by Laurita Miller
February 2009 "Six of the Month"
They sat on the bench in companionable silence, each holding a small white bag, a gift for the visitors gathering on the snow around them. He gently shook the package, scattering the yellow bits in a wide arc, then poured some into his large calloused hand and flung them to the brown dappled bodies bobbing near the shore. She dipped her fingers, frail and trembling, into the bag, holding tiny portions in her fingertips to be rationed among those brave enough to approach. Her glove slipped to the ground and he bent to retrieve it, placing it between them with a gentle pat. The evening shadows emerged, the packages emptied, the cold settled. They stood and nodded to each other – a genial bow of the head, a graceful tilt – and then parted, walking alone toward dark and quiet houses.
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The Man Who Weighed an Egg
by Fran Flett Hollinrake
The man is always careful with money, carries checks and balances in his head, is good with figures, remembers the cost of every favour granted. He had a wife, but she got ill and died and his daughter lives in a city, wears good shoes, drives an Audi and is a Success, although he does not know that she takes a lot of coke at weekends. He decides to get hens and having compared the cost of feed, potential yield and the relative longevity of various breeds, pays a man to build him a hen house. Every day he writes down the number of eggs, and so he can work out how much money he is saving compared to supermarket eggs, it is necessary to weigh and grade them – standard, large, extra large. One early morning his daughter phones, asking shakily for money, and he says no, you are an adult and responsible for yourself - I am disappointed, I thought I had taught you better. Out by the hen house he finds one egg already – a big one, nearly 3 ounces – which he notes in his book, breathing through his mouth, whilst in the city, his frightened daughter opens the door to a man in a suit.
The man is always careful with money, carries checks and balances in his head, is good with figures, remembers the cost of every favour granted. He had a wife, but she got ill and died and his daughter lives in a city, wears good shoes, drives an Audi and is a Success, although he does not know that she takes a lot of coke at weekends. He decides to get hens and having compared the cost of feed, potential yield and the relative longevity of various breeds, pays a man to build him a hen house. Every day he writes down the number of eggs, and so he can work out how much money he is saving compared to supermarket eggs, it is necessary to weigh and grade them – standard, large, extra large. One early morning his daughter phones, asking shakily for money, and he says no, you are an adult and responsible for yourself - I am disappointed, I thought I had taught you better. Out by the hen house he finds one egg already – a big one, nearly 3 ounces – which he notes in his book, breathing through his mouth, whilst in the city, his frightened daughter opens the door to a man in a suit.
What No One Told Me
by Ethel Rohan
In the kitchen sink, wet, soapy, and slippery between my hands, lay our newborn daughter, not yet three days old, and only hours home from the hospital. She smelled of lavender, chamomile, and her parents' hugs and kisses, and she terrified me. Not the usual new mother's terror that I'd read and heard so much about, although that was there too, no, this was something else, something I'd never anticipated. A sexual abuse "survivor," I couldn't bring myself to take the white washcloth between my daughter's thighs and soap her crotch, not without seeing flashes of my hand molesting her. Trembling, I dropped the washcloth, and almost dropped my daughter, and called shakily for my husband. After over two decades of telling myself how well I'd recovered from the abuse, I felt shaken to my core, experiencing anger at last at my abuser, furious that his stain was still spreading, tainting everything from the misshaping of me, to the very act of making this precious baby, to my ability to bond with this now shrieking bundle, the one I was pushing into my husband's arms.
In the kitchen sink, wet, soapy, and slippery between my hands, lay our newborn daughter, not yet three days old, and only hours home from the hospital. She smelled of lavender, chamomile, and her parents' hugs and kisses, and she terrified me. Not the usual new mother's terror that I'd read and heard so much about, although that was there too, no, this was something else, something I'd never anticipated. A sexual abuse "survivor," I couldn't bring myself to take the white washcloth between my daughter's thighs and soap her crotch, not without seeing flashes of my hand molesting her. Trembling, I dropped the washcloth, and almost dropped my daughter, and called shakily for my husband. After over two decades of telling myself how well I'd recovered from the abuse, I felt shaken to my core, experiencing anger at last at my abuser, furious that his stain was still spreading, tainting everything from the misshaping of me, to the very act of making this precious baby, to my ability to bond with this now shrieking bundle, the one I was pushing into my husband's arms.
Lost Soul
by Robert Clay
This morning my wife killed me. I don't think she meant to do it, we were having yet another row about... well... I can't even remember, and in the heat of the moment she pushed, I fell, and zap. The strange thing is all this life after death stuff turns out to be true, here I am, in some non-corporeal form, moving about the house, unseen, but still inter-acting with my former world, I can even hear her crying in the bedroom. I'm supposed to move on, according to these strange little jeebie creatures that keep appearing and pointing upward (a good sign I hope), but I don't want to. I could stay here and haunt her, I could make her life a living hell in punishment for killing me, but I don't want to do that either because even though I'm dead, I can't live without her. I can't leave because I still love her.
This morning my wife killed me. I don't think she meant to do it, we were having yet another row about... well... I can't even remember, and in the heat of the moment she pushed, I fell, and zap. The strange thing is all this life after death stuff turns out to be true, here I am, in some non-corporeal form, moving about the house, unseen, but still inter-acting with my former world, I can even hear her crying in the bedroom. I'm supposed to move on, according to these strange little jeebie creatures that keep appearing and pointing upward (a good sign I hope), but I don't want to. I could stay here and haunt her, I could make her life a living hell in punishment for killing me, but I don't want to do that either because even though I'm dead, I can't live without her. I can't leave because I still love her.
Five Books That Changed My Life
by Ralph Gamelli
The first of these was just some typical children's book which made it pretty clear that reading was an incredibly boring experience, even with colorful illustrations. The second book - a geography textbook that I brought down on the head of Marty Sussman - taught me that being a bully doesn't always have to involve scraped knuckles. The third book was a battered old paperback someone had left behind on the subway, and which I attempted to shove down the throat of a fellow passenger who looked at me the wrong way. My court-ordered psychiatrist forced me to read the fourth book, a self-help volume that, along with therapy, changed my whole outlook on life, including my relationships with others. After that, I tracked down some of the people who had been on the receiving end of my anti-social behavior and apologized to them, which is how I encountered the fifth book - a John Grisham hardcover brought down on my head by Marty Sussman. Now that I'm doing thirty years for murder, some of the born-again types in here are recommending I read the Bible, which they claim is a thousand times better than any self-help book, but I tell them I've had my fill of books, five is more than enough.
The first of these was just some typical children's book which made it pretty clear that reading was an incredibly boring experience, even with colorful illustrations. The second book - a geography textbook that I brought down on the head of Marty Sussman - taught me that being a bully doesn't always have to involve scraped knuckles. The third book was a battered old paperback someone had left behind on the subway, and which I attempted to shove down the throat of a fellow passenger who looked at me the wrong way. My court-ordered psychiatrist forced me to read the fourth book, a self-help volume that, along with therapy, changed my whole outlook on life, including my relationships with others. After that, I tracked down some of the people who had been on the receiving end of my anti-social behavior and apologized to them, which is how I encountered the fifth book - a John Grisham hardcover brought down on my head by Marty Sussman. Now that I'm doing thirty years for murder, some of the born-again types in here are recommending I read the Bible, which they claim is a thousand times better than any self-help book, but I tell them I've had my fill of books, five is more than enough.
Pleasure
by Liz Femiano
I eat expired oatmeal that tastes like soap, one packet a day, and when I'm through this box, there's another, until I wake up and feel like a good person. I've got a moratorium on the things I like best, so my days are Shredded Wheat, visits to the railroad museum, Agatha Christie hardcovers. I miss checking my horoscopes most, how I could swing it to justify anything. I could decide right then to fold up the paper, change my underwear, drop by his place, then go with him to buy an apple or a carrot or a potato from Albertson's, then stay over because I was messed up in the best way - and it'd all be kosher, because the Moon entered Sagittarius, and he's so cute when the barber cuts his hair too short. "Everyone is good," a religious friend told me, "but you won't be good for a long time." My nice panties sit quietly in the drawer, all folded up in rows like teacher's pets, so pert and lacy and hopeful.
I eat expired oatmeal that tastes like soap, one packet a day, and when I'm through this box, there's another, until I wake up and feel like a good person. I've got a moratorium on the things I like best, so my days are Shredded Wheat, visits to the railroad museum, Agatha Christie hardcovers. I miss checking my horoscopes most, how I could swing it to justify anything. I could decide right then to fold up the paper, change my underwear, drop by his place, then go with him to buy an apple or a carrot or a potato from Albertson's, then stay over because I was messed up in the best way - and it'd all be kosher, because the Moon entered Sagittarius, and he's so cute when the barber cuts his hair too short. "Everyone is good," a religious friend told me, "but you won't be good for a long time." My nice panties sit quietly in the drawer, all folded up in rows like teacher's pets, so pert and lacy and hopeful.
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