

I question what love is whenever 

Love like a seasoned cat burglar 

Stealths upon me. I do not, this 

Time around, stare dead 

Interrogatively into love’s hazel 

Eyes when you offered me your homely hand. 

It’s been hours, days & years of war 

Between us, & we’ve decided to take 

A recess from enormity. We’ve decided,

Despite the shortness of our lives, to love 

Each other for the rest of our days.

YOURSELF THE FIRST BATTLE TO CONQUER 

There’s no evil anywhere 

Worth fighting save the ones

In the dungeons of your soul. 

The festering corruptions

To begin with 

Littering like confetti every nook 

& cranny of the society are never yours 

To battle

If the dark desires of your life are not

Yet like wild dogs under leashes. 

Isn’t it a big blemish on the white garment 

Of his supposed freedom, a man whose ugly 

Desires still paddle the ship of his existence?

Do not say a man’s true value lies 

In the magnitude of his impact 

On the stems, roots and branches 

Of his immediate society,

For that’s definitely a piercing 

Arrow aimed at the acute sight 

Of understanding…

For what a man truly is, is hidden, a myth 

Even before the mirrors of his livid room, 

Before the bare body of his beloved

Laying in the cozy heaven of his bed,

Save God, nobody can ever measure 

Out the true value of another being.

Harmattan’s blinding fog can only distort 

The scope of vision of an ordinary man, 

If you have God flowing like blood in your

Veins and arteries, your scope of vision 

Will never fault even at old age. Some say 

In their ignorance, that it’s the eyes 

Before the board of our skulls that’s blessed

With the miracle of true sight, but mystics 

In the garden of my heart whisper to me 

Like cold ancient voices 

In the middle of the night:

Squash the eyes of your skull like eggs, 

Nurture the garden of your soul 

Like a bed of edelweiss 

And whatever lurks within 

The gates of earth 

& hides within the vault of heavens

Shall bare themselves

Before the eyes of your soul.

GOD I BEG YOUR PARDON 

God,

I beg your pardon 

But what will become 

Of this heap of mess, mound of trash

I label as me, if you fail to shield me 

Under the parasol of your grace?

The sun of ignominy is setting 

In the sky of my making, the sky’s 

Dark & fierce with rage… 

God is this omen a compass 

To my destined inevitable end?

Days of my youth are getting dark

Darker than nightfall, & the eyes of my faith 

Are swiftly gathering soot like chimneys.

It’s hard, I swear…. The little water 

Of faith in the bowl of my mind 

Keeps turning into gas, every second, 

Can’t you see the meagre pool of goodness 

In me turning into vapour before your eyes?

I’m lost, no light on this forbidden road,

No peace, nothing like happiness exists

In this wilderness but like a rite 

That mustn’t be forfeited 

The legs of my deeds keep returning, 

Prancing with wild delight upon its thorns. 

Life, tell me what you wish to fashion 

Like a garland out of me & let me be once

& for all. Fate, I have been behind your

Gloomy bars for aeons, dutifully oiling 

The rusty engine of your desires…

What’s freedom like again on the taste buds 

Of tongues?

Please let me have a taste…

This is coming from a very dark 

Place, the hades within, wherever the light is, 

Someone  please send it my way. 

The world is trembling tonight, 

The songs on the lips of the wind 

Are ancient like Rome, where’s the sweet jazz 

Of freedom we were promised to behold 

Mid-way right before we embarked 

On this journey of self-actualization?

Abdulmueed Balogun Adewale is a black poet from Ibadan, Nigeria. A Pushcart prize and BOTN Nominee. He was longlisted for the 2021 Ebarcce Prize, shortlisted for the 2024 Gerald Kraak Prize, finalist 2021 Wingless Dreamers Book of Black Poetry Contest, won the 2021 Annual Kreative Diadem Poetry Contest & the 2024 Dr. Samuel Folorunsho Ibiyemi Poetry Prize. His poems have been published in: Applause Literary Journal, Red Cedar Review and elsewhere. He tweets from: AbdmueedA

‘Art Appreciation’

Claudia Excaret Santos is an emerging photographer. Her photos have been published at Azahares Review, Blue Mesa Review, Red Ogre Review, Punto de partida, and L'esprit Literary Review.

Art Appreciation

I don’t look for faces
or for creatures fantastical
when I look at daytime sky.

When I look at daytime sky
I glimpse the artist’s studio
spilled paint

bold brushstrokes
backlit canopy
blue velvet canvas

splashes slashes
strokes streaks
swirls smears

pillows and billows
black white great gray
and blue hues all over.

Abstractions the attractions
when I look at daytime sky
feel like falling flying floating

face-first into that canopy
that comfort that vision
breathless to behold.

Robert Eugene Rubino has published prose and poetry in various online and print journals, including Hippocampus, Moonstone, Cagibi, Cathexis Northwest, Raw Art Review and The Write Launch. He's old enough to remember the Cuban Missile Crisis and smart enough to solve Monday's New York Times crossword puzzle. Other days, not so much.

‘Never Say Goodbye’, ‘Up On Cemetery Hill Road’, ‘Verdant Cascades’, ‘The Woman In White’ & ‘Follow the Light’

Lindsay Liang

Never Say Goodbye

In the 1920’s the cure 

for insanity was amputation,

tooth extraction, 

or a lobotomy.

I wonder if a broken heart

is madness or cardiac arrest,

a matter of semantics

or a forensic figure of speech.

Inside I am boiling

like a pot of paper wasps.

No wonder we didn’t stay

together – the past and future

circling both of us

like a kamikaze.

I look around at old mistakes

and twisted chances,

watch you leave my house,

the short walk down the driveway

your back straight, 

the argument unending,

although I knew 

I would never see you again,

the anonymous architecture 

of our unspoken farewell.

Up On Cemetery Hill Road

The Jehovah’s Witness

Kingdom Hall

is next door 

to the Lutheran Church

the parking lots separated

by a stone wall

the congregants

play softball against each other

Sunday afternoons

waiting for the umpire

to call out their names

as they cross home plate

each base like a station

of the cross

understanding the metaphors

of summer afternoons

curve ball, hit or miss,

squeeze play, sacrifice fly.

Heaven a long way— 

an even longer walk

than over the stone 

wall next door.

Verdant Cascades

In this landscape, clouds appear

as mountains, white cap on white

tinged with yellow, pink, even a hint

of the same blue as the sky

which in the afternoon turns

grey then gray then grave.

Thunder heads boom & crackle

on schedule these summer days;

when rain falls, 

ducks, turtles, lizards

head for the lake without 

need for directions, GPS,

or even language:

a useless catalog of words – 

vocabulary of verdant cascades.

The Woman In White

I wake up alone

in a strange apartment

and hear thunder.

Perhaps it is memory’s

hammer on the floor above –

nails protrude from the ceiling

dripping with time.

I miss the woman in white

and see her face

hovering above the earth

un-anchored to the ground,

floating like an icon

in a blood red sky.

I am pregnant with her—

this will be a hard delivery:

the cut swift and deep.

Boulders and ice,

stone and fire,

spill from my belly,

her face like thorns

behind my eyes.

Follow the Light

My cousin John

older by five years,

taught me to play basketball,

how to eat a taco.

When he died,

I kept waiting for him

to come back from the dead.

After all, his brother,

my other cousin, was a priest,

and Jesus raised Lazarus

from the grave after 3 days.

I remember other stories

of people clinically dead,

revived somehow, 

who spoke of a light 

they followed like traffic signs 

in the Lincoln Tunnel,

coming out again, alive, 

on the other side.

Instead of grief, I feel anger,

and wonder what my aunt 

would say, her whole family

in Armenia killed in 1915,

ghosts haunting

her house on Long Island, 

already crowded,

jostling for space with John.

MICHAEL MINASSIAN is a Contributing Editor for Verse-Virtual, an online poetry journal. His poetry collections Time is Not a River, Morning Calm, and A Matter of Timing as well as a chapbook, Jack Pays a Visit, are all available on Amazon. For more information: https://michaelminassian.com

‘Lux Et Veritas’

Lindsay Liang

Lux Et Veritas

Ian Foley didn’t get into Yale. Application denied. The admissions department regretted informing him, although they commended his achievements, urging him not to be despondent. There’s a record volume of students banging on the university gates. Competition is greater than ever. Ian is bound for an amazing undergraduate experience. Somewhere else.

         The rejection letter, read out over dinner in the spacious dining room of the Foley family  home, passed from Ian to his father, Kenneth, to his mother, Ann, and then to his sister, Isobelle. Everyone stopped eating as the three-paragraph missive made its way around the giant mahogany table.

         “This makes no sense,” said Kenneth Foley, thoroughly puzzled by the news.

         “What on earth should we do about this?” asked Ann. Action must be taken. 

Isobelle, four years younger than Ian, felt the deteriorating mood. She knew Ian would leave for college anyway, vacating his larger bedroom with its walk-in closet and en-suite bathroom, and she couldn’t wait to be the only child in the house. Unless her parents bought her a new one, it would also mean receiving the keys to Ian’s Mustang convertible. However, regardless of future material gains, she wanted her brother’s departure to be as pleasant as possible to prevent more arguments between her parents.

         “We should appeal the decision!” yelled Isobelle. “They must’ve made a mistake and we need to challenge this.” She knew her parents would bicker over tactics and wallow in uncomfortable periods of prolonged silence. Her mother was correct. Something must be done.

         The idea that it was all a big mistake didn’t come from nowhere. Everyone - family, friends, and the teachers and administrators at his school - assumed Ian would be accepted. It was a foregone conclusion. Both Kenneth and Ann graduated from Yale. Kenneth even continued through the medical school program. Ann’s father not only graduated, but also donated large sums to the university when his real estate business became a multi-million-dollar concern. In fact, many of Ian’s family members, going back generations, were Yale alumni. He also had a high GPA, a high SAT score, and top marks in all his AP tests. The one thing he lacked was much in the way of athletic ability. He joined the basketball team in his senior year, but gave up after a few practices. It shouldn’t have mattered because he was a ‘legacy’ candidate and his parents were sure he’d be on his way to Connecticut that summer.

         “Let’s hire a lawyer, Ken. That’ll put more weight behind an appeal. They can’t get away with this. We won’t let them,” said Ann, perplexed by the injustice. As a stay-at-home mother of teenage children, she had plenty of time to lobby Yale. “I’ll call my dad so he can pull some strings.”

         “Didn’t your dad say this was a formality?” asked Kenneth, frowning. “Are you sure he talked to the right people?” Ann’s father was a wealthy and well-connected man who claimed to play golf with the governor of Connecticut and the president of Yale. He was a Bonesman, a Rotarian, and a Freemason. Kenneth was skeptical about the potency of his power of persuasion in retirement. “I think the old man prefers bridge to golf these days.”

         “This isn’t his fault and I can’t let you sit there and pour scorn over a man who did everything he could to help our son,” said Ann. “That’s beneath you. The culprit here is probably some grubby penpusher on 50K a year who hates people who’ve done well for themselves.” Ann grew tired of her husband’s digs at her father. When did people start resenting those with money and power? Kenneth’s connections, as a cosmetic surgeon in Delaware County, Ohio, extended only to clients and members of their local church. He didn’t network with the same vigor and deliberation as Ann’s father. He lacked influence.

         “Well, it could also be something to do with affirmative action,” stated Ian, eager to ease the tension and pitch a theory with some currency. “Maybe quotas override legacies these days.” Ian’s parents, temporarily freed from their feud, looked at each other and shook their heads in contemplation of this possibility. Surely nothing superseded a legacy student? Isobelle was confused.

         “What’s affirmative action? Is that some diversity thing?” she asked.

         “It means they gave my college place to someone less qualified because they happen to be Black.”

         “That’s not fair!” yelled Isobelle. “After all the work you did? That doesn’t make sense. Why would they do that?” While she didn’t care where her brother went to college, Isobelle had a keen sense of injustice. Thinking about her future, she hoped to live in a merit-based world where hard work was rewarded.

         “They’re trying to make up for what happened in the past. Somehow that involves punishing me!” Ian felt the increased weight of the decision as the conversation developed.

         “Do you think Coach Freeman is at Lake Muir because of affirmative action?” Still confused about the whole concept, Isobelle’s thoughts turned to the only Black teacher at their school. Ian grinned at his sister’s question. She might be onto something.

         “You know how I feel about Coach Freeman!” Ian didn’t last very long on the basketball team. Although tall, he was uncoördinated. He also had the stamina of a Koala on vacation, running out of breath after a few laps of the court. Worst of all, he hated following orders during practice. There was too much yelling for his taste. Coach Freeman roasted players so close to the bone you could smell rendered marrow. Ian remembered recoiling with shame when the coach threw a ball directly at him and he failed to catch it. “You have the reactions of a cart horse in heat,” roared Freeman. The other players laughed while Ian nursed his shame and a staved middle finger.

         “I assume you didn’t use him as a reference?” asked Kenneth, worried about what may have poisoned the application.

         “No, of course not. To be honest, I’m not sure the man can write a sentence. He knows about being “in the paint” and not much else.” Ian’s air quotes and the aura of disdain about Coach Freeman caused Isobelle to shrug. She didn’t know anything about the PE teacher apart from overhearing Ian and his friends make fun of the way he talked.

         “So, who did you use? Out of interest,” asked Ann, curious about possible enemies within.

         “I asked the head of Math, the head of English, and the head of History. Why? Do you think one of them ruined my chances?”

         “Well, we don’t know, do we? It’s possible,” answered Ann. “And, by the way Ian, these are all academic references. You have nothing there about sport or extracurriculars or service. Maybe you stacked too many eggs in one basket. What about tennis? That’s your real sport. We should have looked into the process more closely from the start like we said we would.” Ann glanced at her husband. She mentioned this imbalance months ago and was ignored. This was supposed to be a collaborative family affair. They may have given Ian too much freedom.

         “For God’s sake, mom, it’s okay!” Ian’s disappointment turned to frustration while his family was victim-blaming. “I don’t play tennis much these days anyways. I have other interests. Ms. Hartman could mention Math Club, Mr. Miller could mention Model UN, and Dr. Bain could mention the academic quiz team. I was in clubs after school and on the weekends with all of them, adding to my college resumé. I picked those teachers because of that.” Ian chose his references based on those with whom he spent the most time. He had strong relationships with all of them.

         “I’m sure Dr. Bain wrote you a good one. You’re always in his classroom,” said Isobelle, recognizing the name of Ian’s favorite teacher.

         “Yeah, I don’t think any of them would write anything negative, especially him.”

         “Don’t worry,” Kenneth interjected. “There’s no point speculating. It’s just going to drive us all crazy. As your mom said, we’ll hire a lawyer and get to the bottom of this.” The Foleys nodded, eager to finish dinner with the knowledge that this travesty would be resolved.

         The following day Kenneth, Ann, and their lawyer arrived at Lake Muir Preparatory Academy, the elite private school which Ian and Isobelle attended. They conducted a forensic investigation of all the application materials to see if anything was out of place. The lawyer needed to see copies of the letters of recommendation, in case something negative set off alarm bells at the Yale admissions office. Three teachers were summoned to a conference room to discuss their individual letters.

         “We realize this is an unusual request and we’re sure your letter is fine. We just need to rule everything out,” said the lawyer to each teacher. All responses were the same.

         “I wouldn’t agree to write a recommendation letter unless I was going to write something positive.” Two teachers, under pressure from their administrators, provided a copy of their letters. One refused.

         “We need to see a copy,” said Ann abruptly when Ian’s history teacher failed to produce the document.

“I am afraid I don’t have it,” lied Dr. John Bain. A letter of recommendation is supposed to be confidential. Ann’s face fell and she drummed her manicured fingers on the desk.

“You wrote this on a computer, didn’t you?” asked the lawyer. Dr. Bain nodded. “Fine!  We’ll have the IT department go through your files. This letter is school property after all.”

“That’s okay by me. I didn’t save it.” He’d written the recommendation on his personal computer at home and had no intention of handing it over.

“We understand why you’re doing this, Dr. Bain. You’re worried about the integrity of the process and the sanctity of confidentiality. But, as you can see, this is an exceptional circumstance,” said Kenneth, eager to smooth things over for the best result. “We’re not accusing you of anything. Just trying to cover all bases.”

“Perhaps, if something you wrote was misconstrued we could explain it or rewrite it for the Yale admissions office,” clarified Ann. “We’d like to rectify the misunderstanding.”

“Sorry. I don’t have a copy.” Bain wasn’t budging and there was nothing anyone could say. As far as he was concerned, the letter was between him and Yale.

“Okay then, thanks for your help,” said Ann. “We appreciate your professionalism. As you know, we’re major supporters of this school.” John Bain knew exactly what that meant. It was as blunt as a breezeblock. The Foleys helped the school build four new tennis courts at the beginning of the year. “Not that we’re looking for preferential treatment.”

“We just think the school should do everything it can to get to the bottom of this situation,” added Kenneth. “This…miscarriage of justice.” The Foleys stared at the history teacher, convinced that his letter of recommendation contained the element that torpedoed their son’s dreams. They couldn’t prove anything, although they would take steps to find out as much as they could about this devious, unhelpful man.

Dr. John Bain stroked his grizzled beard. As an overworked, underpaid, glorified service employee, the situation amused him. They thought they could walk over him. Instead, he represented an obstacle. Remembering what he heard over the weekend, he grabbed a bottle of water and took a drink, trying not to laugh out loud.

He was at a bar on Saturday night and bumped into the school’s basketball coach, Carl Freeman, who revealed the real reason Ian was unable to attend Yale. It had nothing to do with academics. Even the lack of athletic ability or experience wasn’t the main problem. Ian joined the basketball team at the start of the season and then quit without informing the coach. He stopped going to practices, but he included his participation on the team as part of his college application. He embellished his resumé. He lied. It was a question of personal integrity. This irked the coach so much he called the admissions office at Yale and made a formal complaint. This conversation compelled Yale to reject Ian Foley’s college application.

John Frame was brought up in Wick, Scotland. After earning an M.A. and Ph.D. in history from Aberdeen University, he emigrated to the USA, and worked as a teacher in NYC and Columbus, Ohio. Since 2018, he and his wife Rama have lived and worked in China and Senegal. You can find his work here: https://jrframe.wixsite.com/website.

‘Poem That Begins with Unfinished Business’ & Collected Poems

Lindsay Liang

Poem That Begins with Unfinished Business

There is a limit to what I want you to tell me. Closing 

the stage on a Friday night, you text me to say that 

a stench of weed has permeated the bar set. Grips 

and Electrics are last out, first to party over sets 

they consider their own. If only it were otherwise– 

had I instead been the one to open up our relationship 

in the brightest winter, the darkest season of my depression. 

I’m sorry. I am no longer speaking of work. I am

thinking of your other lover laughing when you discover 

her uncle has a vibrating bed and you are staying 

there tonight. I am having trouble even making eye 

contact with other folks I care about at what has been 

our favorite bar. I went to the dentist and my 

extracted space of tooth hurts, still, days later, 

the trench of gum, the pipeline to my heart.

After Five Dates

the weeklong

silence has turned

yellow banana 

black if you

would come by 

to turn the mush

into bread I want 

to taste happiness 

again your teeth 

on the tendrils

of my tongue

if the mosquitos 

could stop sticking

on the screen door

of my psyche 

sucking the marrow

from summer heat 

the swatter always 

hovering we talk 

of rain its deception 

a vow of renewal

enough to flood 

my dopamine 

basin without

further promise

of precipitation

and you

Froggy’s Fridays

At Froggy’s we swim through tadpole crowd

on karaoke night– wet lily pad floors owned

by the county toad, who would never be caught 

inside, not with all the green croaking we partake

in, years past the age the log is just a prop. 

It is not a rite of froghood to feel a belonging– 

on weekends we transform into who we want to be. 

New Year’s Eve, 2021

I want to sleep through the ball drop again

because my other plans are in the avocado 

pit. Hold my own hand, kiss my own face 

on the world’s jumbotron. For voyeurism.

Red wine lips on white pillowcase,

thread hanging off my bed. Next year I 

will scoop my meager loneliness out 

from the bottomless laundry and fold 

until I find my good, blue poinsettias 

to wear. Maybe I will talk to someone 

else’s god on the telephone, ask my mom 

how she’s doing so far. Because the rain 

has splattered all across the window. 

The closer I get, the less I see of everything.

After-Work Imperative

avoid nights we strive for 

destruction of mind of body

each time with tequila

lifeboats after rough 

working waters soon 

as we reach shore

James Croal Jackson is a Filipino-American poet working in film production. His latest chapbook is A God You Believed In (Pinhole Poetry, 2023). Recent poems are in ITERANT, Skipjack Review, and The Indianapolis Review. He edits The Mantle Poetry from Nashville, Tennessee. (jamescroaljackson.com)

‘The Retreat’

Lindsay Liang

The Retreat

“Pay attention to each part of your body in turn…do you feel any tension? Focus on the area, take a deep breath…then, let it go.”

Appu Master strolled from one person to the next, correcting their posture, nudging them to straighten their spine. As he approached Annie, she tried to shrink into the anonymity of the group, but he wouldn’t let her off that easily.

“What’s bothering you, Annie?”

Annie was too embarrassed to reply. Appu master, the Yoga teacher, was not a disciplinarian; more a kindly uncle worried about your welfare. He was eager to make sure everyone got most out of the retreat that addressed the problems of both body and mind; a judicious mix of yoga and vipassana accompanied by a cleansing, homely diet.

He’d knock at the cottage doors at five to make sure you woke up well in time for pranayama underneath the lime tree which spread its luxurious foliage beside the lotus pond. Here they spread out mats on the dew laden grass. As the session progressed, the sky would brighten over the Western Ghats, the outlines of the mountains coming into view. There was one that looked like a falcon’s shoulders, its beak pointing to the sky. She had made a mental note to find out what the locals called it. But the practice of silence that is part of vipassana meant there was no time for chit-chat.

They had a set routine for most of the day: pranayama and yoga before breakfast, followed by Gita or bible classes, or for those more secularly inclined, volunteering at the resort gardens. And after lunch, perhaps unwisely, guided meditation. Around four in the afternoon was the only time they were free to do whatever they wanted. 

It was the time when she caught up with the odd WhatsApp message from Ashok. Timmy was getting on fine. Yes, he was taking him for walks, and no, there was no need to take him to the vet. And then, the children, he added in a tiny footnote…they loved Timmy. When she did not reply, he hastened to assure her they’d be gone in three days’ time. Well before she returned.

“What’s bothering you, Annie?”

Appu master was now standing beside her, bending over to adjust her posture. His white Tagore beard cascaded down to his midriff. His dark eyes gleamed like the seeds of the custard apples they were served with herbal tea every afternoon. A cocktail of emotions welled up within her; anger, sadness, a sense of betrayal that Ashok hadn’t told her about the children. She held herself together with difficulty. If Timmy had been here, he would have sensed her mood and given her cheek a consoling lick. 

“Everything ok with the food?” Appu Master asked. 

A flash of irritation, immediately followed by guilt. Appu Master had gone out of the way to make her comfortable. The previous day he had shown her his extensive collection of books. She was surprised by the breadth and range of his tastes. He was one of those people who could comfortably switch from Ancient history to the latest developments in Neuroscience without pausing for breath. 

“It is grand,” she lied, dreading the lunchtime gruel for the fourth day in a row. Eight more to go. But this is what she signed up for, wasn’t it? To get away from it all: a PhD that seemed to be floundering, the imminent arrival of a couple of brats she had no inkling existed until a month ago. 

It was summer in England. She had been looking forward to the long days to catch up on her thesis. And the coastal walks, perhaps a concert or two at Royal Albert hall, just the two of them. So when Ashok had sprung the surprise, she had refused point blank to play nanny to the kids the rest of the summer. His problem, not hers.

It was approaching lunchtime. As she stepped out of her cottage, a smell of cashews and onions being roasted in ghee wafted across from the next compound. The rich aroma reminded her of the biryani their cook, Elsie, used to pack in her lunchbox. In turn, it brought back memories of her daily walk to school, hand in hand with her childhood friend Nancy. They walked through the cobbled streets of Fort Kochi, where spice merchants were setting out their wares. If the big clock at St. Xavier’s was chiming eight, they knew they had time to take a few turns on the see saw before the school bell rang.

She loved spicy food, but since it made Ashok’s eyes water, she turned to more bland curries. Soon after he had told her about the children, however, she threw extra spice into his favourite paneer tikka. And as his tongue lolled and his breath came in gasps, just like Timmy, she had announced with grim satisfaction her solo trip to an Ayurvedic retreat in Kerala.

The watchman looked disapprovingly as she stepped out into the street. Retreat attendees were discouraged from leaving the resort. But they were adults after all and couldn’t be held against their will. At worst she’d get that disappointed look from Appu Master, which made you feel you hadn’t lived up to his expectations. 

Across the street was a single storey house set back a little from the road, set amidst coconut trees. Through the open gate, Annie could see the soot-blackened walls and a thatched roof extension on the side where an old woman sat in front of a firewood stove. She was stirring the contents of a mud pot with an iron ladle, from which steam billowed. She was dressed in a lungi, a patterned cloth wrapped around the waist. An old towel was thrown over her blouse. Beside her was a stack of steel plates. School children were coming out in small groups from the Government LP school next door and gathering in her yard.

The old woman lifted the pot from the fire, holding either end with the towel. She doused the fire with a mug of water. It died with a hiss. Meanwhile, the children were forming a queue, each one picking up a plate as they moved forward. The old woman heaped it with the steaming biryani.

At the retreat, lunch was served between twelve thirty and one. Rice gruel, lentils and garden-grown vegetables, a diet meant to detoxify body and mind. A diet she had decided to put herself through soon after the quarrel with Ashok. When they had first met, he had said he was separated and waiting for the divorce papers to come through, but he had never mentioned the children. Her own views were very definitive. From the outset, she had made it clear that she did not want children. Much as they were romanticised, they stood in the way of life. Wasn’t Timmy good enough? So what else was Ashok hiding from her?

Annie was about to hurry back to the retreat, when the old woman beckoned her.

“Would you like some biryani?” She asked.

Her first instinct was to decline politely, but there was something so homely and inviting in the woman’s gesture that she couldn’t help walking in. She found herself queuing up with the children, who stared curiously at her. One of them passed her a plate and a spoon with a gap-toothed smile. Some who had finished eating were washing up at the tap that sprung from the ground a little distance from where the old woman was sitting. A couple of others were drying them with a clean cloth and stacking them back up beside her.

Annie had intended to restrict herself to a spoonful. She protested weakly as the old woman heaped much more than a spoonful. The rice was fluffy and finely cooked. Blended with green peas and carrots and sprinkled with the occasional clove, it was not just delicious, but also a visual treat. Under the old woman’s encouraging eye, she ended up wolfing it down.

“Janakiamma, can we pick some mangoes?” asked one of the kids.

Janakiamma. So that was her name. 

There was a large mango tree at the very back of the compound. It was early yet and most were unripe, but it didn’t seem to matter.

“Take as much as you want,” said Janakiamma, grinning. “And gather some for me too. I’ll pickle them for you next week.”

It was well past two when Annie sneaked back into the resort. The guided meditation session was already in progress. As she quietly spread out her mat and settled in her usual corner, no one seemed to notice. From the corner speakers came the gentle sounds of a Chaurasia’s flute playing at low volume.

Appu Master was giving his instructions in his low dulcet tones.

“Be here, now.”

Yoga she could manage, but meditation was hard. The moment she sat still, her bitterness would surface; towards Ashok’s career-obsessed first wife who had dumped the kids on him, towards the department, which, despite support from her tutor, had decided the subject she had taken up was too well trodden to merit a PhD, towards the canteen staff at the resort, who refused coffee after five. But now a feeling of warm contentment began to envelop her. The sounds of Chaurasia’s Raag Madhuvanti trickled in from the next room, aptly capturing the essence of the moment. Appu Master’s taste in music was faultless.

Back at St. Xavier, he was known as a disciplinarian. Being punctilious about attendance and assignments herself, it did not bother her too much. It was the critique of her essays she dreaded, almost as much as she loved his off-the-cuff quotations from Macbeth or the Meghadoota. But time seemed to have mellowed him. Nevertheless, she braced herself for a telling off.

“For the next twelve days, you have entrusted yourself to me,” he had said on the first day. “Can I treat you like school children?” 

But that telling off did not come. Over the next few days, she found a way of discreetly slipping out in the evenings. Retreat attendees sometimes went to town at that time for the odd essential – a specific brand of toothpaste or moisturiser or even a visit to the Shiva temple. There was no need really. The resort was well stocked. Nevertheless, there was an unspoken agreement that residents could use the time to take a short break from the daily routine. You had to sign out at the gate, though, and sign in when you returned. But if she nipped out quickly, she could dash to Janakiamma’s place, where she would be waiting with the afternoon’s biryani, wrapped first in a banana leaf and then in a newspaper, secured with a rubber band.

Between twelve and two in the afternoon, Janakiamma cooked the biryani and served anyone who came; the orphan children who went to the government school nearby; rubber plantation workers who came down from the hills after the morning’s tapping, which started before dawn; occasionally clerks from the Panchayat office in town. She refused to take payment for it.

Local people brought her an endless supply of rice, vegetables, ghee and spices. In the rainy season, they mended her roof. The government doctor, a portly man perpetually out of breath, came every week on his scooter to check her heart.

“My heart is alright,” she dismissed him with a laugh, “it is yours you need to worry about.”

Of course, she would not let him go without a parcel of biryani.

It was the last day of the retreat. They were in Appu Master’s study, talking about the St. Xavier’s days. Behind him, on the wall was a large tapestry of Buddha. On either side, books reached up to the walls. Through the window, she could see a taxi pulling up. The driver opened the boot and some of the retreat attendees piled their backpacks into it.

“So whatever happened to your friend Nancy?” asked Appu Master.

“Oh, the usual, trajectory,” she said, unable to hide the disdain in her voice, “married, with three kids, whom she cannot stop gushing about on Facebook.”

A long time ago they had made a pact that they would put their careers ahead of  marriage and families. Too many young women they knew were getting distracted by demands from the family and not living up to their potential. In the third year of Nancy’s medical college, however, her father passed away. Unable to continue her degree, she had chosen to marry a Gulf businessman eight years older than her.

It was getting late. As is usual in these parts, the darkness descended suddenly. A swarm of fireflies appeared from nowhere to invade the room. Appu Master opened the windows and switched on the outdoor lights. Soon they were swirling about at the entrance, throwing themselves at the lights and dropping dead. They lived incredibly short lives.

“How pointless!” Annie said vehemently, “all that frenetic activity just to bring forth another swarm and repeat the cycle? I wonder what runs through their minds…if they have any at all.”

The faded light shrouded Appu Master’s face. It was hard to read his expression.

“It’s a matter of perspective isn’t it?” Through the window the dark outlines of the Ghats were still visible. “From the point of view of those mountains our lives must seem equally brief and meaningless.”

She had to go. The taxi would come very early tomorrow to drop her to the airport. As she stepped out, Appu Master patted her shoulder. Not generally a demonstrative man, it was a rare gesture of affection and she was touched. Then a twinkle appeared in his eye.

“So you discovered Janakiamma’s biryani!”

“And l thought l had got away with it,” she exclaimed in embarrassment.

“My spies are everywhere,” he said with a laugh, “I must watch out or she’ll put me out of business!”

Back in London, Ashok was waiting with a bunch of chrysanthemums at the front door. He had a worried look. It was late summer and despite her ten hour flight, the sunlight was still pouring into the streets like a golden syrup. Through the open door came the excited cries of children.

“A couple of days more,” he said apologetically, “apparently Danielle has been delayed in California.”

Two young faces peered at her from behind Ashok with a mixture of curiosity and apprehension. Indira and Dorothy. Both had Ashok’s round protruding eyes. She considered them for a moment. They reminded her of Nancy and herself.

“Annie,” she said, holding out her hand.

“Annie, might we…” Dottie’s hesitant voice trailed off.

“…pick some apples from your garden?” Indira completed the question.

“Of course,” Annie smiled brightly, “As many as you like.”

**********

Rama Varma is an IT professional by day and a writer the rest of the time, he finished his Masters in Creative Writing from Oxford in 2015 and subsequently won the KillingIt prize for his crime novel, The Banana Leaf Murder from Harper. These days he is working on his second novel and also writes the occasional short story. His stories have been published in the Obelus Journal (Transformation Manager) and the HOW blog (Mr. Moncieuf goes to town). He lives in the UK and has two boisterous boys.

‘A Three-Dollar Cup of Coffee’

Anosh Aibara is a passionate writer, photographer, filmmaker and theatre professional based in Mumbai, India. His work has been published in several visual and literary art journals and his latest short film Pigeons, was an official selection at the Message to Man International Film Festival, in St. Petersburg, Russia.

A Three-Dollar Cup of Coffee

     Spencer Bigelow, Spence to those who knew the fifty-two-year old rancher (and most everyone in Dos Pesos knew him…all too well), sat alone in the booth in the far corner of the La Sombra Café. He wasn’t all that eager to be so far away from everyone. Not at all. Spence was gregarious by nature. It just so happened that, thanks to his wife’s sage advice, he’d be wise today to stay clear of others in the café. It was a shame. Spence liked most folks. He. in no way, was going out of his way to be standoffish. Far from it. On this particular day, he just had a load on his mind, what with his daughter’s troubles and the fence near the south gate of his property in need of repair. Then there was Miss Luanne’s admonition that since he was dressed so shabbily he’d be wise to avoid being seen by anyone who might recognize him as her husband. She was only kidding, he hoped.

     The rancher’s dusty, scuffed ropers tapped to the beat of an old Johnny Bush song on the jukebox against the far wall of the room, a straight-forward two-stepping tearjerker he could get the gist of (some poor sap licking his wounds after being jilted by an evil Jezebel) but, for the life of him, he couldn’t recall the title. It was a tune that he’d heard a thousand times, years ago, a lively ditty that he liked at the time and used to dance to with Miss Luanne back in their dancing days, but for some reason the name of the dad burn song just wouldn’t pop into his mind.

     I must be gettin’ old, thought Spence. Me and Luanne loved that dang song. Heck, it was a favorite. By God, we’ve got to come into town more often, and, what the hell, kick up our heels at the Green Tree Bar and Grill like we used to. I can’t see why we ain’t done so in so long, not since before Tamantha was born. We ain’t gettin’ no younger, that’s for sure, and so, by golly, we’re gonna do it, whether Miss Luanne likes it or not, just as soon as we get that daughter of ours squared away. 

     Spence’s weathered and worn denim jacket, a constant embarrassment to his wife, was more than just a little too warm inside the local hangout, about the only place in town to get a halfway decent plate of Mexican food, but the shirt he had on under the jacket, a plaid flannel work shirt that he’d yanked out of the dirty clothes hamper in his bedroom that morning, much to Miss Luanne’s disgust, had a tear in the left elbow as well as an unsightly oil stain across the shoulder. The tattered jacket would have to do for now; he just had to stay out of sight—Luanne’s orders. She didn’t want any husband of hers looking like some kind of a homeless vagabond. It was her idea, he mumbled, that I sit in the damn corner where no one would get a good look at me…or close enough to get a whiff of me.  

     I feel like a goddamned fool, mumbled Spence to no one but himself. Three bucks for a damned cup of coffee. Holy moly. If Pop knew that folks, hell, folks right here in Dos Pesos, Texas, would ever be willin’ to shell out that kind of dough for a lousy cup of coffee he’d sit right up in his coffin and cuss the lot of ‘em. Luckily, the old man kicked off before he had to witness the day when his fellow townsfolk would be so damned foolhardy to fork over hard-earned money just to mosey around in here and idle their afternoons away. Hell, just take a look around this place. More than a dozen people, white folks and Mexicans alike, at two in the dadgum afternoon, lollygaggin’, as if they ain’t got nothin’ better to do with their time. Things didn’t used to be this way. No siree Bob. People used to have a helluva lot more gumption. They used to work for a livin’. 

     And, for Christ’s sake, who am I to bitch and moan about the folly of others? There was that time last year in that Starbucks over there in San Antonio. Spence chuckled then shook his head. My God, Pop wouldn’t believe it if he was to get an eyeful of me in a place like that. Who would’ve guessed that there could be so many nitwits naive enough to get themselves hornswoggled in some snazzy gyp joint where you get a goddamned half-warm cup of coffee in a flimsy paper cup, and for no more than a mere fortune? Yet, that damned fancy-schmancy coffee shop was packed, I’ve got to admit it. More folks than you could shake a stick at shellin’ out perfectly good money hand over fist just to be seen with a bunch of other gomers willin’ to make total suckers of themselves. But, what the hell, there I sat that day, big as life, drinkin’ some creamy godawful frothy concoction with the rest of ‘em, like there’d be no tomorrow, all because Miss Luanne had to give the place a try. “We’re here in the city,” she ‘d said. “We might as well give it a try. Don’t be such a fuddy-duddy. Have a little fun for a change.” Shoot, she brews up a hell of a lot better coffee at home, better than this piss in this damn place. I swear, folks these days, most of ‘em at least, ain’t got the good sense they were born with. I’d bet the good lord wishes that he could take back the brains he handed out to ‘em, make ‘em all Baptists or, hell, one of those holy rollers that you see prayin’ and ‘a beggin’ for money on TV. 

     It wasn’t the rancher’s idea to come into town that day. He had more than his share of work to do. Some redneck moron—more than likely one of the juiced-up oil-field roughnecks down from Odessa—had knocked over two metal fenceposts on his property, most likely showin’ off for some gals with their sixty-thousand-dollar (hell, maybe more than that) Jeep or pickup or whatever. Yet Luanne, always one to do things ever so right, never one to settle with just so-so, needed to pick up a few items at the Good Luck Grocery. Tonight, their daughter, Tamantha, their only child, along with “Brad”, her latest boyfriend, some hotshot from San Angelo, were coming to dinner. Big deal, grunted the rancher. He’s probably a dandy of some sort. Tam’s always gone for that kind, up until Anthony came long. We never should’ve sent that girl off to SMU. They put too many highfalutin notions into her noggin. Now, Dos Pesos seems like small potatoes to the likes of her. And, geez, she seems like some kinda weirdo to the folks right here in Dos Pesos, even those who knew her back when she was no more than a pigtailed tomboy on the playground at Milam Elementary. 

     What the hell, thought Spence, if Tamantha hadn’t gone and divorced Anthony or, hell, married that son of a gun in the first place, we wouldn’t have to go through this damned tomfool charade of tryin’ to put on airs so’s that we can impress the son of some nose-in-the-air banker up there in San Angelo. It’s not like that hellhole of a town is some hoity toity Dallas or Austin or, hell, even Ft. Worth. It’s San Angelo, for heaven’s sake. It ain’t that big of a deal. And, besides, Tam’s the one who thought she knew it all. She married Anthony. No one forced her. Now she doesn’t want us to spill the beans about her first marriage…like Anthony never existed.  

     “A refill, Mr. Bigelow?” Lupe, the hazel-eyed, thin-as-a-rail waitress poured a stream of the dark brown elixir into his ceramic mug.

     “Not if you’re gonna charge me another three dollars for it,” said Spence. “I ain’t made of money, you know.”

     “For you, Mr. Bigelow, the refill’s on the house.”

    Cute gal, thought Spence as he watched her narrow behind slalom through the maze of tables and chairs. Spunky and plenty smart. Put a little meat on those bones and she wouldn’t be half bad. And those eyes. Not many Mexican girls have got eyes like those. She knows damn well that I’m gonna leave her a five-dollar tip. She ain’t dumb. She knows how to get on my good side. All she has to do is smile and I’m a goner.

     The rancher rapped his fingers on the smudged, sticky oak tabletop. Another song, one of those confounded four-four songs about some gal in tight jeans getting it on with some cowboy in the back of a pickup, played from the juke box. Hell, I hate all of these modern shit-kickin’ songs, muttered Spence. They’re all the same, a bottle of beer, a good dog and a woman pantin’ over some old boy like he’s some kinda stud. And all of ‘em sung by some pretty boy in torn jeans and a John Deere baseball cap. Hell, I got plenty of old jeans and the Lord knows I’ve got the cap. That don’t make me no heartthrob. Those smart alecks ain’t nothin’ compared to Hank Williams or Ernest Tubb. Or even Willie or Waylon.

     Spence looked up and spotted an old friend, Sheriff Kyle Reed, as he lumbered through the double doors of the café like Matt Dillon coming into the Long Branch to pay Kitty a visit. The pudgy man looked around the room, caught Spence’s eye, nodded, then started toward the rancher.

     “Miss Luanne told me I’d find you in here,” said the sheriff. He plopped down across from Spence and grunted. “She’s still shopping over there at the Good Luck Grocery. I hope the commodity markets are up. You’re gonna need ‘em to be with all that she’s got in that basket of hers.” He looked around the room and snorted. “What’re you drinking, Spence?”

     “What does it look like? A goddamned mint julep? I’m havin’ myself a damned three-dollar cup of no-good bitter coffee.”

     Kyle grinned, raised his forefinger to the waitress then nodded. She nodded back. He winked at Spence then waited for Lupe to bring his own mug of coffee.

     Both men wistfully watched Lupe, a pot of coffee in one hand, a dingy dish cloth in the other, wriggle off toward the kitchen with a little extra motion in her backfield, more than likely for the sheriff’s benefit. Certainly not for Spence’s.      

     Hell, thought the rancher, this fella must spend half his life in here while the deputies do all the work. Oglin’ the waitresses and scarfin’ down enchiladas. What a life. What’s Contreras County payin’ Kyle? And to do what, drink coffee, flirt with the waitresses and stay out of the way? Hell, any fool could do that.

     “Spence,” said the sheriff, “it’s about Anthony.”

     The rancher put down his mug with a thud. “What about Anthony?”

     “Well, he’s got hisself into a peck of trouble. It seems he’s gone and got himself beaten up in some bar up there in Ft. Stockton” The sheriff paused. “Then, that hardnose sheriff up there in Pecos County arrested Anthony, even though, from the sound of things, he got the worst of it in the fight. I know that sheriff. He’s no one to mess with.” 

     “That’s not like Anthony,” said the rancher. “He’s goddamned different, that’s for sure. And a bit of an obnoxious bragger, but, what the heck, he’s a decent enough fella. He ain’t no fighter.”

     “That may be, but as it turns out, he’s the one that done that damage to your fence. He’s admitted to the sheriff up there that he’s the one that did it. Don’t ask me why he’d spout off about something like that. It sounds like he’s proud of it. Seems he’s got some sort of a grudge against you.”

     “Against me? Hell, Tam’s the one that divorced him. All I did was pay for that shyster lawyer. Considerin’ everything, I was pretty damned decent to that kid.”

     Kyle Reed chuckled. “Yeah, I heard about that. Must’ve set you back a pretty penny.”

     Spence huffed. “God damn it, I liked Anthony. Even after the shit hit the fan and we discovered he wasn’t what he claimed to be. Tam’s the one that woke up one day and realized she’d made a big mistake. She divorced his ass. Not me.” He took a deep breath. “Hell, Miss Luanne and me had to swallow a hell of lot of pride just ‘cause that girl got some fool notion in that head of hers that she wanted to get herself married to someone like Anthony.”  

     “Like him or not, he’s got himself into a jam up there.” The sheriff nodded slowly. “And to top it all off, he’s gone and told the bondsman that you’d be willing to put up the money to get him out of jail.” He laughed. “The bail’s ten-thousand dollars, but the bond would cost you a thousand.”

     Spence winced. “A thousand dollars? Hell, that’d buy more than a cup or two of this lousy coffee. Or it might even come close to coverin’ my wife’s bill over there at that grocery store.” 

     He sighed heavily. “Did Miss Luanne tell you that Tam’s bringin’ home a new boyfriend tonight?”

     “That’s good, ain’t it?”

     “Maybe. Hell, who’s to know these days? He’s from San Angelo. His old man’s some sort of a bigshot up there. A banker, no less. Brad’s the name. More than likely, Bradley. Bradley Pruitt.” The rancher squinted, then said, “At least he’s no Anthony. That’s for damn sure.”

      “Tamantha must know what she’s doing. This time at least.” The sheriff sipped his coffee, made a sour face then gazed at a couple of Mexican women at a table against the window. He turned back to the rancher. “What should I tell the sheriff up there in Ft. Stockton?”

     “Tell him it ain’t none of my business. Anthony ain’t no relation to me. Not no more.”

     Kyle Reed bit at his lip. “Spence, do you know those two women sittin’ over there?”

     The rancher glanced at the women. “Nope, never seen ‘em before. Why? You got the hots for ‘em?”

     “No.” The sheriff laughed. “One of them’s Mrs. Garza. Her son, Sammy’s the running back over at Travis High, the one that’s doin’ so good this year. They’re good people, the Garzas.”

     “Since Tam graduated I ain’t paid all that much attention to the team. They’re good, you say?”

      “Sammy’s good. The team’s okay, nothing to bet the farm on.”

     Spence studied the two women. Finally, he asked, “How does one go about bailin’ someone out of jail? Would I have to drive all the way up there to Ft. Stockton?”

     “I’m afraid so,” said the sheriff. He pulled a slip of paper from his shirt pocket. “Here’s the address to that bondsman. I jotted it down for you. He’ll handle posting the bail. All you’ll need do is hand him a check.”

     “I can’t go tonight. Shoot, Luanne would have a fit if I missed her fancy supper. And Tam would never forgive me if I wasn’t there to meet the new Mr. Wonderful.” He took a deep breath. “I’ll drive up there tomorrow. But listen, Kyle, you can’t never tell Luanne that I’m doin’ this. And for God’s sake, don’t let Tam find out about this.”

     “I’ll let that sheriff know that you’re comin’. It might do Anthony some good to stew in his juices a night or two. But, someone like Anthony could have a pretty rough time of it in jail in that town.”

     The two sat silent. Both watched the two women at the table, the mother of a football star and her friend.

     “I suppose you’re expectin’ me to pay for your coffee,” said Spence.

     The sheriff shook his head. “Not at all. Mine’s free.” He grinned. “But I don’t want to hear that you sailed out of here without paying for yours. I don’t think Anthony’s going to bail you out if I have to take you in for stiffing the waitress on your bill.”

     “Anthony,” Spence grimaced. “Hell, that kid’s okay. He’s just a little screwed up in his head. He’d have to be. His life ain’t been easy. He grew up in a bunch of damned foster homes. Then he came up with that cock and bull story about goin’ to Texas Tech.” He shook his head. “I’ll get him to fix that doggone fence. That should put us even. Or close to it. After all, I’m the one who hired that know-it-all lawyer that put the screws to him. I feel like I owe him somethin’. Don’t you think so?”

     The sheriff stood, then grinned. “I don’t know, Spence. That’s your business. Not mine.”

     “What do you think?” asked Spence. “Do you suppose that some slicker named Brad could ever help me run a ranch in my old age?”

     The sheriff cocked his head, looked over at the two women then said, “I wouldn’t know. But I doubt it. His old man being a banker and all. But, what the heck, you gave Anthony a go at it. You might as well give old Brad a try.” He laughed. “Nah, forget that. I’d say that you’d be better off with Tamantha running the place. She was raised around here. She’d at least have some idea as to what she was doing.”

     The rancher nodded. “I hope Anthony’s all right up there. He’s a good kid, just a bit of a pain in the butt.”

     Kyle Reed shrugged then lowered his bulk back into the booth. “Spence, can I ask you a question?”

     “Suit yourself. But if I don’t give you an answer you got nothin’ to gripe about.”

     The sheriff blinked, looked around the room, leaned forward then whispered, “What did you think when Tamantha brought Anthony home?” He folded his hands into a knot on the table. “Did it bother you and Miss Luanne?”

    Spence chuckled. “When she brought him home? Yeah, it caught us off guard. I’d be lyin’ if I said otherwise. We weren’t expectin’ nothin’ like that.” He coughed. “After all, Miss Luanne grew up in Baton Rouge. She couldn’t wrap her mind around somethin’ like that, the thought of our daughter bein’ with a black man. But, to her credit, she did, eventually. We both thought it was just one of those things young people do to show how liberated they are. But when Tamantha up and married Anthony…after knowing him only a month or so…that’s when we began to worry. Not because Anthony was what he was, but because she’d just met him.” He cleared his throat. “You’ve got to remember that Tamantha thought he had some high-tech degree in engineering. Hell, we all thought so. We had no reason to doubt him. And she’d told him that her old man was a rich rancher.”

     “But you are a rancher.”

     “Not a rich one.”

     Kyle Reed shook his head. “Hell, richer than most everyone else in Contreras County.”

     “That ain’t sayin’ much.” The rancher grinned. “So, they each bullshitted the other. Hell, he wasn’t no engineer. That son of a bitch had only gone to college for one year. A damned community college in Austin. Flunked out. And besides, we ain’t rich. Far from it. Anyway, they bamboozled each other. Once Tamantha found out that Anthony didn’t have no job and planned to live out on the ranch with us and once he discovered that our place ain’t no Southfork Ranch and I ain’t no J. R. Ewing they each come to realize they’d been taken for a ride by the other.”

     “But you took Anthony in?”

     “Didn’t take him in. He moved in. But Anthony ain’t so bad. I’ve seen worse. And, I guess Tam’s all right, just a little headstrong...and spoiled.” Spence paused. “Now she wants us to welcome some fella from San Angelo with open arms. And we’re not supposed to say a word about Anthony. But I’ll bet you beer to nuts that Miss Luanne won’t go along with none of that. I can count on that woman to let the cat out of the bag no matter what. She can’t keep her mouth shut about nothin’. Don’t get me wrong, Luanne ain’t mean or nothin’. She just won’t put up with any more foolishness. She’s the one that set Anthony straight about Tam not being a rich gal. And she gave Tamantha more than an earful about the difficulties of the situation she was in.”

     The sheriff again stood. “What are you going to do, Spence? About Anthony?”

    “I’ll see to it that he gets out of that jail. Then that rascal’s gonna fix my damned fence. After that, it ain’t none of my concern.” Spence smiled broadly. “That young man, no matter what he’s done, don’t belong in no jail.” He laughed. “It’s the new owner of this here café that should be in jail. Three dollars for a lousy cup of coffee. Jesus Christ.”

     The sheriff gone, Spencer’s ulcer burning like a piece of coal, he stood then placed a ten-dollar bill on the table. He trudged toward the door but stopped and stood over the two women at the table by the window.

     “I’m sorry to interrupt,” he said, “but the sheriff tells me that one of you has got a son that’s a pretty fair football player.”

     Both women looked up, blinked then looked from one to the other. The younger woman, no more than thirty-five years old smiled then said, “My son, Sammy, he plays football.”

     Spence nodded. “Well, I hear he’s mighty good. You should be proud. My daughter went to Travis High. She was a cheerleader back in her day.” He shuffled his feet. He wished that he hadn’t stopped. He’d forgotten that he looked like somethin’ the cat dragged in. “I just wanted to tell you that I’ll try to make it to one of his games. Is he thinkin’ about college?”

     “Angelo State,” said the mother. “If he can get a scholarship to play football.”

     “That’d be good.” Spencer looked down at his boots. Holy cow, to these two ladies I must look like some kinda bum, he thought. Then he said, “If he ever needs a little money to help him get there, tell him that I might be able to help him out. He’d have to work for it. A part-time job on my ranch. It wouldn’t be no free lunch.”

     “I’ll tell Sammy.” The woman smiled.

     “That’d be good.” Spence sighed. “I’d best get runnin’ and pick up my wife. She’s grocery shoppin’ across the street. Then I’ve got to take her home, then drive seventy miles to take care of some business in Ft. Stockton, then seventy miles back here before supper. We’re havin’ company tonight.” He took two steps.

     “Thank you, Mr. Bigelow.”

     “You’re more than welcome,” he said. “Tell your son to come see me. I mean it. We’ll work somethin’ out.” He grinned, then he asked, “You ladies act like you know me?”

     The other woman nodded, then said, “Everyone in Dos Pesos knows you, Mr. Bigelow. And your wife. And your daughter.”

David Larsen is a writer who lives in El Paso, Texas. His stories and poems have been published in numerous literary journals and magazines including Cholla Needles, The Heartland Review, Floyd County Moonshine, The Mantelpiece, Oakwood, Nude Bruce Review, Canyon Voices, Change Seven, Literary Heist, Coneflower Café, The Raven Review, Voices, Sand Canyon Review, The Rush, El Portal, Bright Flash Literary Review and October Hill Magazine.

‘What can’t be explained’, ‘Notes on online therapy’ & ‘Unraveling’

Lindsay Liang

What can’t be explained

Scientists have yet to pinpoint the fault that rattled much 

of the Northeast. It left no surface rupture. (NBC News)

Colors can be easily explained,

but not why I love black ink

and feel neutral towards blue.

And Why love? Don’t tell me

it’s biochemistry or a construct

of society—there’s something 

more—an unexpected whistling 

like grass in a breeze 

or the knock of stone on stone

when the tide comes in.

I know truth is music, by instrument

or accident, an arising of this earth.

I know space is not a vacuum

but I doubt its rhythm

would make me tap my toes.

My grandparents’ cellar smelled 

of oil tank and home-made wine.

The walls were fieldstone 

patched with fresh cement.

Rubber treads disintegrated

on the creaking stairs.

It was like entering a catacomb

Returning to the light, I’d smell 

coffee percolating in a glass pot

and hear the chair beside the stove

rock as if it wasn’t empty.

Notes on online therapy

Her screen tilts so I see
the exposed ceiling
vague shapes of pipes
and ducts
white on white on gray
There must be more
Her words lose themselves
in something that feels
substantial

I am a postage stamp
missing the scallop of serration
glued to the lower right-hand
corner of the screen
So I won’t focus on myself?
Or isn’t that the point?

We tend to speak at the same time
perhaps because we are in synch
Perhaps because we aren’t.
Only half a mile apart
yet tinny waves collide
the pattern of disturbance

I take notes as quickly
as I can which are
barely legible:
Take a long time
before you answer
and we only have
half an hour

At my back
swims an ocean
before me light softening
sheer curtains

She smiles off-kilter
Her voice reverberates
caught in my speaker
or her microphone:

How did that make you feel?

Unraveling

I was her last hope. I was her only hope. I was living on instant coffee and Marlboro Lights and the not-for-individual-sale packets of Milano cookies I stole from the snack cupboard at my night job. 

I worked two jobs. I worked three jobs. I worked uptown and downtown. I worked in the bedroom of my leaky roof apartment. I owned a hammer but could not find it.

She brought a Canadian whiskey box of books. She brought spiral notebooks half-filled with torn out pages. She brought notecards with pink emphasis. She brought an illustrated volume of Jung so large it never fit anywhere. It was hopeless without me.

My shingles were loose, but I had a stained glass window and a backyard. I planted zinnias and tomatoes with a fork and spoon. Leggy and fragile, they held their seed leaves. One morning, when I awoke, everything was gone. Her writing was illegible. Her books were duplicates of mine. The Crown Royal box was perfect for a move.

I was a temporary person. I was a hopeless person. I must have been drinking beer or else  I would have disappeared. My cat ran away. My cat came back. I collected shreds of tobacco but no shreds of hope.

She gave me everything. I was her only hope. I was not a magician but around me, things disappeared. I never drank too much but always drank enough. The cat died of old age. Torn paper dampened and swelled.

Where did she come from? How did she know me? The facts have disappeared. Where did she go?

I carry her things from life to life, attic to basement, state to state. I continue to be famous for not being myself. The cardboard collapses. Paper edgings spiral in my heart. Where is my hammer? I am the person who can do anything. It is hopeless without me. 

Ellen White Rook is a poet, writer, and contemplative arts teacher living in southern Maine. She offers writing workshops and leads retreats that combine meditation, movement, and writing. Ellen holds an MFA from Lindenwood University and has been twice nominated for the Pushcart Prize. Suspended, her first collection of poetry, was released by Cathexis Northwest Press in May 2023. Visit her website at ellenwhiterook.com.