The Sorcerer's Apprentice

            For Chard

The brooms are gathering their water buckets again,

the froth of suds sloshing over the hooper's work

and dripping onto the perilous stairs.

I'll try not to be frantic this time,

running around in my foolishly flapping robes

and adjusting the ill-fitting hat over my ridiculous ears.  

The water is pouring from the parapets now,

like the veiled threats and childish aggression

wielded in an unknown and undeserved place,

while you summoned majestic goshawks

and women drawn from flames.  

You spoke with me calmly then,

delicately placating my naive assumptions,

never raising your voice,

maintaining the control over yourself that amazed me so.

And now,

I'm on my own again,

desperate to do anything other than destroy

the castle you left for me,

handing me the keys and this robe,

and even leaving the hat for me to find,

a final chance to salvage something

from the gifts you gave so freely.  

When I see you again,

still damp from my imperfect art,

I will embrace you,

show you the wilting bouquet I wrestled from my hat,

the absolute lack of visible bunnies,

smile like a mouse,

and thank you. 

First Encounter

Waves bob into peaks and points

this October afternoon,

and beneath is harder sand.

Gulls swoop

the cold bay’s jetties,

dropping littlenecks to break them apart,

to feed before winter.

Concrete bleached gray, the duneside parking lot

is windswept and empty, except for

rustling clothes, cold jeans

against motionless legs rooted in docksiders. 

Hands closed in sweaty fists, pockets

of warmth against the chill.

You might read pain, an unnamed sadness.

A deteriorating

battleship rusts to ribs eight miles away.

We pushed the Indians

from here and out, but I am comforted,

these stories without “I”, life without me,

triumphs in off-

seasons.

Flash Fiction Chronicles Interview

I was floored to see such a positive response when my short story, "Strikethrough," was published by EveryDayFiction.com .  It was selected as the top story for the month of June, and as a result, I was interviewed by the site's blog Flash Fiction Chronicles.  Please take a minute to check it out, I had a great time doing it, and the interviewer, Thomas Jay Rush, did a great job as well.

You can view the article HERE

Why They Can Call My Mother "Mary"

 

Larry’s knuckles were bitten,

sometimes scratched, to bone,

scabs never healing before a fresh bite,

skin screaming to be picked.

He must have drunk liters

of his own blood, slowly,

in thirty-eight years

of stunted, aimless walking. 

Here tonight, with the rest

of Mom’s “Group,” to bowl. 

My brother and I sit, avoiding eyes,

embarrassed for the ragged shuffles,

awkward laughs – the gutterball

evening.  Mom gets up

as Larry selects a ball.

She reaches for slumped shoulders

and positions him to roll.

She covers those torn hands

with her own, to help him.

New Houses

A bare bulb swings lazily above the bare wooden table, the slight breeze licking through the fluttering blinds; early Spring twilight air.

The house is still mostly empty, and a slew of boxes populate the halls and bedrooms, but we are done for today, and my brother and I sit across from each other, elbows on the Beech-stained table, sipping warm beer; as the refrigerator arrives tomorrow. The white walls lack any sort of pictures or knick-knacks, and the light bounces around the room, illuminating the area underneath our chins; stagelighting in a barren dining room.

At some point, we know it is time.

Pushing out our chairs, we walk to the backdoor, and descend the long wooden stairway to the backyard. The sun is newly gone, and the sky is marked by incoming thunderheads in the distance, and a low white light that extends a dome a few blocks away, likely the neighborhood Little League field.

The air is cool, and the t-shirts we wear are ill-suited for our task.

A shadowbox fence lines the back of the property, and on the side of the yard, a glistening pile of mud stands roughly ten feet above the freshly cut dew grass.

We cross the yard, light from the window casting weak, thin shadows before us, our bare feet leaving water tracks through the lawn.

The mound is bulbous, a giant dripcastle of mud, and as we approach it, the pulsating becomes apparent; dull reflections on the surface heave and shudder from the pile, a result of its tragic contents.

The mud covers a host of mothers and their babies, slowly moving beneath the gathered earth, and as we watch, another arrives.

She walks slowly down the hill on the side of the house, wearing a loose, white t-shirt and worn-in jeans. Her hair is short, easy to maintain. Her baby sits on her hip, arms flailing and waving to us, tiny eyes in the darkness taking in everything the new scene has to offer.

She asks us to bury her.

We nod as always, noting the tear tracks that trail her cheeks, no mascara to worry about.

At this point there’s no reason to plead.

A look of thanks, and she moves towards the shifting mass, lying against it, allowing it to take their weight.

We begin with her feet, scooping handfuls of the wet mud, and packing it over her. We are on our knees, mother and child watching us as we reach her hips, and she moves the baby (we are convinced it is a girl, something in the smile) to her chest, the child reaching out to hug the mother’s face.

We move to the torso, arms caked to the elbow now, our knees wet from the grass despite our workpants.

The sun is gone, the memory of the clouds fades, and the halo of baseball lights go out. Only the yellow glow of the house windows is left, highlighting the figures we are burying.

We cover her face at last, and the baby coos softly as we cover hers as well; both of us openly weeping now.

My brother is up first, wringing his hands, and I stand as well.

We walk from the larger mound, away from the new twitching additions, and use the garden hose to wash the mud from our arms. The water is colder than the night air, and it bites our skin, our calloused hands, as the mud disappears back to the ground.

We walk up the stairs, take our places at the table, sip our warm beers, and mouth our prayers in silence.

Action/Adventure

There’s always the running,

a destination of safety,

planes or lifeboats or higher ground.

A close call as the disaster approaches,

before they

(and we)

triumph over nature,

avoid the projected cataclysm,

as long as we have love and family and hope

and Twizzlers

at our fingertips.

We marvel at the graphically generated flood

that crests Himalayan mountaintops,

watch in awe as the 3D meteor

irradiates sea water,

sending skyscraper tidal waves

toward unsuspecting cities.

The volcano explodes,

painting the screen,

rivers of flame pouring

through quaint suburban neighborhoods

and we cheer it,

rattling our ice-filled cups

and grinning with kernel-laced teeth.

And last night,

on a much smaller screen,

the celebrity designer was in tears.

He said that it was like swimming

in a soup of lifeless bodies

and babies,

that the smell stays with him,

that his lover was lost so suddenly.

A black river breeches its banks,

spilling into a car park,

and tosses yachts into highway overpasses.

People in the distance flee too slowly,

and inevitable prediction takes over,

as the amateur videographer

shifts his shaky frame.

Bloated corpses wash up for months,

the tsunami’s only concession,

and the Pacific Rim

is littered with the taken dead.

There is no second act

as the waters run their course,

and the ark they needed

does not exist

outside the now ruined theaters.

Shore House Mornings

-For Ash and Maeve

The low thunder rhythm is infinite,

a stalwart behemoth,

always present in cadence,

beyond the salt-crusted sliding doors.

The water throws gold

under the hard dawn sun,

an outdoor illusion of summer.

Hands pressed against the glass

create fog auras,

halos for fingers,

our ten saints at daybreak.

The brass handle is colder,

and opening the door

creates a house-resounding shudder.

Crisp air wicking off the breakers

engulfs the senses.

Sweatshirt and shorts,

shoeless on the wooden deck,

the dichotomy of warmth.

Below, the waves barrel and break

against the shore and jetties,

while the pale dune grass flitters

at the wind’s will.

The vast expanse dominates the landscape,

mocks the paltry man-made lights

of a distant northern neon peninsula.

The thought of coffee

beckons back in the warm room,

and the rooms beyond,

where both my girls

are asleep under covers

this autumn morning,

softly mumbling,

and I whisper to the witness sea,

my replies to their requests

for anything.