tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-56851670053320920222024-03-13T22:39:05.554-07:00Bay Laurelan online literary journal of previously rejected fiction and poetry (2012-2014)Timothy Dailey-Valdéshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16905671592280362228noreply@blogger.comBlogger96125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5685167005332092022.post-31263453664694339382017-01-20T00:44:00.001-08:002017-01-20T08:30:02.550-08:00Founder's Note: January 20, 2017<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Friends:</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Today is, for me and for many around the world, an unhappy day. I am terrified of what happens next. I am sad and angry and scared. I do not want to tell you what to believe. But I will tell you something about what <i>I</i> believe. I believe we need love, more than anything else. But we also need peaceful, mindful resistance. And, as always, but especially in bleak times, we need art. We need to keep living and growing and working and making and speaking. In times like these, to live and to create are political acts. To that end, I'm going to work this year to bring <i>Bay Laurel</i> back from its long hiatus. I don't know what form the revived journal will take yet. I don't know if it will even matter. But I know that more art in the world can't possibly hurt. Going forward, we will be unafraid and radical and progressive. We will seek to amplify the voices of the marginalized and the unheard. We will fight fascism and bigotry and corruption in any way we can. And we will, once again, strive to provide a home for literary art of quality, beauty, and substance. Art is how we win. Art is how we survive. We need art however and wherever we can get it. I promise to do what I can to help.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br />Be kind and stand together. You are loved. Updates to come.<br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Yours,</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Timothy Dailey-Vald<span style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #444444; margin-bottom: 0px;">é</span>s</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Founder, <i>Bay Laurel</i></span>Timothy Dailey-Valdéshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16905671592280362228noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5685167005332092022.post-18096538943306683872014-04-01T22:00:00.003-07:002014-04-01T22:01:06.495-07:00<div align="center">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-XbB28chw9BA/T_ETFKqY6QI/AAAAAAAAAHo/zjwQLoC6WXk/s1600/Scan+11.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-XbB28chw9BA/T_ETFKqY6QI/AAAAAAAAAHo/zjwQLoC6WXk/s400/Scan+11.jpeg" height="242" width="400" /></a></div>
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<strong><span style="font-size: large;">Welcome!</span></strong></div>
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Hello. How's it going? We hope you're doing well. Welcome to the era of AJ. Years from now this time will be known as a dark period of pain and despair. Or not, I don't know. Let's do this. Introducing our <a href="http://www.baylaurelonline.com/2014/04/blog-post.html">Spring 2014 Issue</a>. Enter if you dare.</div>
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Literary hugs and smooches,</div>
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Your <em>Bay Laurel</em> Staff</div>
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Yo, AJ.http://www.blogger.com/profile/17499158602642660272noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5685167005332092022.post-9590821759733606972014-04-01T21:53:00.000-07:002014-04-01T22:01:01.883-07:00Storyteller Speak by Beth Ann<span lang="EN"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Weaver of tales do tell<br />
tell of some pleasanter stories<br />
than I've been prone to know<br />
bring others forth<br />
and following a stone cobbled road<br />
<br />
like a clever ancient hare<br />
<br />
leap up<br />
<br />
quick with gleeful wisdom<br />
<br />
In every jump<br />
<br />
hop about hesitation<br />
<br />
then stop and stare<br />
from the tallest rock<br />
make yourself a statue furry<br />
stare down incivility smiling<br />
and shout<br />
<br />
I am the weaver of tales<br />
<br />
then stop and stare<br />
then speak.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;"></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: #f3f3f3; font-family: Georgia;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><strong>Beth Ann </strong>is a poet who still likes to eat, so she is often found dodging traffic and tourists while commuting to a part-time job. You can follow her on Twitter, <a href="https://twitter.com/themirthfulpen">@themirthfulpen</a>, where she tweets about games, writing, and random silliness.</span></span><br />
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<span lang="EN"><span style="background-color: #f3f3f3; font-family: Georgia;"><em><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Bay Laurel / Volume 3, Issue 1 / Spring 2014</span></em></span></span></div>
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</span>Yo, AJ.http://www.blogger.com/profile/17499158602642660272noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5685167005332092022.post-35561748103036069252014-04-01T21:10:00.000-07:002014-04-01T21:10:23.024-07:00<div align="center">
<span style="font-size: large;">Editor's Note</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><em>Bay Laurel </em>/ Volume 3, Issue 1 / Spring 2014</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">April 1, 2014</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Austin, Texas, U.S.A.</span></div>
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<strong><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Dear </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Readers</span>,</strong></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> I'm so grateful Timothy created Bay Laurel, so honored that he asked me to be a part of it, and so excited he's finally out of the way and it's mine. All mine!</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span> </div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> I'm kidding. Well, I'm kidding about him being out of the way and it being all mine. I meant the other stuff.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> Pulling together my first issue of <em>Bay Laurel</em> as acting editor-in-chief has been a wonderful experience, and it's so flattering that Tim would trust me with such a responsibility. Given that he was so good at keeping order, giving responses to our submitters, and all in all everything you could want in an editor-in-chief, I've had some big shoes to fill.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> I could go on and on about how awesome Tim is and how much fun I've had with this issue, but as much as you might kind of, sort of like me, I'm sure you're here for the really good stuff so I'll just get to it.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> This is another short issue of<strong> </strong><em>Bay Laurel</em>, but I know you'll like what you find. We're very excited to have <strong>Kristina England</strong> back in what is now her third issue of <em>Bay Laurel.</em> She's joined in this issue by <strong>Beth Ann</strong>, <strong>Tom Harding</strong> and <strong>Jessica Barksdale</strong>. This was a difficult submission period, we had many submissions, but these four really stood out from the rest. These authors have something special and I'm happy they shared it with us.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Thank you for reading,</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong>AJ Reyes</strong></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Acting Editor-In-Chief</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">and Social Media Coordinator</span></div>
Yo, AJ.http://www.blogger.com/profile/17499158602642660272noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5685167005332092022.post-20593996532063310692014-04-01T20:49:00.003-07:002014-04-01T21:08:09.602-07:00<div align="center">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: small;"></span> </div>
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<span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Bay Laurel / Volume 3, Issue 1 / Spring 2014</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia;"><a href="http://www.baylaurelonline.com/2014/04/editors-note-bay-laurel-volume-3-issue.html"><em><strong>Editor's Note</strong></em></a></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia;">from AJ Reyes</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia;">STORY: <a href="http://www.baylaurelonline.com/2014/04/silver-bird-by-kristina-england.html"><em><strong>Silver Bird</strong></em></a></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">by Kristina England</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">POEM: <a href="http://www.baylaurelonline.com/2014/04/storyteller-speak-by-beth-ann.html"><em><strong>Storyteller Speak</strong></em></a></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">by Beth Ann</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">POEM: <a href="http://www.baylaurelonline.com/2014/04/van-gogh-in-auvers-sur-oise-by-tom.html"><em><strong>Van Gogh In Auvers-sur-Oise</strong></em></a></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">by Tom Harding</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia;">STORY: <a href="http://www.baylaurelonline.com/2014/04/turnip-by-jessica-barksdale.html"><strong><em>Turnip</em></strong></a></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">by Jessica Barksdale</span></div>
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Yo, AJ.http://www.blogger.com/profile/17499158602642660272noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5685167005332092022.post-76785201922219618752014-04-01T19:32:00.002-07:002014-04-01T21:08:09.615-07:00Van Gogh In Auvers-sur-Oise by Tom Harding<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">The silhouetted figure</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
Moved towards them,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
God like, the sower</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
Stepping from the sun.</span></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">His queer frame</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
Stranger than usual,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
A knotted posture</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
As if twisted from wheat.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">His hands buried deep</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
In his working jacket,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
Where the breast</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
Clotted with blood.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">His expression stayed curious,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
One ear still to the wind,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
Like a dog ready for flight,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
A walking open wound.</span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: #f3f3f3; font-family: Georgia;"><strong><span style="font-size: x-small;">Tom Harding </span></strong><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">lives in Northampton UK where, when not working, he writes poetry and draws. Tom has been published in various places including <span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-style: italic; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Parameter Magazine</span></span><span style="font-family: Calibri; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">,</span> </span><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-style: italic; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Identity Theory</span></span><span style="font-family: Calibri; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">, </span></span><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-style: italic; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Unlikely</span> <span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Stories</span></span></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> <span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">and </span></span></span><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-style: italic; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Nthposition</span></span></span><span style="font-family: Calibri; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">.</span></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"> He also maintains a website of his own work at </span><a href="http://www.tomarianne.net/"><span style="color: #0065dd; font-size: x-small;">tomarianne.net</span></a><span style="font-size: x-small;">.</span></span></span></span></span><br />
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<em><span style="background-color: #f3f3f3; font-family: Georgia; font-size: xx-small;">Bay Laurel / Volume 3, Issue 1 / Spring 2014</span></em></div>
Yo, AJ.http://www.blogger.com/profile/17499158602642660272noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5685167005332092022.post-48523664840157034832014-04-01T19:15:00.000-07:002014-04-01T21:08:09.610-07:00Silver Bird by Kristina England<span lang="EN"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Carle woke in a sweat. He turned on the lamp and put on his spectacles, glancing around at the bedroom. His eyes rose to the ceiling; it was still there.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">He reached for his cup of water, but knocked it over instead.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">"Darn it," he muttered.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">The cat lifted her head and glanced at him. He pushed her off his stomach and sat up. He tried his best to swallow down the dryness in his throat but failed.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Carle got up slowly from the bed, his hip aching from age. He made the long walk to the kitchen, poured a new glass of water, and stared out the window at a starless night. His lips grew more parched with each minute but he did not drink the water. Instead, his eyes turned to the fridge, where his grandson's drawing hung on the door.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">He walked over and examined the drawing of a grey bird crashing into the earth.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">***</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">"Grandpa, I made you a drawing in class today. It's based on this time I saw a bird hit Daddy's windshield," Joey said with a smile. He had folded the picture as if preparing for a big unveiling.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Carle's son, James, laughed. "That time... Kids... The bird hit my windshield yesterday afternoon."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Carle smiled at both of them. "You can live a lifetime in a moment," he said, grabbing at Joey's nose.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Joey giggled as he dodged his grandfather's hand. Carle grew tired and settled back in his chair.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">"Now, how about we take a look at your masterpiece."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">"Okay," Joey said. He handed the folded paper to his grandfather, bouncing with excitement as Carle opened it.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Carle gasped. His eyes welled up. He put down the drawing and excused himself.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">He didn't look back at Joey or James's faces. He knew better.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">***</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">As a child in Germany, Carle was surrounded by war films and political debates at the dinner table. His mother wouldn't let him play outside. When word got out about a bomber plane called the Silver bird, she clucked and said to his father, "This is why we aren't safe. They've even turned birds into monsters."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">His father had gotten up from the dinner table and shoved her from her seat.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">"Do not forget who I work for, or else you'll have more to fear than birds."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">That was the last time he saw his father. His father was called away to work and, in the middle of the night, his mother took him and a purse full of money into the dark roads.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">As they boarded a train, she whispered, "Watch for birds, my love. They are everywhere."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">***</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Carle took the drawing down from the fridge and held it in his shaking hands. Tears ran down his face. He picked up the phone and called his son.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">"He... llo..."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">"I'm sorry I woke you."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">"Dad? Is everything okay? Is it your heart?"</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">"Oh no, no. Just tell Joey I loved the drawing. It reminds me of when a bird saved my life."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">There was a long pause on the phone.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">"Well, and finish that with the fact that I'm a silly old man," he chuckled. "Sweet dreams, my love. Sweet dreams."</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="background-color: #f3f3f3;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><b>Kristina England</b> resides in Worcester, MA. Her poetry is published or forthcoming in <i>Gargoyle</i>, <i>Haggard and Halloo</i>, <i>Nib Magazine</i>, <i>Poetry Breakfast</i>, <i>Crack the Spine</i>, <i>Extract(s)</i>, <i>The Story Shack</i> and other journals. Her first collection of short stories will be published in the 2014 Poet's Haven Author Series. For more on her writing, visit </span><a href="http://kristinaengland.blogspot.com/"><span style="color: #0065dd; font-size: x-small;">http://kristinaengland.blogspot.com/</span></a><span style="font-size: x-small;">.</span></span></span><br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="background-color: #f3f3f3;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><em>Bay Laurel / Volume 3, Issue 1 / Spring 2014</em></span></span></span></div>
Yo, AJ.http://www.blogger.com/profile/17499158602642660272noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5685167005332092022.post-19455433514517617892014-04-01T19:04:00.002-07:002014-04-01T21:08:09.599-07:00Turnip by Jessica Barksdale<span lang="EN"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> “Fan-tastic,” Araceli said. “Like total duh!”</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> “What’s duh?” Esme asked, not looking up from her literature textbook. It was Esme’s night off from her job at the convalescent home, and she and her best friend were studying on her queen-sized bed, the door closed, her parents caught in a fishbowl of stupid television and post dinner coma. Esme’s room was warm, the small window cracked an inch, the walls a sunrise yellow. Both of them were sunken in the down comforter, surrounded by Esme's pillows and stuffed animals, Araceli half hidden by Panda’s large, wobbly, ancient head.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> But even with her eyes on the small, tight textbook print, Esme could see her friend’s long dark hair, her big brown eyes etched in eyeliner, the lids streaked with a slash of aqua. Without breathing, Esme could smell the sweet crackle of Araceli’s jellybean bubble gum. Since they met a year ago in a psychology class their first semester at Contra Loma Community College, they’d been hanging out on nights they didn’t work. Or have dates, which wasn’t that often lately, or ever, really, especially for Esme.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> Every so often, Araceli would text: <b>Biz-eee tonight!</b> J
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> On those nights, Esme would study for a bit and then slip into the family room and sit in between her parents and watch <i>Real Housewives</i> or <i>Dancing with the Stars</i>.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> Araceli jostled herself into position, leaning on her elbows, her body stretched out behind her as she clicked on her laptop. She was supposed to be studying for a pre-calculus test, but she hadn’t cracked her book. Esme wasn’t sure how Araceli would ever transfer to a four-year college.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> “This is great. Listen. So would you like ever answer an email from someone named Margaret Fink?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> “Who’s Margaret Fink?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> “No one,” Araceli said. “That’s the point. Total spam. Margaret writes to like tell me they received a message for me. Just me! Can you believe that? And it’s so important I should click here!”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> Araceli raised her finger and pretended to click on her keyboard. “And of course the link goes to some web site where I’d just have to buy whatever it was. Margaret Fink. What a name. As if.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> “You think that’s weird. There’s a guy in my English class named Marc Turnipseed.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> Esme hasn’t told anyone else about this, savoring the guy’s name, loving each time their instructor Ms. Jensen read through the roster, calling out, “Marc Turnipseed?” the teacher’s face just barely not smiling. Now that the semester was three weeks old, Esme feared the coming class when Ms. Jensen stopped calling roll, finally knowing able to recognize who they were.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> “Seriously?” Araceli said. “Isn’t that like a bad joke or something?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> Esme wasn’t sure about turnip seeds, but she didn’t know much about vegetables in general. Or roots. Or whatever. She had a feeling that roots didn’t need seeds, but she could be wrong about that. Her mother Marta made carrots and potatoes and lumpy squashes for dinner, but they were always covered in a rich, spicy sauce and cooked to mush. Sometimes, Marta shook her head and said, “Beans are a vegetable, too,” though Esme knew this wasn’t true.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> Legumes, she thought, feeling a bowl of unwashed pinto beans under her fingertips.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> “There was a guy named Bing Bing Bong in one of my classes for about a minute. At least until he got kicked out into a lower math class. The teacher was all, ‘Bong, Bing Bing.’ Everyone laughed like crazy.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> Araceli laughed at the remembered laughter, spun onto her back, pulling her laptop with her. Outside Esme’s room in the house, someone flushed a toilet. Outside in the world outside the house, someone started a car.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> “He’s cute,” Esme said, feeling the heat in her throat as she said the words. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> “Who?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> “Marc Turnipseed.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> “Doesn’t look like a turnip?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> Esme shook her head. No, Marc Turnipseed didn’t look like a turnip or what Esme thought a turnip looked like—round and white and dirty with a beardy tail and maybe a green stalk? Was it sort of purple too? Or was that the other one, the thing that started with an R. Not radish. Rutabaga. Anyway, no. Marc was medium height, blonde haired, blue eyes, strong hands. Hands that could catch things. Footballs, baseballs, babies. Nicely cut fingernails. She knew this because she often sat across from him and stared at his hands as he wrote to Ms. Jensen’s writing prompts.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> “So?” Araceli said.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> “He’s not round and white,” Esme said, and Araceli laughed again. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> “Thanks to god, as your mom would say. If he were some nasty, non-Catholic white guy, you’re mom would be after him with her <i>comal</i>. Running faster than life. Pow, cast iron to the head.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> Esme flushed. So far, her mother hadn’t had to kill anyone with her <i>comal</i>, the pan she used only for heating tortillas on the range. And if things kept going this way, her mother would be too old and weak to pick up the pan by the time Esme ever found a guy. By then Mrs. Marta Hernandez would be witch-like, shrunken, blind and deaf. And the guy could be from Russia or Sweden or some other forgotten, frozen white place and no one would ever know.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> But that wasn’t going to be true for Araceli, who was destined for someone. Esme, however, was short and round and dark (what vegetable was she? A beet? She probably wasn’t even a vegetable; her cousin Ricky once called her a “rectangle with hair”) Esme couldn’t even fill out her own real name, Esmeralda, regal and royal and flush and darkly green.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> The total opposite of Esme, Araceli was tall, tiny in the right tiny places, full in the right full places. Her hair was smooth, her light brown eyes wide. Her finger and toenails were perfectly shaped and painted pink. Her knees were smooth, her skin tone even, her eyebrows perfectly shaped. And she had boobs, too, that overflowed her tight t-shirts that hugged her from chest to waist. When she and Esme walked through the quad on their way to the cafeteria, guys always watched Araceli. As she and Araceli scurried toward the double doors, Esme felt like one of those police shields, the hard, truly rectangle shaped ones that deflected protestor’s rocks.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> It was only a matter of time before some guy in some class asked Araceli out and the date lasted forever or some guy came into her job at <i>Forever 21</i> to buy some skimpy shirt present for his supposed girlfriend and swooped up Araceli. Then Esme would be here on the bed, alone, again as usual.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> “So what are you going to do?” Araceli asked.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> “About what?” Esme asked, looking up at Araceli who radiated something dark and sparkly pink.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> “You know! Marc Turnipseed?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> Esme shrugged, flushed, shivered in her shins.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> “God,” Araceli said. “Just talk to him.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> “Just like that? Just start talking? I mean, go up--” Esme started.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> But Araceli was laughing, her laptop listing on her lap. “Oh, my god. I have a spam for size triple D breast enhancement! With no surgery!”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> Trapped in the bubble of Araceli’s laughter, Esme looked down, holding tight to Marc. Just walk up, she thought. Just talk.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> “Come on, It’s hilarious,” Araceli said, shifting, her own ample chest plump and ripe. Esme shrugged, the bubble and Marc disappearing. “Once I got a spam called ‘Penis Growth Sample.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> “Gross,” Araceli said, sitting up and leaning against the wall, straightening her shirt. “What is a penis growth sample?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> “I have no clue,” Esme said, not knowing one thing about penises, at least beyond biology textbooks and her cousins’ chatter and bragging and some bad movies, quick flashes of dangling dicks. There was her high school junior prom date Bobby Lento and his hard on as he pressed up against her while they danced, but it turned out he was so drunk, she had to drive them both home. No one had asked her to Senior Ball, and that night, she’d sat with her parents, as usual, on the couch, trying not to imagine her classmates’ activities: 6 pm limo. 7 pm dinner. 8 pm dancing, drinking, laughing. 12 am limo. 1 am everywhere but home and probably penises for everyone.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> She’d hoped college would be different, a whole new crowd, guys from all over the state, none who knew her yet. Esme imagined that she’d find a studious, kind, sort-of hot guy who liked to read. But since junior year and sweaty Bobby, a whole spell of nothing. The idea of going from where she was now to “penis growth” seemed impossible, a distance she couldn’t cross, not even with a shield. Life would be so much easier if she didn’t have to move at all. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> She sat up crossed legged and leaned against the wall next to her friend. “And I don’t want to know anything about it.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> Araceli shrugged, clicked through her email. Esme shimmered and tried to study.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> “Marc?” Ms. Jensen asked, looking immediately to Marc, not even bothering to say his last name. It was over now, Esme thought. Ms. Jensen will never say Turnipseed again. Soon, she won’t even say Marc. There would be no excuse for Esme to even look at him, except if Ms. Jensen put them into groups, which she had only done once so far.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> Ms. Jensen finished reading the roster and put down her roll book. As with every first couple weeks of a semester, the class was full, the air conditioner trying to chill the small stuffy room. Esme could smell things she didn’t want to, body heat and hair gel and the fake floral scents of dryer sheets. They were all sitting way too close to each other, and she could almost feel the rough newness of the jeans the boy in front of her was wearing.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> As Ms. Jensen opened her textbook, she wondered what Marc Turnipseed smelled like. Maybe grass and earth and spring rain. She vowed to look at the turnips when she went to the market with her mother this weekend. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> Ms. Jensen went on and on about plot, something that Esme remembered from senior English. Up on the board went a triangle and then conflict and crisis, the triangle tipping into resolution and then nothing. Esme scratched the known shape onto her notepad. Unlike this triangle, Esme knew she lived in narrative, the dreaded thing Ms. Jensen said no true story was. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> “Life is a narrative,” she said last class. “A story is something better.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> Wake up, shower, drive to school, sit in hot rooms with people she’d never know, go find Araceli after class, go to her job at the nursing home, go home, study, watch television with her parents.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> Esme was no hero, never bolting through thresholds or overcoming dark nights of the soul. Where was her conflict? Where was her crisis? Where was her elixir, the magic potion Ms. Jensen talked about? All her life there’d only been beginning and resolution, both of which ended in bed, and bed that included nothing but her stuffed animals and sleeping. All the way from this community college classroom, she could hear her father’s snores from down the hall.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> Her life was one long narrative after another.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> “What if, like, the hero doesn’t want to go on the journey?” someone had asked last class.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> “No story,” Ms. Jensen said. “The erstwhile hero has to start all over again.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> “Or do nothing,” another student said.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> “Or give up,” someone else said, and the class laughed, but to Esme, it wasn’t funny. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> “Okay, people,” Ms. Jensen said now. “Get into groups of four. Try to find people you didn’t work with last class.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> Last class, Esme worked with the tall lanky boy with scarecrow arms and long hair, the girl with hair dyed grayish purple, the boy named Nin Nguyen—he said it Nin When—and Taylor, the blond girl who looked the way Esme had always imagined for herself. If Esme was a rectangle with hair, Taylor was a shimmering hour glass with smooth, tanned arms and legs, a gold necklace that glittered at her throat, and a plain, boring, beautiful face. She smelled like the beach on a perfect day.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> Esme pulled herself out of her desk and looked around, trying not to find Marc Turnipseed but finding him anyway. He sat with no one she worked with last week, and as if Araceli possessed her, Esme walked over to the group and sat down in a desk, dropping her notepad as she did. As she bent down to pick it up, she saw Marc wore Converse high-tops, the soles worn to almost flapping.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> “Okay, people!” Ms. Jensen was almost yelling. “I want you to plot out a story that all your group knows. It could be a story from the book or from a movie or TV show. All of you do it together but make sure each of you have your own triangle. Don’t forget to chart the developing conflict.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> Esme remembered to breathe, trying not to look at Marc. So she turned to the girl next to her.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> “Hi, I’m Esme,” Esme said.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> The girl nodded. “Kaitlyn.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> Kaitlyn was slim and pale, her dark hair long and straight, her face small like an elf’s. Her brown eyes were so deeply brown, Esme couldn’t see her pupils.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> “I’m Marc,” Marc said, turning to the African-American kid who sat low in his chair. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> “Anthony,” he said. “You’re that turnip dude.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> Marc nodded, and Anthony shrugged a little, slipping lower in his chair, sliding on his over-sized, baggy pants.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> “So what’s with this chart?” Anthony asked.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> Esme wasn’t sure her heart was beating or her lungs pulling in air, but when she thought this, she blushed, so she knew she was alive. But barely. Always, she’d been barely alive, just sort of there, a rectangle with hair. She hated her cousin for saying those words because she knew they were true.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> “It’s about finding the story arc,” Marc was saying. “Just think of your favorite show.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> “I don’t watch much TV,” Kaitlyn said. “What about a movie?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> All Esme had was TV, really. The housewives and the dancers, the tension of plot about who hated who and who would win the dancing contest.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> “<i>300</i>,” said Anthony. “<i>Scarface</i>.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> Kaitlyn rolled her eyes. “What if I’d said something like <i>The Devil Wears Prada</i>?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> They all were silent, Esme casting about in her mind for a movie that the four of them—different sexes, different cultures, different basic tribes—would know. But the only movies that came to mind were the ones her mother let her watch over and over again when she was little: <i>Beauty and the Beast</i> and <i>The Little Mermaid</i>.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> “What about <i>Titanic</i>?” Marc said. “Everyone’s seen that.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> <i>Yes</i>, thought Esme.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> They all nodded. Marc pulled out a piece of paper and a pen and looked up. She stared at a mole over his smooth left eyebrow, the way his hair lifted over his forehead, curled around his ear.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> “So the development is all that research stuff, the old lady on the ship who turns out to be Kate Winslet. Her flashback to her former life, the rich girl on the rich part of the ship. Then there’s Leonardo—“</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> “Jack,” Esme blurted, interrupting Marc, having carried around a torch for Jack since she and Araceli Netflixed the movie a year ago.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> “Right,” Marc said, turning to her.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> “How he wins at cards to get on the ship,” Esme said, her mouth ahead of her personality. “He wins the tickets. Then he’s stuck on the lower decks. He saves Rose from jumping, befriends all the rich people.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> “And then there’s that dancing in the lower decks scene,” Kaitlyn said. “They fall in love.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> Esme remembered it all. “The drawing. Her—her . . .”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> Kaitlyn nodded, as did Marc, his smile tight, and Esme imagined he was thinking about the scene the way Esme was right now, too, the way the charcoal lingered on Rose’s breasts, Rose’s gaze at Jack, Jack’s focus on his work.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> “Is the climax when the ship hits the iceberg?” Anthony asked. “Or when she lets him fall off that piece of wood.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> “She so did not let him fall off,” Esme said. “He let go. He had to. He sacrificed himself. He’s a hero.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> “She did,” Anthony said. “Selfish.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> “The dark night of the soul,” Kaitlyn said.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> “Her fault,” Anthony said.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> “Anyway,” Marc said as he drew the triangle.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> “What about when she throws the necklace into the water? That’s what they’d all been looking for all along,” Esme said. “That could be the climax. Because the movie isn’t really about the sinking of the ship. We know that story. It’s determined. It’s about the romance. About Jack and Rose.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> They all stopped, turned, started at Esme.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> “That’s right,” Kaitlyn said. The sinking part is really part of the setting. It’s the environment, like Ms. Jensen said.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> “Okay,” Marc said, holding out his triangle, little lines marking the plot points the group had come up with, the top point just what Esme said, the necklace being flung.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> “I’m not sure,” Anthony said. “I still think it’s the iceberg. Or Rose killing Jack.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> Kaitlyn rolled her eyes. Marc Turnipseed turned to Esme, his eyes on her, the charcoal of his gaze unblinking.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> After class, as the students pushed out of the room and fanned into the quad, Esme felt slightly high, filled with light, awash in the grace of Marc’s triangle. He’d picked her climax. He’d written what she said on top of his pointy drawing. Ms. Jensen had loved their triangle, using it the entire discussion to prove her idea about conflict and how it builds, agreeing with Esme about the necklace toss, even when Anthony raised his hand to argue. And Marc? He smiled the entire time, beaming at Esme as if she’d directed the movie herself.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> She swallowed, trying to find exultant breath, looking for Araceli who usually waited for her on a bench in the quad. Finally, Esme had something to tell her friend, something good and juicy and real. Where was she? As she scanned the small area, she stopped, jolted, her body still and clear and cold as the water old Rose Dawson threw the necklace into.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> Marc Turnipseed was walking down the hallway, talking to Kaitlyn, both of them laughing at something, Kaitlyn leaning close, Marc almost facing her as he walked. He was animated, and Esme imagined she heard the words “ship,” and “ice,” and “sink.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> Then Kaitlyn did the terrible thing, lifting her hand and putting it on Marc’s arm.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> “What up, dog?” Araceli said, grabbing Esme by the shoulders. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> “Stop it,” Esme said, pulling away.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> “Saw-ree,” Araceli said, her hand on her hip, her mouth in the “Don’t give me that shit” expression.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> Esme stared at her friend, trying not to notice the guys looking at Araceli as they walked by. But how could they not? If she’d been in the class just now, Marc would have been gazing at her. Everyone would. It wouldn’t matter that Esme’s triangle was so good.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> Behind her, someone played a ukulele, signing a stupid little song, others joining in. Ms. Jensen walked by, a string of students following her. Esme stared at Araceli, her tiny t-shirt, her slim, curvy body, her concern. No one in this whole quad was like Esme. No one was such a total idiot. A true loser. A person who couldn’t even do something right and make it stick. Make it count.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> Esme wanted to explode, but she didn’t know how to and she wasn’t sure what for. She didn’t know how to crash into the ice and ruin everything, everything being absolutely nothing. Because there really wasn’t anything to ruin. Nothing but flat clear narrative water all around her.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> Esme sighed, shook her head, adjusted her bag on her shoulder and tried to smile. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> “Bad class?” Araceli asked as they started to walk toward the parking lot.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> “The worst,” Esme said, feeling the tears go back to the enormous reservoir they’d been collecting in since she realized that she wasn’t remarkable or interesting or pretty or useful in any single way. “Ever.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> At work, Esme didn’t have to touch the patients, even though Araceli teased her about wiping old people’s asses. In fact, Esme wasn’t supposed to really get near them. She was to sit behind the desk and answer questions from family members or staff. She was to answer the phones, reply to general email questions, and clean the staff room and make the coffee there in the gigantic coffee maker.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> She was allowed—if things were calm and her tasks completed—to read her textbooks, but not romances or other paperbacks that would give the wrong impression to the families of prospective “guests,” as her boss Mrs. Ryan called them. Mrs. Ryan was the assistant to the executive director of Apple Valley Rehabilitation and Convalescent Facility, but Esme had never met Mr. Lun, the director, not once in the eight months she’d worked there, seeing only his name on the parking plaque outside in the lot. His office was in the front building on the second floor, and everything he said came to the staff in the Joy Building via Mrs. Ryan. And Mrs. Ryan was busy. She clacked away, up and down the halls, attending to every crisis until she left for the day, Esme, the social worker Veronica, and the LVNs taking care of the evenings and night shifts.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> Esme was working the 4 to 9 pm shift, Mrs. Ryan bustling by only a few times before she leaned over the desk, peering down at Esme, the woman’s bosoms—because that’s what they were, two rounded pillows, puffy and hidden under some damn ugly flowered blouse—smashed against the laminate counter.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> “All looks calm. Do keep your ear out for Mrs. Wiseman. She’s been really bothering the nurses all day. But we’re shorthanded until 8. Just Jimelle and Stephanie until Ashley comes in.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> “What about Veronica?” Esme asked, knowing that the social worker had magic words that always worked to calm the old ones during their fragile rages.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> “She’s in the Harmony Building tonight. On call here only. You know how to ping her if there’s a problem?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> Esme nodded, worry in her throat. There were 18 old people in this people building. Old old people, the kind with spotted skin, humped backs, and bleary eyes. The kind thick coke bottle glasses didn’t even work they were so blind. The kind that pooped in their pants and shuffled around in their heavy-ass diapers. The kind that smelled bad, like wilted lettuce and stale bread kept in a broken down refrigerator. They had no hair or sprouted white wisps; they weren’t fat or thin but just hanging onto their bones for dear life.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> Anything could happen to people who could break so easily. One slip, and they were goners. One day, their bodies would just turn off, and someone would have to find them, just like Esme had found her abuela Rosa.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> It shouldn’t have been a surprise. Her<i> </i>abuela had moved up from Ensenada to die, Esme’s mother parking her in the back guest room. All night long, in and out of one bad dream and then another, Abuelita cried out, “<i>Ay. Ayúdame. Ay. Ayúdame. Dios mio</i>.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> Esme would slink past the guest room door, pretending she didn’t hear her grandmother’s soft, sad laments. She’d grab her sweater, her backpack, and head toward the garage door and her car, just right there, waiting for her, but her mother forced her to go back and sit next to her grandmother’s bed. There Esme would be, holding Rosa’s paper thin hand every morning until the very last minute before she had to leave for school. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> “<i>Feo</i>,” her abuela would whisper, and Esme didn’t know if her Rosa was calling Esme or her life here in this room ugly.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> Probably, it was Esme. Before her abuela had gotten old and sick, she had been sharp and dark and mean, her cut glance like a thrown knife. When Esme and her parents visited during summer vacations, Rosa handed them a lists of chores to the minute they finished breakfast.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> That’s where Esme learned about legumes, her fingers picking though piles of pinto beans that her abuela’s cook would later soak and boil.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> “Find all the dried, shriveled ones,” Rosa had said. “Find the rocks. Don’t miss one.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> Esme never really understood why her parents went along with this, until she realized that her mother was scared of her own mother, and her father was scared of his wife.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> But the woman who had been set up on the pillows in the guest room? She wasn’t the same woman who’d fired a maid for being fifteen minutes late to work. That strict, proud woman was gone, leaving behind a visible shadow, so light and thin, Esme thought maybe instead of dying, her abuela would turn to dust.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> But she was strong enough to still scare everyone.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> Esme sat with her abuela every single day until the morning they all woke up to find her dead in her room, Esme the first to find her, her abuela’s mouth slightly parted, her eyes wide open. Maybe she’d been surprised at the end, Esme thought. But probably she’d just been angry that whatever had taken her hadn’t been just right.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> After Abuelita was taken away and her things cleared up, it was the hospice worker who recommended Esme for this job.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> “Mi’ja,” her mother said, clasping Esme’s hands, crying. “What an honor! The woman said you were a saint to your abuela. And now, your abuela is looking over you! She loved you so much! Her spirit is giving you this opportunity.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> “But,” Esme had started, but her mother had bent over the kitchen table, crying, telling Esme that they’d all still be connected to Abueltia if she would just take this job. Besides, they needed the money to pay for all those college classes she was taking.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> Now Esme was stuck with all sorts of old dying people all day and, sometimes, evening long.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> “<i>Ayúdame</i>,” she whispered.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> Her phone buzzed in her pocket, and because Mrs. Ryan had already left, Esme knew she could look at it.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> Carefully, she slipped it out of her purse, glancing at the screen. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> <b>Hot date, yo! See u at school.</b></span><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span></b><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> Esme sighed and thought about Araceli out with the guy she’d told Esme about today, the dark -eyed dude in her sociology class who smelled like caramel or something sweet and brown. In her mind, she saw Araceli walking down the hallway at school not with Esme but with this guy, the hot dark brown sweet guy that would take her away forever.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> The clock ticked. The nurses called to each other. The old people moaned. Esme answered the phones, showed visitors to rooms, sat behind the high desk, feeling like something round and immobile. Her heart beat in her eyes, her palms sweated. She could barely swallow.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> Just after seven, dinner service was cleared away, the cafeteria workers clattering their carts out of the hall, the big doors closing behind them. Esme picked up her book, sighing, but then Jimelle rushed the desk, her eyes wide. She clutched her pink cell phone, which matched her working scrubs.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> “I’ve got to go home. My kid called.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> Esme stared at her, her mouth open.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> “I know,” Jimelle said, wiping a slight sheen of sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand. “But I have to. It’s a total emergency. Just don’t tell Mrs. Ryan, ‘kay? Ashley will be here in 40 minutes. The patients are watching TV, ‘cept Mrs. Wiseman who’s in her room. Just keep your ears peeled. Stephanie’s in the common room, ‘kay?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> But before Esme could say anything, Jimelle dashed out, the doors banging behind her, too.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> Esme turned to listen into the hallway, down into the space that separated her from Mrs. Wiseman, the most immobile but angry person Esme had ever met, nothing right with any second of her life. Esme hoped that when she got that old she’d either just die or appreciate the seconds that were left. But she’d never seen any of the old people here stop to think about that. No, most weren’t as bad as Mrs. Wiseman or her own abuelita. But they wanted what they wanted when they wanted and a lot of television, too.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> The hallway was still and glowing white against the darkening world outside the windows, the slight whine and jingle of the common room television the only sound other than the florescent buzz of the overhead lights. Esme sat back in her chair and looked at the clock. Stephanie would be here in 35 minutes. Esme’s own replacement Chad would be here then, too. And finally, she could go home and go to sleep and hope to forget about the day.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> For a few minutes, Esme read a little, but she was daydreaming too much, thinking about Marc Turnipseed and Kaitlyn. She shoved the book away and stood up, leaning over the counter, staring at the black flecked linoleum as she pressed her belly flat against the hardness. How had Marc and Kaitlyn gotten together just like that? Over one triangle? There was no conflict or development. Poof! They walked out of a class and down the hallway, leaving Esme behind when she’d been the one to come up with the idea. She was the one that had pulled the whole group tighter, even roping in Anthony. Ms. Jensen had thought Esme’s necklace idea was awesome, but none of that mattered. Nothing changed nothing. And now Araceli was gone, too, all of them walking away from her.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> Esme knew she was in the part of the hero story Ms. Jensen called the tests. And Esme was tired of them. Better, she thought, to be the hero whose journey never started, who went home instead to watch TV.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> “Nurse!” Mrs. Wiseman called, her voice loud but thin, scratchy with age and dry mouth. “Nurse, god dammit!”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> Esme stopped breathing, waiting for more. There was rustling, and then, “God dammit, you flighty bitch. Get in here! Help me!”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> Esme craned her neck to look down the hall into the dark cave of Mrs. Wiseman’s room. She looked down farther still, hoping to see Stephanie clomp down the hall in her orange clogs and head toward Mrs. Wiseman’s room, taking care of whatever was going wrong in there. Esme knew whatever trouble it was it smelled of pee or shit or old lady mouth, air as rancid as the inside of used tin cans. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> “Nurse!” Mrs. Wiseman called out, and then there was a crash, a toppling of something metal and glass, a waterfall of shatter. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> Esme’s mouth opened, but she didn’t cry out. She turned and saw Mrs. Wiseman’s room’s flashing yellow button, knew that there was a yellow flashing light in the common room, too. But Stephanie didn’t emerge, running, her stethoscope in one hand.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> Slowly, Esme sidled around the counter and walked toward Mrs. Wiseman’s room, breathing low and shallow. There were no more sounds, no rustling, no metal objects clanging against the linoleum floor. The television whined, the lights buzzed, but all was quiet in a place where quiet is bad.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> “<i>Ayúdame</i>,” Esme heard her abuelita cry out now, even from the grave. “<i>O, dios mio</i>!”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> Esme stopped at the door, seeing the fragile lump of Mrs. Wiseman on the floor, the old woman’s body like a vegetable, still and inert and dry. There was no juice there, no life, nothing left. Esme flicked on the light, blinking against the brightness. Mrs. Wiseman was twisted into a tight knot of wrong, nothing natural about her rounded shape. Her mouth was gaping open, her eyes shut. Even from where she stood at the door, Esme could see the veiny transparency of Mrs. Wiseman’s eyelids.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> All her life, Esme had done what she’d been told, and what good had it done? She was nothing but nothing, just like Mrs. Wiseman. Like all these old people were. There was nothing and then you ended like nothing, no triangle of story coming to save you, no one really there who could prevent any of this.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> Or if the triangle came, it wasn’t the one you wanted.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> Esme flicked off Mrs. Wiseman’s light and backed away down the hall, walking behind the counter, and sitting down in her chair, the yellow light flashing behind her. She looked at the clock. Twenty minutes until Ashley and Chad showed up and found everything. Esme waited for a feeling, imagining that something inside her would burst, killing her with a flash of fire. But the only thing in her was the feeling of something already exploded, nothing left but the slight residue of gunpowder and the memory of smoke.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> She breathed, one, two, three. And then she grabbed what came, pulled it all around her. Esme shrugged on her emptiness, looked down at the desk, and started reading.</span> </span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: x-small;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="background-color: #f3f3f3;"><span style="font-family: Georgia;"><strong>Jessica Barksdale </strong>is the author of twelve traditionally published novels, including “Her Daughter’s Eyes” and “When You Believe.” Her novel “Becca’s Best” is forthcoming from Ghostwoods Books. Her short stories, poems, and essays have appeared in or are forthcoming in <i>Salt Hill Journal, The Coachella Review, Carve Magazine, Mason’s Road</i>, and </span><i>So to Speak</i></span>. She is a professor of English at Diablo Valley College in Pleasant Hill, California and teaches online novel writing for UCLA Extension. You can read more at </span></span><a href="http://www.jessicabarksdaleinclan.com/" target="_blank"><span style="background-color: #f3f3f3; font-family: Georgia;"><span style="color: #0065dd; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: x-small;">www.jessicabarksdaleinclan.com</span></span></a><span style="background-color: #f3f3f3;"><span style="font-family: Georgia;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: x-small;">.</span></span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: #f3f3f3;"><span style="font-family: Georgia;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><em>Bay Laurel / Volume 3, Issue 1 / Spring 2014</em></span></span></span></div>
Yo, AJ.http://www.blogger.com/profile/17499158602642660272noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5685167005332092022.post-75906863177863243872014-01-24T04:34:00.001-08:002014-01-24T04:34:36.570-08:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-XbB28chw9BA/T_ETFKqY6QI/AAAAAAAAAHo/zjwQLoC6WXk/s1600/Scan+11.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-XbB28chw9BA/T_ETFKqY6QI/AAAAAAAAAHo/zjwQLoC6WXk/s400/Scan+11.jpeg" height="242" width="400" /></a></div>
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<b><span style="font-size: large;">Welcome! </span></b><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;">After a long decision process, our<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"> <b><a href="http://www.baylaurelonline.com/2014/01/winter2013.html">Winter 2013 issue</a> </b>is finally here! And yes, we're still calling it that, even though it's 2014. Don't judge. I<span style="font-size: small;">f you see any errors and such<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;">, please <a href="http://www.baylaurelonline.com/p/contact-us.html"><b>let us know</b></a>. <span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;">And, as always, thanks for reading! We hope you'll enjoy these poems and stories as much as we have.</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;">Literary hugs and smooches</span>,</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: small;">Your <i>Bay Laurel </i>Staff </span></span></span></span></div>
</div>
Timothy Dailey-Valdéshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16905671592280362228noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5685167005332092022.post-82031120397270222132014-01-24T03:52:00.000-08:002014-01-24T03:58:06.179-08:00Box of Leaves by Claire Boyce<style>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.0pt;">Words and images</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.0pt;">Come together; forming the</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.0pt;">Mind beyond the world.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.0pt;">Creating something</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.0pt;">Whole, something new from</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.0pt;">Tattered scraps of memory</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .1pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.0pt;">Left over from yesterdays and
years</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.0pt;">Collected like leaves inside</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.0pt;">A paper box, discovered by a child</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.0pt;">In the forest of</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.0pt;">His roam</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.0pt;">Then, brought home </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.0pt;">Unearthed </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.0pt;">before pasting them on poster</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.0pt;">Board – a map of</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.0pt;">Cosmos; </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.0pt;">infinite, </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.0pt;">every star in alignment. </span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.0pt;">Looking up at the night sky,</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.0pt;">Hands tingling with dewy radiance</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.0pt;">At once feeling</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.0pt;">Magnificent, insignificantly</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.0pt;">Grand</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.0pt;">I bow my head</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.0pt;">In reverence -</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.0pt;">To be a single</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.0pt;">Star amongst a galaxy</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.0pt;">Of beloved findings</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.0pt;">inside this boy’s</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.0pt;">Paper box.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">
<span style="background-color: #f3f3f3;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------</span></span></span></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Georgia;"><b>Claire Boyce</b> is a poet, a
painter, and a musician. She currently resides in Denver, Colorado where
she is inspired by the nuances of everyday life, and nature. She has been
published in the online journals The Avocet and Rebelle Society.com. She
has received recognition for her visual art, most recently being selected to be
in the Anti-Defamation League’s Show, “Imagine a World Without Hate”, in which
she entered three oil paintings with corresponding poems.</span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Georgia;"><span style="background-color: #f3f3f3;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: xx-small;"><i>Bay Laurel</i> / Volume 2, Issue 4 / Winter 2013</span></span></span> </span></span><span style="font-family: Georgia; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"></span></div>
Timothy Dailey-Valdéshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16905671592280362228noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5685167005332092022.post-35351500622692990812014-01-24T03:51:00.000-08:002014-01-24T03:51:03.987-08:00<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; font-size: x-large;"><i>Bay Laurel</i> / Volume 2, Issue 4 / Winter 2013<i><b> </b></i></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i><b><a href="http://www.baylaurelonline.com/2014/01/ednotev2i4.html">Editor's Note</a></b></i></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">from Timothy Connor Dailey</span></span>
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">POEM: <a href="http://www.baylaurelonline.com/2014/01/lobetolap.html"><i><b>Lobe to Lap</b></i></a></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">by Volodymyr Bilyk</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">POEM: <a href="http://www.baylaurelonline.com/2014/01/thehouse.html"><i><b>The House</b></i></a></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">by Erin McGrath</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">STORY: <a href="http://www.baylaurelonline.com/2014/01/seven.html"><i><b>Seven</b></i></a></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">by Yasmin Ramirez</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">POEM: <a href="http://www.baylaurelonline.com/2014/01/boxofleaves.html"><i><b>Box of Leaves</b></i></a></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">by Claire Boyce</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"></span><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"></span>Timothy Dailey-Valdéshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16905671592280362228noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5685167005332092022.post-79210367618816033662014-01-24T03:44:00.001-08:002014-02-18T17:20:56.809-08:00Seven by Yasmin Ramirez<style>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="_Toc356164930"></a><a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="_Toc356224150"></a><a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="_Toc356226054"><b><span style="line-height: 115%;"></span></b></a></span></span><br /></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 200%;">Seven: The number of things about, my
grandma Ita we never talk about. </span></span></span></div>
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</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 200%;">“Seven," we say in low whispers
even if we’re sitting in our living rooms. Someone might hear us. </span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0pt; text-indent: 25.9pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 200%;">Seven miscarriages, eight aunts and
uncles including my one uncle, who’s alive. </span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0pt; text-indent: 25.9pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black; line-height: 200%;">“What happened?” I ask</span><span style="color: black; line-height: 200%;">.</span><span style="color: black; line-height: 200%;"> “What was wrong?” </span><span style="line-height: 200%;"></span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0pt; text-indent: 25.9pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black; line-height: 200%;">But I get no answer. </span><span style="line-height: 200%;"></span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0pt; text-indent: 25.9pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black; line-height: 200%;">I imagine what it would
have been like to have eight aunts and uncles. </span><span style="line-height: 200%;">I imagine four<span style="color: black;"> aunts, four uncles, and my mom, their names, Lucilla,
Margarita, Josephina, Guadalupe, my mom Leticia, Antonio Jr., Alfredo,
Francisco, and my</span> tí<span style="color: black;">o Roberto, all similar in
age, only a year or two apart. Antonio Jr. lives in Denver. Josephina and
Margarita live in Los Angeles. My mom, Tío Roberto, Guadalupe, Lucilla and Francisco</span><span style="color: red;"> </span><span style="color: black;">all stay in El Paso.
Alfredo lives in Houston. We’d have a family reunion every year and they </span>would<span style="color: red;"> </span><span style="color: black;">all come back to El Paso
with cousins and husbands. I’ve imagined their whole lives. </span></span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0pt; text-indent: 25.9pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black; line-height: 200%;">Tía Joséphina, a lesbian,
brings her partner, Mia, and daughter-in-law, Jessica. Tía José is very pretty,
curly dark hair and light-brown almond eyes which glow against her cappuccino
skin. </span><span style="color: black; line-height: 200%;">My Ita says, “Pero esta tan bonita, no sé qué le paso a mija.” But
she is so pretty. I don’t know what happened with my daughter. As if something
had to happen to make her gay. We treat Jessica, like our cousin even though
she isn’t really, unless she gets a snotty attitude about being from L.A. Then
we just ignore her. We try not to giggle later when she gets pregnant at sixteen.
“<i>Oooo</i>, but I’m from L.A.,” I say to my cousin Lucy, Tía Lucilla’s
daughter.</span><span style="line-height: 200%;"></span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0pt; text-indent: 25.9pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black; line-height: 200%;">Tía Lucilla has Lucy and
Mario. Lucy is my closest cousin because we grew up together. My mom and Tía
Lucilla are also the closest because they were pregnant with us at the same time.
She is going through a hard time right now, her eyes always shiny, because she
divorced Uncle Paco last year after being married for twenty years. My Mom
jokes, and says, “Que aguante.” Such a tolerance for putting up with him. She
always thought Uncle Paco wasn’t good enough for Tía Lucy. My Mom is just like
that though. Even if they’re the
best people, well-off, loving, romantic, they’re never good enough for her
brothers and sisters. </span><span style="line-height: 200%;"></span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0pt; text-indent: 25.9pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black; line-height: 200%;">Tía Rita—we call her that
because</span><span style="line-height: 200%;">
the name <i><span style="color: black;">Margarita</span></i><span style="color: black;"> is too long—has three kids, Marco, Alberto, and Antonio.
They’re cool, have good jobs, Marco a bus driver and Antonio owns a dry
cleaners. They both help Tía Rita, except for Albert. He got into trouble when
we were all younger and is in jail for drugs. We don’t talk about that, though.
It was very hard on Tía Rita and her hair went from jet black to a wiry silver
gray in a year. Now she dyes it, but it looks harsh against her pale skin,
highlighting the hollows of the heartache Albert put there. </span></span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0pt; text-indent: 25.9pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black; line-height: 200%;">Tío Paco, not the <i>Uncle</i>
Paco that married into the family but <i>our</i> tío Paco, has been married
three times. We joke and tell him the fourth time is a charm because of Ita and
Tony, the fourth husband that stuck. We say Tío Paco is a mujeriego, a womanizer, because he
has six kids, two from each wife. I’ve seen old black and white pictures of
him. He was handsome. Now, he’s softened in the</span><span style="color: red; line-height: 200%;"> </span><span style="color: black; line-height: 200%;">jaw, the skin hanging just a little like a balloon losing its air.
Some of his kids, like the oldest Terry and Frank Jr., from his second wife,
come to the family reunions and visit my Ita often. But the others don’t. They
hate their dad, and although I can understand—because my own dad wasn’t around
either—I still love my tío Paco. They look the most like him out of all of his
kids, though, dark hair, brown eyes, light skin. I wonder if they hate a little
bit of themselves, too. </span><span style="line-height: 200%;"></span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0pt; text-indent: 25.9pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black; line-height: 200%;">Tío Prieto—that’s what we
call Alfredo because he’s dark, dark like a cocoa bean—lives in Houston with
his high school sweetheart. He is the only one of the siblings who hasn’t
gotten divorced and has been married since he was twenty. He has two kids, James
and Mercedes. They don’t really speak any Spanish. The rest of us at least
understand, but they think they are gringos even though they are as dark as Tío
Prieto Ita says, “Ay, si, muy gringos con el culo prieto.” Oh yes, so white
with a brown ass. We laugh at them behind their backs and imitate the way they
say things like <i>tort-til-las </i>and <i>tah-cos</i> when they aren’t around.
Marco will say, “Who am I? Who am I? Can we have <i>Tah-cos</i> for dinner?”
and the cousins all laugh. Tío Prieto gets mad at us but he smiles while he
does it, so I think he laughs too. </span><span style="line-height: 200%;"></span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0pt; text-indent: 25.9pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black; line-height: 200%;">Tío Tony, Jr., works for
the FBI and doesn’t talk much about his work. It’s top secret. He’s always in
black slacks and tucked-in polo shirts, with aviators, even on Sundays. He is
the youngest of the brothers and sisters and lives in Denver. Tony is his dad,
and Tony, Jr. his only real son. </span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0pt; text-indent: 25.9pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black; line-height: 200%;">When Ita met Tony he was a
paratrooper. In their wedding picture he’s tall and towers over Ita in her
powder blue dress suit, she looks even smaller than she is. My mom and Tío
Roberto were 6 and 7 when Ita married him. I imagine Tony as kind and
understanding, a dad to everyone; he had to be, because Ita always said Tony
was the love of her life. </span><span style="line-height: 200%;"></span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0pt; text-indent: 25.9pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black; line-height: 200%;">The family reunions are
filled with music from ‘Chente and Amalia Menodoza, Juanga, and oldies from the
aunts and uncles’ youth. We explain Pandora to Tío Paco every reunion, but he
still makes comments like, “Wow, this is a good station! Can you record these
songs for me?” The house filled with laughter, so much food, lots of drinks,
and the clinks and clanks of always washing some dish, each branch of the
family cooks a different dish for the reunion. Tacos de carne molida and asada,
red enchiladas, rice, beans, ribs from the grill, macaroni salad, store-bought
sandwiches that Tía Jose brings because she can’t cook (she fried an egg and
left a big black greasy stain on Ita’s yellow kitchen wall), mole and fried
chicken. We also make trips to Chico’s Tacos and Good Luck Café. They’d never
visit El Paso without eating Good Luck tacos. </span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0pt; text-indent: 25.9pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black; line-height: 200%;">The smaller ones that are
starting to appear—Mica, Ale, Carlos, and Temo—yell and scream while they play,
or cry and run to Mom when something goes wrong. Ale, my niece, runs to my
sister Angie the most. “Mom, they hurt my feelings,” she says tears streaming,
her mouth so squished the words come out like mushed baby food. If a new
boyfriend or girlfriend comes, sometimes they leave after falling asleep on the
sofa, or worse, leave early because we are all too much for them, the noise,
the jokes. When they leave my Ita calls them “Desabridos.” Tasteless and no
fun, and she and Tony laugh as she puts her hand on his thinning leg. I imagine
them laughing at this joke from the very beginning of their marriage, fifty
years ago, if they were still alive today. </span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0pt; text-indent: 25.9pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black; line-height: 200%;">We spend the first weekend
in May together, before it gets too hot in El Paso, eating and drinking,
talking and dancing, listening to ‘Chente and Javier, our voices mingling to
make music unique to our family, a symphony of English and Spanish, accents,
jokes, stories, and laughter. I make the Bloody Marys for the tío’s and tía’s
in the morning. Ita and Tony, when the whole family is together, joke and poke
at each other like two teenagers She’d always wanted love and a big family to
fill her house with noise and laughter. </span><span style="line-height: 200%;"></span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0pt; text-indent: 25.9pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black; line-height: 200%;">But instead of eight aunts
and uncles,</span><span style="color: red; line-height: 200%;"> </span><span style="color: black; line-height: 200%;">it’s just, my mom, my tío
Roberto, and sister Angie, her house quiet and filled with the echo of
telenovelas and an infrequent-ringing phone. </span><span style="line-height: 200%;"></span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0pt; text-indent: 25.9pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black; line-height: 200%;">“But Mom, seven
miscarriages? </span><span style="line-height: 200%;"></span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0pt; text-indent: 25.9pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black; line-height: 200%;">"No, just one. Tony's
baby. My mom, well, she wasn’t the same after that.” </span><span style="line-height: 200%;"></span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0pt; text-indent: 25.9pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black; line-height: 200%;">“I guess we’re lucky that
you and Tío were already born then, huh? But the others? What do you mean not the same?”</span><span style="line-height: 200%;"></span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0pt; text-indent: 25.9pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black; line-height: 200%;">“You know that last baby,
your grandma wanted it so badly. She was married to Tony then—”</span><span style="line-height: 200%;"></span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0pt; text-indent: 25.9pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black; line-height: 200%;">“That was her fourth
husband, right?”</span><span style="line-height: 200%;"></span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0pt; text-indent: 25.9pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black; line-height: 200%;">“Yes, Tony, she loved him.
She always said that he was <i>el amor de su
vida</i>, the love of her life. I think that’s why she was happy she could
finally have the baby, but it was an ectopic pregnancy and she almost died. She
always said that Diosito had punished her for the all the others, because this
one she’d wanted the most.”</span><span style="line-height: 200%;"></span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0pt; text-indent: 25.9pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black; line-height: 200%;">“What do you mean punished?
</span><a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="_GoBack"></a><span style="line-height: 200%;"></span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0pt; text-indent: 25.9pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black; line-height: 200%;">“Ay, m</span><span style="line-height: 200%;">i<span style="color: black;">ja, it was the fifties and your grandma was working two
jobs, a line supervisor in a textile factory, before she hurt her back, then
tended bar at The Azteca, right there off Stanton, at night, just to support
your uncle and me. She wouldn’t have been able to support, all of us. No one
knew about birth control then. She did what she had to do, and went to Juarez<i>, para que la curaran</i>.” So she could be
cured.</span></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0pt; text-indent: 25.9pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="color: black;">
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background-color: #f3f3f3; font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><span style="font-size: x-small;">
<span style="background-color: #f3f3f3;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></span></span></span></b></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background-color: #f3f3f3; font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="background-color: #f3f3f3;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------</span></span></span></span><span style="background-color: #f3f3f3; font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span> </b></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span lang="ES-US" style="background: rgb(248, 248, 248);"><b>Yasmin Ramirez</b> is a native El Pasoan. </span><span style="background: rgb(248, 248, 248);">She received her MFA from the
University of Texas at El Paso. Yasmin stays active in the literary community
and writes <i>And Then</i>, a weekly blog.
Her short stories have appeared in <i>The North Texas Review</i>, <i>BorderSenses</i>,
<i>cc&d Magazine</i>, R<i>io Grande Review</i>, and <i>Cream City Review</i> among others. Just
recently received an Honorable Mention for "Tastes Like God" in the
2013 Texas Observer Short Story Contest.</span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="background: rgb(248, 248, 248);"><span style="background-color: #f3f3f3;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: xx-small;"><i>Bay Laurel</i> / Volume 2, Issue 4 / Winter 2013</span></span></span> </span></span></span></div>
Timothy Dailey-Valdéshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16905671592280362228noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5685167005332092022.post-31773453019935710102014-01-24T03:27:00.001-08:002014-01-24T03:32:37.652-08:00The House by Erin McGrath<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Two stories, limestone, grey shutters,</span></span><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">next to the park.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">“We almost bought
that house,” my father always said</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">each time we drove
by.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">He doesn’t go down
that street anymore.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">What could have
been taunts him from the sidewalks –</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">two little girls
and a bucket of chalk,</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">the sound of
charcoal</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">spilling into the
belly of a grill,</span></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0.1pt 0in;">
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">the phantom mother</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">pinning clothes
onto a line</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">and smiling</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">into the sunlight.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">
<span style="background-color: #f3f3f3;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: #f3f3f3;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------</span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="background-color: #f3f3f3;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; font-size: x-small;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="line-height: 15px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><b>Erin McGrath</b> is a poet living in Pasadena, California. </span></span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="background-color: #f3f3f3;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: #f3f3f3;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: xx-small;"><i>Bay Laurel</i> / Volume 2, Issue 4 / Winter 2013</span> </span></span></div>
Timothy Dailey-Valdéshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16905671592280362228noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5685167005332092022.post-32882311100726608222014-01-24T03:09:00.001-08:002014-01-24T03:54:40.416-08:00Lobe to Lap by Volodymyr Bilyk<style>
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<div style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .1pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.0pt;">Lobe to lap</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .1pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.0pt;">Dips a bit of</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .1pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.0pt;">quenched sink </span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .1pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.0pt;">and then douses</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .1pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.0pt;">wanting to the lapse.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .1pt;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .1pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.0pt;">Yet trifle of Bile</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .1pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.0pt;">Nutates </span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .1pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.0pt;">Stones to clause</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .1pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.0pt;">for log to curl </span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .1pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.0pt;">the chill of block...</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .1pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.0pt;">Enough!</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .1pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.0pt;">And Lull Crag</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .1pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.0pt;">Dandles the Hoe</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .1pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.0pt;">Archly - </span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.0pt;">As jolt jar </span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .1pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.0pt;">figures it</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .1pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.0pt;">in sways</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .1pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.0pt;">'till swat.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .1pt;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .1pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.0pt;">The gelid haunch</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .1pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.0pt;">Wags on its waff</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.0pt;">So gibe jibes</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .1pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.0pt;">welded</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .1pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.0pt;">in the luster.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .1pt;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .1pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.0pt;">(whop-whop-whop)</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .1pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.0pt;">PAW SAW HAW </span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .1pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.0pt;">and</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .1pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.0pt;">WAH WAS WAP</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .1pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.0pt;">(whop-whop-whop)</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .1pt;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .1pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.0pt;">What a sniff.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .1pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.0pt;">What a whiff.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .1pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.0pt;">What a puff.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .1pt;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .1pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.0pt;">CHORTLE PSHAW</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .1pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.0pt;">(whop-whop-whop)</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .1pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.0pt;">...such pow was just the hollowl</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .1pt;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .1pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.0pt;">Flanks mud silts</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .1pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.0pt;">oozing worm.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .1pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.0pt;">Slime clay raffles gouge </span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .1pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.0pt;">and carries marl to loam -</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .1pt;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .1pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.0pt;">While tatting on baft,</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .1pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.0pt;">pulling legs - </span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .1pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.0pt;">So can can trip away in chips.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .1pt;">
<span lang="RU" style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: RU;">Shroud
lurks it.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .1pt;">
<span lang="RU" style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: RU;">Fondly
Rigor</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .1pt;">
<span lang="RU" style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: RU;">Goggle
glaze </span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .1pt;">
<span lang="RU" style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: RU;">leaves
clouds.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="background-color: #f3f3f3;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: #f3f3f3;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: #f3f3f3;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------</span></span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="background-color: #f3f3f3;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></span></span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Georgia;"><b>Volodymyr Bilyk</b> is a writer, translator
and visual artist. </span><span style="font-family: Georgia;">His
book of visual poems was recently published in the series This is Visual
Poetry, book of asemic short stories CIMESA was published in White Sky Books,
book of visual poems SCOBES published by No Press and book of poetry Casios
Pay-off Peyote published by The Red Ceilings Press. </span><span style="font-family: Georgia;">His
works appeared in <i>The New Post-Literate</i>, <i>A-Minor magazine</i>, <i>REM magazine</i>, Cormac
McCarthy's <i>Dead Typewriter</i>, <i>The Otolith</i>, <i>Altered Scale</i>, <i>Ex-Ex-Lit</i>, <i>Truck</i>,<i>
Maintenant</i>, <i>Apparent Magnitude</i>, <i>The Gin Mill Cowboy</i> and many others. He is
co-editor of Extreme Writing Community and was guest editor of Halvard Johnson's
<i>TRUCK</i> in July. Among the authors he had translated are Ezra Pound,
Gertrude Stein, James Joyce, Kurt Schwitters, Anne Waldman, Charles Reznikoff,
Billy Childish, Leonard Cohen and others.</span></span><span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span></div>
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"></span></span><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"></span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="background-color: #f3f3f3;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: #f3f3f3;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: xx-small;"><i>Bay Laurel</i> / Volume 2, Issue 4 / Winter 2013</span> </span></span></div>
Timothy Dailey-Valdéshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16905671592280362228noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5685167005332092022.post-63398128129344927432014-01-24T02:42:00.000-08:002014-01-24T04:04:14.386-08:00<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Editor's Note</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Bay Laurel</i> | Vol. 2, Iss. <span style="font-family: inherit;">4</span> | <span style="font-family: inherit;">Winter 2013-'14</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"> </span> </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.0pt;">January 24, 2014</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .1pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.0pt;">San Marcos, Texas, U.S.A. <br />
</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.0pt;"> </span></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.0pt;">Dear Readers,</span></b><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.0pt;"> </span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .1pt;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .1pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.0pt;">I
apologize in advance for the bittersweet sentimentality of this note. I’ll try
not to get this digital paper wet with my cyber-tears.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .1pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .1pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.0pt;">For me,
2013 was a year of change. I moved, as I related in my last editor’s note, to a
new town, and began graduate studies in creative writing. I have fallen madly
in love with this program, and have met so many very dear people here. Sadly,
I’ve come to realize that, between my studies, my own writing life, and the
untidy business of living in “the real world,” I’ve created a temporary
situation in which I’m unable to devote the time and attention to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Bay Laurel</i> that our readers and writers
deserve. It isn’t fair to you, or to my fellow staff members, and I regret any
inconvenience or distress I’ve caused as a result.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .1pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>In
light of these facts, <b>AJ Reyes</b>, our associate editor <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">par excellence</i> and resident wizard, will assume the role of <b>acting
editor-in-chief</b>, at least until I graduate. If you have kept up with <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Bay Laurel</i>’s development, you know that
AJ has been instrumental in our little operation from the very beginning. He
approaches the editorial process with passion and flair, and I have every confidence
that his time running this journal will be a period of unprecedented quality. I
look forward to seeing the ideas and improvements he has in store for <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Bay Laurel</i>. Owing to his expertise with
all things internety and gregarious, he will also serve as our <b>social media
coordinator</b>. I will continue to assist, both in the decision process and with
moral support, but he will be your acting big cheese, your skipper, your head
honcho, your numero uno. </span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .1pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .1pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.0pt;">I want to
thank you, dear readers and contributors, for making this first year-and-a-half
of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Bay Laurel</i>’s existence a wonderful
one. I have been privileged to read dozens and dozens of stories, poems, and
even an essay or two, that I might never have seen otherwise. And even though
many didn’t end up in our pages, I am thankful for each and every submission.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .1pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .1pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.0pt;">With that
out of the way, let me introduce this issue. It is, for better or worse, our
shortest issue yet. The decision process was perhaps more difficult than usual,
and we spent a lot of time deliberating. Our efforts were rewarded with an
issue that we hope you'll really enjoy. We're thrilled to have past contributor
<b>Volodymyr Bilyk</b> returning to our pages with a new poem, along with exciting <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Bay Laurel</i> debuts from <b>Claire Boyce</b>,
<b>Erin McGrath</b>, and <b>Yazmin Ramirez</b>. But enough of me. I'll let these talented
writers speak for themselves.</span></div>
<div align="right" style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .1pt; text-align: right;">
<br /></div>
<div align="right" style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .1pt; text-align: right;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.0pt;">Thank you for reading,</span></div>
<div align="right" style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .1pt; text-align: right;">
<br /></div>
<div align="right" style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .1pt; text-align: right;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.0pt;">Timothy Connor Dailey</span></b></div>
<div align="right" style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .1pt; text-align: right;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.0pt;">Founder and Editor-in-Chief</span></div>
<div class="post-footer">
<div class="post-footer-line post-footer-line-1">
<span class="post-icons">
</span>
</div>
</div>
Timothy Dailey-Valdéshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16905671592280362228noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5685167005332092022.post-4360268055634054842013-10-07T13:05:00.002-07:002013-10-07T13:06:54.840-07:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-XbB28chw9BA/T_ETFKqY6QI/AAAAAAAAAHo/zjwQLoC6WXk/s1600/Scan+11.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="242" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-XbB28chw9BA/T_ETFKqY6QI/AAAAAAAAAHo/zjwQLoC6WXk/s400/Scan+11.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-size: large;">Welcome! </span></b><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;">After a long decision process, our<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"> <b><a href="http://www.baylaurelonline.com/2013/10/autumn2013.html">Autumn 2013 Issue</a> </b>is finally here! We have eight more fantastic pieces for you this time. I<span style="font-size: small;">f you see any errors and such<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;">, please <a href="http://www.baylaurelonline.com/p/contact-us.html"><b>let us know</b></a>. <span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;">And, as always, thanks for reading! Please enjoy these works as much as we have.</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;">Literary hugs and smooches</span>,</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: small;">Your <i>Bay Laurel </i>Staff </span></span></span></span></div>
</div>
Timothy Dailey-Valdéshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16905671592280362228noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5685167005332092022.post-18563990783406894512013-10-07T12:47:00.001-07:002013-10-07T12:47:23.492-07:00Isabella 21 Months: Twelve Days by John Oliver Simon<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="border-collapse: separate; font-variant: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: normal; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="border-collapse: separate; font-variant: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: normal; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;"></span></span></span></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;">The lady we pass
on Opal knows the song</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;">and joins our
chorus in a sweet contralto:</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;">turtle-dove and a partridge in a pear
tree…</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;">You laugh astonished
at this coincidence.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;">Twelve — a
number beyond imagining — days,</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;">counted down by
ladies, milkmaids, swans, gold rings.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;">“More Krispess Heights!” Christmas lights, you talk with an </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;">accent as if you had recently swum over </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;">from Babylandia, smelling of molecules,</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;">emitting
carbon dioxide as you ride</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;">past lights on
tree and porch like stars or candles,</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;">while the
stroller rolls forever down Opal<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="background-color: #f3f3f3;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: #f3f3f3;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: #f3f3f3;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span><span style="font-family: inherit;">----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="background-color: #f3f3f3;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: #f3f3f3;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span></span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><span style="background-color: #f3f3f3;"><b>John Oliver Simon</b> </span></span><span style="border-collapse: separate; font-size: small; font-variant: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: normal; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="border-collapse: separate; font-variant: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: normal; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="border-collapse: separate; font-variant: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: normal; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="border-collapse: separate; font-variant: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: normal; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="border-collapse: separate; font-variant: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: normal; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="border-collapse: separate; font-variant: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: normal; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;">is one of the legendary poets of the Berkeley Sixties who has remained true to his calling. Published from <i>Abraxas</i><span style="font-weight: normal;"> </span>to<span style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><i>Zyzzyva, </i>his last book was <span style="font-family: Helvetica-LightOblique;">Caminante </span>(2002)
which Gary Snyder blurbed as "a major poem." He is also a distinguished
translator of contemporary poetry from Latin America, who received an
NEA Fellowship for his work with the great Chilean poet Gonzalo Rojas
(1917-2011). He is Artistic Director of Poetry Inside Out, a program of
the Center for the Art of Translation, and is River of Words 2013
Teacher of the Year.</span></span></span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="background-color: #f3f3f3;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: #f3f3f3;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: xx-small;"></span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: #f3f3f3;"><br /></span>
</span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
</div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="background-color: #f3f3f3;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: #f3f3f3;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: xx-small;"><i>Bay Laurel</i> / Volume 2, Issue 3 / Autumn 2013</span> </span></span></div>
Timothy Dailey-Valdéshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16905671592280362228noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5685167005332092022.post-59050059014284173322013-10-07T12:43:00.001-07:002013-10-07T12:56:17.518-07:00The Cloud Seeds by Amanda Crum<br />
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 200%;">Nanye-hi sat on the rocks and watched
the waterfall before her cascading into a shimmering pool below. It was
powerful, that water, and held inside it many rainbows that flickered as the
sun and the clouds chased one another in the sky. </span><span style="line-height: 200%;"></span></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 200%;">She laid back on the warm rock,
unafraid to be so high up in the air, and watched the fluffy white clouds race
across an infinite expanse of blue. She had always been good at climbing, and
she knew these rocks as well as she knew the back of her own hand. The cliffs
stood twenty feet above the pool where she sometimes swam, and she had never
once lost her sure footing on the way up. She loved it here, loved the feel of
the sun-baked granite on her bare arms and legs and the way the sky seemed so
much closer once she was on top.</span><span style="line-height: 200%;"></span></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 200%;">Nanye-hi had always felt like she’d
been born upside down-in the world, on Earth rather than in the sky. She had
always wished for wings like those of the blackbird, to carry her up further
than her legs would take her. Often, she had dreams of flying, of standing on
the edge of the cliff and simply jumping into the wind, allowing it to carry
her gently along on a soft current. In the dream, she could see her little
village far down below as she soared along in the company of eagles, and her
stomach never once flipped. She was made to fly, she knew. Even her very name
meant “goes about”, which her mother had settled on when Nanye-hi was still in
the womb and would not keep still. </span><span style="line-height: 200%;"></span></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 200%;">But no matter how much she admired the
freedom afforded to the winged ones, Nanye-hi knew she must resign herself to a
life lived on two feet. It saddened her so much that she decided to see the
wisest woman in her village to ask for advice. </span><span style="line-height: 200%;"></span></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 200%;">Mother Ghigau was not really anyone’s
mother, but people young and old in Nanye-hi’s village sought out her advice as
though she were a part of their family. She had become much like a comforting,
wise grandmother to Nanye-hi and the other children, her face lined with years
like a soft and worn piece of leather. She was full of stories, too, and often
could be persuaded to speak of the legends of the Cherokee people and the magic
that lived in their history. </span><span style="line-height: 200%;"></span></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 200%;">When Nanye-hi arrived, Mother Ghigau
was perched in her ancient wooden rocking chair on the front porch of her
cabin, smoking a pipe and humming to herself. She had a beautiful voice for one
so advanced in years and had taught Nanye-hi many of their people’s songs,
music which always had a purpose: to make the rain come, or go away; to soothe
a sick infant; to ease the pain of losing a loved one. Nanye-hi had learned
that one first and sang it often when her heart ached for her mother, who had
died two years earlier of illness.</span><span style="line-height: 200%;"></span></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 200%;">“Hello, Nanye-hi,” Mother Ghigau said
kindly as she approached. “What brings you to me on this fine summer day?”</span></span></span><br />
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 200%;">“Father sent me out to fetch
blackberries for a pie and I thought I would come say hello,” Nanye-hi said.
She held an empty basket at her side as proof of her story, and she planned to
pick berries later, but they didn’t matter as much as what she had to ask
Mother Ghigau. Her father, with his work-roughened hands and silver-streaked
hair, hadn’t asked any such chore of her. He was so busy with keeping their
farm in order that he barely had time for Nanye-hi and her sister, and he
certainly had no time for thoughts of something as frivolous as a blackberry
pie. Yet something in her brought out the lie, and she wasn’t sure why. </span><span style="line-height: 200%;"></span></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 200%;">“Well, it’s always nice to have you,”
Mother Ghigau said. “Would you like some tea?”</span><span style="line-height: 200%;"></span></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 200%;">But she could see that the girl had
come to get something straightened out and wasn’t ready to talk about it yet;
her eyes had taken on a faraway look which Mother Ghigau associated with being
in very deep thought. She got the feeling that Nanye-hi was there for more than
tea and pleasant conversation.</span><span style="line-height: 200%;"></span></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 200%;">“No, thank you,” Nanye-hi said. She sat
down on the top step of the porch and looked out over Mother Ghigau’s land, at
the mighty oak trees which surrounded the property and the crooked garden gate
flanked by sweet-smelling lavender. Mother Ghigau was close to the land and
always had a faintly earthy smell about her, as though the dirt she grew her
plants in was always carried in the folds of her dress. Nanye-hi wondered if
the wise woman would understand a person’s desire to leave the soil she herself
held so dear in order to fly like something free.</span><span style="line-height: 200%;"></span></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 200%;">“Mother Ghigau,” she began. “My friend
and I were talking about dreams, and we wondered...if a person had dreams of
being able to fly, would that person be wrong to want them to come true?”</span><span style="line-height: 200%;"></span></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 200%;">Mother Ghigau puffed on her pipe.
“Well, I suppose that depends on what that person felt in her heart. Sometimes,
when life seems particularly difficult, it is easy to dream of a way to escape.
To fly with the eagles is the greatest escape I can think of, but though it is
a lovely dream, it is not an answer. We must live the lives we were given and
make the very most of them, even when things seem difficult. Even when we are
dealt losses that seem impossible to recover from.”</span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"> </span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 200%;">Nanye-hi sat quietly for a moment and
thought about Mother Ghigau’s words. Then she said, “But what if it isn’t a
dream of escape? What if it is simply a feeling in one’s heart that it is what
she was meant to do?”</span><span style="line-height: 200%;"></span></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 200%;">“Well then, that would be different, I
suppose,” Mother Ghigau said. “We all have spirit animals who guide us, after
all. Some of us have closer ties to certain elements than others. My spirit
animal, for instance, is the turtle, which represents Mother Earth. But not all
of us were made to follow our dreams on land. Air, water, fire...these are all
things the Cherokee people are drawn to. Sometimes, we can go about our whole
lives without finding the one thing that makes us truly happy. I think that’s
incredibly sad, don’t you?”</span><span style="line-height: 200%;"></span></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 200%;">Nanye-hi nodded in agreement. </span></span></span><br />
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 200%;">“But sometimes we are lucky enough to
discover the thing that makes us feel like a whole person. For me, it is being
connected to the earth. Digging in my garden, finding pleasure in a tiny green
shoot of leaves sprouting from the dirt...those things make me feel peaceful. I
am grateful every day for it, because otherwise, I would be a very sad and
grumpy old lady.”</span><span style="line-height: 200%;"></span></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 200%;">Nanye-hi smiled at Mother Ghigau. “I
cannot imagine you ever being grumpy, Mother.”</span><span style="line-height: 200%;"></span></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 200%;">Host and guest were silent for a moment
in a comfortable sort of way, and then Mother Ghigau spoke quietly. </span><span style="line-height: 200%;"></span></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 200%;">“I want to show you something,” she
said.</span><span style="line-height: 200%;"></span></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 200%;">Mother Ghigau stood slowly from her
rocker, aided as always by the birch cane she had made herself, and climbed
carefully down the porch steps. Nanye-hi watched as she made her way across the
yard, stopping now and then to examine something only she could see. Finally,
she bent and plucked something from the grass. Nanye-hi tried to peer at what
the wise woman held, but she kept it closed up in her fist as she walked back
to the house. </span><span style="line-height: 200%;"></span></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 200%;">“Hold out your hand,” Mother Ghigau
said when she was at the porch once more. </span><span style="line-height: 200%;"></span></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 200%;">Nanye-hi did as she was told and
watched as the woman placed a small dandelion in her palm. It was dark yellow
and already beginning to wilt from being picked from its damp home. It stained
her skin the color of the setting sun.</span><span style="line-height: 200%;"></span></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 200%;">Nanye-hi looked up curiously. “But what
is this for?”</span><span style="line-height: 200%;"></span></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 200%;">Mother Ghigau sat on the step beside
the girl, taking a handkerchief from the folds of her dress to wipe off her
forehead. After a moment, she said, “Give that to your friend. Tell her to
place it under her pillow. It will give her the answer to her question, and
when she wakes up the flower will be transformed into a little white cloud.
Have her blow the cloud apart to send her dream to the gods in the sky. Only
then will it come true.”</span><span style="line-height: 200%;"></span></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 200%;">Nanye-hi held the flower reverently, as
though it might fall apart in her hand. This was what she had come for. She
knew Mother Ghigau wouldn’t disappoint her. </span><span style="line-height: 200%;"></span></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 200%;">She turned to the old woman and smiled
through the prickle of tears that stung her eyes. “Thank you, Mother Ghigau. I
will tell my friend what to do.”</span><span style="line-height: 200%;"></span></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 200%;">“No thanks are necessary, my young
friend. I hope you find what you are looking for.”</span><span style="line-height: 200%;"></span></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 200%;">Nanye-hi smiled gratefully at Mother
Ghigau and thanked her for her company, explaining that she still had chores to
do at home. </span><span style="line-height: 200%;"></span></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 200%;">It was only several minutes later, as
she crossed into the parcel of land which belonged to her family, that she
realized what Mother Ghigau had said. The old woman had known all along that
Nanye-hi was the one with dreams of flying, she thought, and still she had
helped her.</span><span style="line-height: 200%;"></span></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 200%;">That night, Nanye-hi knelt beside her
bed and carefully placed the dandelion beneath her pillow. Her sister, Ayita,
was already fast asleep on the other side of the room with only the top of her
dark head visible above the blankets. Nanye-hi climbed into bed, keeping the
flower curled in her hand beneath her head, and closed her eyes. She tried to
imagine what it would feel like to leap from the cliffs and glide upon the air
currents as she had done in so many dreams before; after a moment, she began to
drift into the country of sleep, and it seemed she could feel the wind against
her cheeks and in the strands of her long, black hair. </span><span style="line-height: 200%;"></span></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 200%;">And she dreamed. </span><span style="line-height: 200%;"></span></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 200%;">She dreamed not just of flying, but of
swooping through the clouds in a great machine the likes of which she had never
seen before. It had wings like a bird and made a good deal of noise, and at
first Nanye-hi was scared. She could feel her heart beating like a drum inside
her chest and her mouth tasted like the metallic water which flowed in the
quarry near her village. She could feel the air buffeting the skin of her face
and arms as she glided close to the cliffs she climbed every day, could feel
the cool spray of the waterfall sting her cheeks. </span><br />
</span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 200%;">And then she looked down, and she
discovered <i>she was controlling the machine</i>. It moved when she told it to
move; her hands were wrapped tightly around a rectangle of metal, and when she
changed its direction, so did the machine. </span><span style="line-height: 200%;"></span></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 200%;">She whooped pure joy, crying out in
uncontrollable happiness as she chased first one eagle, then another with her
winged machine. From her great height, she could see her farm, Mother Ghigau’s
cabin, the schoolhouse. The waters of local lakes and the quarry sparkled like
the jewels in a queen’s crown, throwing little beads of shimmery light up into
the sky. She cautiously let go of the control with one hand and stuck her arm
straight out beside her like a wing, feeling the wind slip through her fingers.
She had never felt so alive. </span><span style="line-height: 200%;"></span></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 200%;">Nanye-hi came awake very suddenly and
sat up with a gasp, afraid for a moment that she might fall from a very great
distance. But she was only in her bed, and it was morning already, and the
dandelion had given her the answer she wanted. </span><span style="line-height: 200%;"></span></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 200%;">She pulled her hand from beneath the
pillow and was amazed to find that the flower had gone sometime in the night.
In its place was a tiny puff of white, filled at the center with dozens of tiny
seeds. </span><span style="line-height: 200%;"></span></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 200%;">“Cloud seeds,” she whispered.</span><span style="line-height: 200%;"></span></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 200%;">“Father says it’s time to get up,”
Ayita said, sweeping into the room gracefully. Her name, which meant “first to
dance”, was more fitting than any other Nanye-hi could think of. Her little
sister was light on her feet and rarely walked anywhere, choosing instead to
glide or jump or slide. It was one of the many things Nanye-hi loved about
her...but, she realized, she had never told her sister so. </span><span style="line-height: 200%;"></span></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 200%;">In fact, there were a great many things
she loved about her little family, and as she recalled her conversation with
Mother Ghigau, she realized she’d told the lie about her father sending her on
an errand because at the time she had wished it to be true. But now, to think
of the strong man who ran the farm and raised two girls without a mother asking
her to bake a pie was silly, and not a picture she liked to envision. She liked
her father just the way he was; loving, hard-working, tireless. She pictured
his kind face and thought of all the times he’d held her in his lap for a
story, and the times he’d lifted her up in his strong arms so she could pluck
apples from the trees in the orchard. He had been the first one to show her
what flying was like, she marveled. He had been the one to give her a love of
the sky.</span><span style="line-height: 200%;"></span></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 200%;">Nanye-hi carefully replaced the cloud
seeds beneath her pillow and hopped out of bed to join her sister in their
morning chores, thinking as she did that there was really nowhere she’d rather
be with both feet firmly planted on the ground. The dream was lovely, but now
was not her time.</span><span style="line-height: 200%;"></span></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 200%;">She <i>would</i> fly someday, she knew.
And until the time came, she would hold onto those cloud seeds dearly. </span><span style="line-height: 200%;"></span></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 200%;">They would help her soar. ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------</span></span></span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><span style="background-color: #f3f3f3;"><b> </b></span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><span style="background-color: #f3f3f3;"><b>Amanda Crum</b> </span></span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">is a thirty-something writer, artist, wife and mother living in Kentucky. When she's not releasing her creativity in one form or another, she's watching horror films with her husband.</span></span></span></span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"> </span></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Bay Laurel / Volume 2, Issue 3 / Autumn 2013</span></span><span style="line-height: 200%;"></span></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Timothy Dailey-Valdéshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16905671592280362228noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5685167005332092022.post-28506612027735911252013-10-07T12:27:00.000-07:002013-10-07T17:57:54.446-07:00Her Clutter, My Grime by John Oliver Simon<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><i>for Becky</i></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: small;">Her clutter takes over on every surface:</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: small;">overdue bills, last year’s <i>Times</i> crossword puzzles,</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: small;">photos
of grandchildren — her rabbits! — junk mail,</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: small;">poems
jotted in a happenstance notebook</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: small;">buried
under sedimental detritus,</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: small;">brief
ordinary poems brimming with play,</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: small;">free
of all pretence, channelling Emily.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: small;">My
grime coagulates on a clear glass plate,</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: small;">egg
or chicken proteins chemically bonded</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: small;">to
frozen oceans of concentric sandstone.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: small;">She
holds it up in my face. <i>You call this
washed?</i></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: small;">Sprat
and spouse, as married as we can handle</span><span style="font-size: small;">.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: #f3f3f3; font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: #f3f3f3; font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: #f3f3f3; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------</span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><br />
<span style="background-color: #f3f3f3;"><b>John Oliver Simon</b> </span><span style="border-collapse: separate; font-variant: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: normal; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="border-collapse: separate; font-variant: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: normal; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="border-collapse: separate; font-variant: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: normal; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="border-collapse: separate; font-variant: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: normal; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="border-collapse: separate; font-variant: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: normal; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="border-collapse: separate; font-variant: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: normal; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;">is one of the legendary poets of the Berkeley Sixties who has remained true to his calling. Published from <i>Abraxas</i><span style="font-weight: normal;"> </span>to<span style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><i>Zyzzyva, </i>his last book was Caminante (2002)
which Gary Snyder blurbed as "a major poem." He is also a distinguished
translator of contemporary poetry from Latin America, who received an
NEA Fellowship for his work with the great Chilean poet Gonzalo Rojas
(1917-2011). He is Artistic Director of Poetry Inside Out, a program of
the Center for the Art of Translation, and is River of Words 2013
Teacher of the Year.</span></span></span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="background-color: #f3f3f3;"><b> </b></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: #f3f3f3;"><br /></span>
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="background-color: #f3f3f3;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: #f3f3f3;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: xx-small;"><i>Bay Laurel</i> / Volume 2, Issue 3 / Autumn 2013</span> </span></span></div>
<span style="background-color: #f3f3f3;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: xx-small;"> </span> </span></span></span></div>
Timothy Dailey-Valdéshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16905671592280362228noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5685167005332092022.post-51759017474047682282013-10-07T12:22:00.001-07:002013-10-07T12:22:26.092-07:00For Now by Gary Glauber<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">Though never told directly to hold back, </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">hands are tied and dictums delivered</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">in subtle and effective ways.<span> </span></span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">Keep it all in check for now, </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">you’ve made these choices, </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">these changes of your own free will, </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">and isn’t life a process of becoming? </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">Be smart, don’t provide fodder for sabotage.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">Instead try the route of tact and diplomacy,</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">swallow hard the bile that eats at you,</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">repeats back up from your soul.<span> </span></span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">Suck it up and take a stab </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">at stockpiling aspects</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">that border on controversial, </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">those steamy sensual passages that raise</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">eyebrows, blood pressure, temperatures</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">to an adult<span> </span>fever
pitch in a manner </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">perhaps unbecoming to some. </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">Offend none for now.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">File words away, safe from harm’s way,</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">gathering dust in drawers as they seethe<span> </span>silently, </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">building momentum for some distant future,</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">when drawers are opened again, the words sent out</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">and shouted loud from unlikely public corners </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">to shock and awe a waiting world.<span> </span></span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">That day, they’ll read and weep</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">and perhaps lose sleep, but for now</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">that burden rests within, and the </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">difficult message unstated </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">is more<span> </span>than
understood</span></span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="background-color: #f3f3f3;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: #f3f3f3;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: #f3f3f3;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span><span style="font-family: inherit;">----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------</span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="background-color: #f3f3f3;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="background-color: #f3f3f3;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span></span></span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: #f3f3f3;"><b><span class="il">Gary Glauber</span></b><span class="il"> </span></span></span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: #f3f3f3;"><span class="il">is a poet, fiction
writer, and teacher. His works have been
nominated for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net. He recently took part in <i>Found Poetry Review</i>’s Pulitzer Remix
project. Recent poems are published or forthcoming in<i>; Stone Voices; Emerge Literary Journal; Falling Star Magazine; Flutter
Poetry Journal, Four and Twenty, Found Poetry Review, The Bicycle Review; Red
Ochre Lit; The Kitchen Poet; Untitled, With Passengers; Chupa Chabra House;
Eunoia Review; </i>and<i> Black Cat Lit.</i></span></span></span></span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="background-color: #f3f3f3;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
<span style="background-color: #f3f3f3;"><br /></span>
</span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="background-color: #f3f3f3;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: #f3f3f3;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: xx-small;"><i>Bay Laurel</i> / Volume 2, Issue 3 / Autumn 2013</span> </span></span></div>
Timothy Dailey-Valdéshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16905671592280362228noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5685167005332092022.post-81228001763521279132013-10-07T12:17:00.003-07:002013-10-08T09:29:00.643-07:00The Mooch by Daniel Klawitter<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;"></span>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">It’s simple, you say.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">The way numbers add up</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">and fall into place.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">But I’ve never been much good
</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">at this business of addition.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">My I.O.U’s are just a trace</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">of my interest in good intentions.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">You keep giving</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">and so I take…</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">that’s just a fact.
</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">Yet make no mistake:</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">You may not trust my math…</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">But I sure as hell</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">know how to subtract</span></span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="background-color: #f3f3f3;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: #f3f3f3;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: #f3f3f3;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------</span></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: #f3f3f3;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="background-color: #f3f3f3;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>Daniel Klawitter</b>, </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">among other things, has been an actor, a singer/lyricist for the
indie folk-rock band Mining for Rain, and a union organizer for mental
health care workers. His poems have been published
in numerous respectable literary journals and magazines both in the
United States and in England, including:
<i>The Atonal Poetry Review, Focus, The Journal of South Texas English Studies, QuietMountain: New Feminist Essays,
</i>and<i> Shot Glass Journal</i>. A member of the Colorado Poets Center, he has also published two poetry chapbooks,
<i>Runaway Muse</i> and <i>An Epistemology Of Flesh</i>, available on Amazon.com (</span></span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="background-color: #f3f3f3;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Daniel-Klawitter/e/B00A189BVU/ref=ntt_athr_dp_pel_1">link</a>)</span></span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="background-color: #f3f3f3;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="background-color: #f3f3f3;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">.</span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: #f3f3f3;"><br /></span>
</span></span></span></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="background-color: #f3f3f3;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: #f3f3f3;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: xx-small;"><i>Bay Laurel</i> / Volume 2, Issue 3 / Autumn 2013</span> </span></span></div>
Timothy Dailey-Valdéshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16905671592280362228noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5685167005332092022.post-88835373054483904702013-10-07T12:08:00.000-07:002013-10-08T09:35:55.028-07:00Sprechen Sie Deutsch? by Daniel Klawitter<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">He sits, a cold monarch—</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">a stone on his throne,</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">hands crossed in his lap
</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">like two feeble fish.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">He turns a glazed glance
</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">to the world outside his window
</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">where the air is cool and crisp.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">The tree where the lightening hit—</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">the children with their southern accents</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">playing a game of tag.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">He sits deaf and gagged—</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">a prisoner to the years inside him,</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">rolled like scrolls of yellowed parchment</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">or buried rags in a German tomb.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">The leaves blow across the garden</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">now overgrown with weeds:</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">The old house is just a building
</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">with rooms, since Grandma died.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">It was her that kept him alive
</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">for all this time.
</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">Kept him kind to the nurses.
</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">She was laid to rest last January
</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">and the old man grunted curses
</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">because he could not hear the sermon.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">I know he loved baseball</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">and the vegetables he grew</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">in the backyard.
</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">But it is often too hard</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">to speak of the secrets
</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">a man holds in his heart</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">like stale rain.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">This patriarch who weeps openly</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">at the name of Jesus—</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">a simple man, unsurprised
</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">in his final reaping season.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">Who knows what lies beneath</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">the eye of clinical observation?</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">As the skies go grey in these last long days</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
of his holy hibernation.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="background-color: #f3f3f3;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: #f3f3f3;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: #f3f3f3;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------</span></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: #f3f3f3;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="background-color: #f3f3f3;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>Daniel Klawitter</b>, </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">among other things, has been an actor, a singer/lyricist for the
indie folk-rock band Mining for Rain, and a union organizer for mental
health care workers. His poems have been published
in numerous respectable literary journals and magazines both in the
United States and in England, including:
<i>The Atonal Poetry Review, Focus, The Journal of South Texas English Studies, QuietMountain: New Feminist Essays,
</i>and<i> Shot Glass Journal</i>. A member of the Colorado Poets Center, he has also published two poetry chapbooks,
<i>Runaway Muse</i> and <i>An Epistemology Of Flesh</i>, available on Amazon.com (<a href="http://www.amazon.com/Daniel-Klawitter/e/B00A189BVU/ref=ntt_athr_dp_pel_1" target="">link</a>)</span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="background-color: #f3f3f3;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: #f3f3f3;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: xx-small;">.</span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: #f3f3f3;"><br /></span>
</span></span></span></span></span><br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="background-color: #f3f3f3;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: #f3f3f3;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: xx-small;"><i>Bay Laurel</i> / Volume 2, Issue 3 / Autumn 2013</span> </span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></span>Timothy Dailey-Valdéshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16905671592280362228noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5685167005332092022.post-19755801755364599632013-10-07T12:01:00.000-07:002013-10-08T09:37:24.032-07:00A Blurb About The Burb$ by Daniel Klawitter<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">It is easy to get lost here without a map</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">among the
<i>Whispering Pines</i> and </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>Lazy Lake
</i>Lanes—</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">All these ironic street names
</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">that recall nothing if not the nature
</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">this sprawling beast has bought
</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">and replaced with acres
</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">of white-washed crap.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">I turn the corner on
<i>Grazing Deer Drive</i>…</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">But all I see are upper-class zombies</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">washing their cars in the cul-de-sac.
</span><br />
<span style="background-color: #f3f3f3; font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: #f3f3f3; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------</span></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: #f3f3f3; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="background-color: #f3f3f3; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>Daniel Klawitter</b>, </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">among other things, has been an actor, a singer/lyricist for the
indie folk-rock band Mining for Rain, and a union organizer for mental
health care workers. His poems have been published
in numerous respectable literary journals and magazines both in the
United States and in England, including:
<i>The Atonal Poetry Review, Focus, The Journal of South Texas English Studies, QuietMountain: New Feminist Essays,
</i>and<i> Shot Glass Journal</i>. A member of the Colorado Poets Center, he has also published two poetry chapbooks,
<i>Runaway Muse</i> and <i>An Epistemology Of Flesh</i>, available on Amazon.com (<a href="http://www.amazon.com/Daniel-Klawitter/e/B00A189BVU/ref=ntt_athr_dp_pel_1" target="">link</a>).</span></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: #f3f3f3;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="background-color: #f3f3f3;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: #f3f3f3;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: xx-small;"><i>Bay Laurel</i> / Volume 2, Issue 3 / Autumn 2013</span> </span></span></div>
Timothy Dailey-Valdéshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16905671592280362228noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5685167005332092022.post-48316149340033683132013-10-07T11:41:00.000-07:002013-10-08T09:38:36.747-07:00Starving Artists by Daniel Klawitter<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="background-color: #f3f3f3;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">We have known hunger in the maw of indifference;</span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="background-color: #f3f3f3;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">Fed on emptiness at the lip of the great abyss.</span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="background-color: #f3f3f3;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">Nietzsche was right when he quite correctly insisted</span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="background-color: #f3f3f3;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">That we have art in order not to die of the truth.
</span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="background-color: #f3f3f3;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">For facts are cold currencies to circulate with friends;</span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="background-color: #f3f3f3;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">Unyielding to the testing tooth of our transcendence—</span></span></span></div>
<span style="background-color: #f3f3f3;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">Tasting what is known, but not all that is intended.</span></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: #f3f3f3;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: #f3f3f3; font-size: small;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: small;">
<span style="background-color: #f3f3f3;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------</span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: #f3f3f3; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="background-color: #f3f3f3; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>Daniel Klawitter</b>, </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">among other things, has been an actor, a singer/lyricist for the
indie folk-rock band Mining for Rain, and a union organizer for mental
health care workers. His poems have been published
in numerous respectable literary journals and magazines both in the
United States and in England, including:
<i>The Atonal Poetry Review, Focus, The Journal of South Texas English Studies, QuietMountain: New Feminist Essays,
</i>and<i> Shot Glass Journal</i>. A member of the Colorado Poets Center, he has also published two poetry chapbooks,
<i>Runaway Muse</i> and <i>An Epistemology Of Flesh</i>, available on Amazon.com (<a href="http://www.amazon.com/Daniel-Klawitter/e/B00A189BVU/ref=ntt_athr_dp_pel_1" target="">link</a>).</span></span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: #f3f3f3;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: xx-small;"><i>Bay Laurel</i> / Volume 2, Issue 3 / Autumn 2013</span> </span></span></div>
<span style="background-color: #f3f3f3;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: x-small;"> </span> </span></span></span>Timothy Dailey-Valdéshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16905671592280362228noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5685167005332092022.post-54633257122767770342013-10-07T11:33:00.002-07:002013-10-07T13:09:33.439-07:00<div style="text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><i>Bay Laurel</i> / Volume 2, Issue<span style="font-size: x-large;"> 3</span> / Autumn 2013</span></span><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: x-small;"><i><b> </b></i></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: x-small;"><i>Proudly Celebrating Our One-Year Anniversary! <b> </b></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i><b><a href="http://www.baylaurelonline.com/2013/10/ednotev2i3.html">Editor's Note</a> </b></i>from Timothy Connor Dailey</span></span>
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<span style="font-size: small;">POEM: </span><a href="http://www.baylaurelonline.com/2013/10/starvingartists.html"><i></i></a><i><a href="http://www.baylaurelonline.com/2013/10/starvingartists.html"><b><span style="font-size: small;">Starving Artists</span></b></a></i><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: small;">by Daniel Klawitter</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;">POEM: <a href="http://www.baylaurelonline.com/2013/10/fornow.html"><b><i>For Now</i></b></a></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">by Gary Glauber</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;">POEM: <a href="http://www.baylaurelonline.com/2013/10/hercluttermygrime.html"><b><i>Her Clutter, My Grime</i></b></a></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">by John Oliver Simon</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><b><i> </i></b></span><span style="font-size: small;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">POEM: <a href="http://www.baylaurelonline.com/2013/10/ablurb.html"><b><i>A Blurb About The Burb$</i></b></a></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">by Daniel Klawitter</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><b><i> </i></b></span><span style="font-size: small;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">STORY: <a href="http://www.baylaurelonline.com/2013/10/thecloudseeds.html"><b><i>The Cloud Seeds</i></b></a></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">by Amanda Crum</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;">POEM: <a href="http://www.baylaurelonline.com/2013/10/sprechensiedeutsch.html"><b><i>Sprechen Sie Deutsch?</i></b></a></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">by Daniel Klawitter</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><b><i> </i></b></span><span style="font-size: small;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">POEM: <a href="http://www.baylaurelonline.com/2013/10/isabella2112.html"><b><i>Isabella 21 Months: Twelve Days</i></b></a></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">by John Oliver Simon</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;">POEM: <a href="http://www.baylaurelonline.com/2013/10/themooch.html"><b><i>The Mooch</i></b></a></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">by Daniel Klawitter<b><i> </i></b></span><span style="font-size: small;"></span>Timothy Dailey-Valdéshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16905671592280362228noreply@blogger.com