26

twenty-six is out.

The best of the second quarter of 52/250 flashes, 26 features tremendous writers and artisits, including Marcus Speh, Catherine Russell, Kim Hutchsinson, the Susans (Susan Tepper and Susan Gibb), Dorothee Lang, Elizabeth Kate Switaj, Guy Yasko, the Matts (Matt Hamilton and Matt Potter), Al Mc Dermid, Nicolette Wong, Bernard Heise, Stephen Hastings-King, and about two dozen others, give or take. And of course, the flash-wisdom of congenial hosts Michelle Elvy, John Wentworth Chapin, and Walter Bjorkman.

Thank you kind editors for selecting several of my stories, including STONE, which you can listen to HERE.

Come join in the fun. Read and listen, then take your own spin at the weekly theme. Peace...

Lost in Suomi

The map rested in my lap, a useless blur of ‘k’s and ‘l’s and ‘i’s. The GPS bleated unintelligible directives. I’d wanted to take the train, then the bus, to the cabin perched on the brim of the Arctic Circle, but Chris insisted on driving.

“Better to see the land of your ancestors,” he said. “Besides, we’re in no hurry.”

But I was in a hurry.

“See? North.” He pointed to the compass, smiling. “So rest. And trust me to get us to our destination.”

I closed my eyes. He was right, trust and rest; the chemo had robbed me of all my energy. The sun strobed through the birch forest, flinging dappled warmth on my cheeks. The crumpled map slid to the floor.

When I woke, the clock said eight at night but the sky looked like mid-afternoon. Chris rolled down the windows. Wind pummeled me awake, smelling of pine and some quality of freshness, of newness, I could not identify. He hummed softly and kept patting my knee.

“Almost there,” he said.

The trees thinned. I wanted to sleep more, but Chris cut the engine.

“Where are we?”

He helped me from the car. My hips ached. I leaned against him. Pine needles blanketed the ground. Then, the woods ended and sky spread before us, a never-ending canvas of liquid silver that melted into water, blue as his eyes, as blue as our daughter’s, now grown.

He squeezed my hand. “We are exactly where we need to be.”

***

Inspired by the 52-250 Flash-a-Year Challenge theme -- Lost in Translation. As well as memories of my own distant trip to Finland.

And speaking of lost... I'm off to New Orleans for the Gerontological Society of America annual meeting. My graduate students will be strutting their stuff -- I am so proud of them. Of course, I will enjoy my downtime -- WORDS and MUSIC overlaps with my stay.

Peace...

Statistics (or: Walking Through Lexington Market on the Way to Work)

At the metro, I don’t take the escalator – too many pick-pockets. My feet crunch on the abandoned peanut shells, cigarette butts, and gnawed chicken bones littering the granite steps. A covey of young men loiter by the exit, voices excited, muscle tees framing black-inked tats. Absorbed in their furtive closed palm exchanges of rolled-up bills for baggies, they ignore me.

Outside, summer’s swelter carries the usual market smells of over-ripe fruit, worn-out peanut oil, and stale urine. I walk quickly, breathing though my mouth. Around the corner I bypass a puddle of vomit and almost trip over the legs of a woman propped against the Market’s brick wall. Sweat pours down her face; I fight the strong urge to yank off her puffy purple parka so she can cool off. She stares at me, eyes filmy from glaucoma or some other affliction, but I walk past, averting my gaze to the crab grass pushing through broken concrete, the spent condoms, the empty vodka nips rolling at her stockinged feet.

Campus security patrols the intersection. We smile at each other, as we do every day, small reassuring grimaces. The ham and Swiss hangs heavy in my lunch bag like a bad conscience. The light changes. I hurry across to the air-conditioned safety of the hospital, to the day of running yesterday’s numbers: admissions, discharges, dollars, death. But first, I stop for a latte, hoping to usher energy enough to feel the morning’s sting.

***

This story inspired by this week's 52-250 theme theme: we are not responsible. Peace, Linda

Thirteen (or, if it's Tuesday it must be new lit day)

There's a new litzine in town -- THIRTEEN. Edited by the Michelle Elvy, Walter Bjorkman, and John Wentworth Chapin, Thirteen is dedicated to the 52 best flashes under 250 words generated in the weekly themed 52/250 Flash a Year challenge.

And what gorgeous, eclectic stuff. Stories (and poems) about strange worlds, terror, red meat, smoke in cars, and space camp. Indulge yourself in these petite treats. I'm honored to see my poem Partly Revealed (theme = cartography) in the company of such fine stories. Scroll down and read my Biography when you have a chance -- it's different, I promise.

Thank you to Michelle, John, and Walter -- you three have created marvelous community and an elegant new journal.

***

For an entirely different experience, grab some popcorn and head over to At The Bijou for tonight's feature presentation WELCOME TO INTERIM. Truly a collaborative work, Welcome to Interim is told in four voices, played by Salvatore Buttaci, Laurita Miller, Anthony Venutolo, and Yours Truly (I'm Mimosa, in case you can't figure it out). Thanks Kate for hosting us -- hope we don't wreck the place!

***

Tickled pink that Camroc Press Review will run A ∩ B (an original 52/250 flash) and Last Time in October. Whew! The dry spell is over. Thanks Barry!

And that wraps it up for today. Live well, write well, love better. Peace, Linda

Can't Wait

I can’t wait till I’ve saved enough money from this goddamn gig slinging tacos at the Tastee-Kone and can pay off my old man for the Chrysler cuz then I am so out of this numbfuck place, this tired valley full of dumbshit farmers and their almond trees, and me and Mariah will drive up the coast, past pussy Big Sur and Russian River and disappear into the woods, maybe Oregon, hell, who knows, just like all the hippies did thirty years ago, and she’ll grow organic shiitakes and reishi on moldy logs and I’ll farm sensi from the killer weed seeds hidden in the origami crane, the one the Japanese woman on the corner gave to me two years ago in the Haight when I was high as a fucking kite, my right eye bashed in because The Dude said I owed him money, but I needed to score, and this tiny Jap, lady really, though all her stuff was in plastic bags, was selling these folded-paper creatures on the corner, a buck each, and I looked at the money stashed in the cup between her knees, my hand fisted and spit gushed in my mouth just thinking of the baggie, but she looked up at me, her white-streaked hair tied into a tight little -- what do you call it, a chignon? – and anyway, she looked up at me and handed me this crane and said, “I will pray for you.”

***

Inspired by this week's 52/250 Flash a Year theme --> Waiting.

Peace, Linda

Flying to the Moon - #fridayflash

There, behind the dusty heaps of crumpled doors and rusted engines, hidden from streetlights that banished the thin curve of the moon, they escaped. Below the hillock where they lay spread-eagled under Pegasus and Cassiopeia, the creek’s thin gurgle whispered through cracked earth. Grass poked spears into the girl’s thighs, and she momentarily worried about ticks and snakes, about today’s school suspension and her mother’s wrath still stinging her cheek. The boy reached for her hand, and squeezed. Night swaddled them.

“I always wanted to be an astronaut,” she murmured.

She closed her eyes and the sky opened. A star cascaded in rainbows, fireworks in reverse, scattering spent ash. The warmth sanctified her, a mother’s softer touch. Heaven tilted, the jinn spirits catapulted her higher faster towards the pock-marked orb, shining satin with benevolence. Asteroids showered silver rain as one horizon opened, then another, and another, galaxies bursting in an infinite slide-show of the absolute, and she reached up up up into blinding white to touch to hold to know to be.

“God?” she cried, and shuddered.

The boy leaned close, his breath golden clouds. “Fly, baby, fly,” he said. “Fly to the moon.”

Dew-wet fingers traced her lips, pushed in another bit of fleshy mushroom. The universe expanded, taking her with it.

***

Inspired by the 52-250 Flash a Year Challenge theme: space camp. <<< Take a gander -- lots of gorgeous work. And aren't the summer skies amazing?

Peace, Linda

Damn Headache

Annoying little dog, yipping next door all night. I lug the pseudoephedrine and stew-meat from the grocery bag. There. That should fix it.

***

Inspired by true life and the theme for this week's 52/250 challenge -- allergic reactions. Lots of things can cause hives and headaches, and one over-looked trigger is noise. At least for me.

I'm also trying my hand at mini-micro-teensy-weensy fiction. This is a hint fiction piece of 23 words (not including title). Fun for a change.


Live hard, write harder. Peace, Linda

The Hunter

Even at night the desert swelters. Sweat drips from my forehead, fogging the scope, veneering the sparse mustache tracing my lip. Perched in the granite outcropping and hidden behind camel thorn, I wait for dawn, when animals venture forth for food, for water and mating, before the sun sends them back to shadows.

“Do it for honor,” the elders said. “Do it for your manhood.”

I am blessed with a sharp eye, a steady hand, and do not yet taste fear. The elders chose me for this hunt, for of all our clansmen, I have the greatest accuracy. With one shot I can kill a hare from a stone’s throw or fell a bat in flight. This week I killed the leopard preying on our goats after other men had failed.

But I am a poet, not a hunter; even as I crouch amidst the rocks I weave words in my head.

Listen to the sand, to the tale it tells,
the spirits of the prophets joined with the One.

Gold silhouettes the distant ridge. My arms tremble, from the heat, from the weight of the Kalashnikov, from the exhaustion of anticipation. Below, a pale rectangle of light spills from the hut onto the scorched poppy field. My finger curls around the trigger, and I pray for the animal souls I’ve taken – panther, gazelle, hyena, vulture.

“It is only meat,” I murmur as the Commander greets the day.

***

My take on the 52/250 theme 'red meat'.

Peace, Linda

Monday Mullings

>>The world would be an infinitely better place if everyone stayed to the right.

>>Wouldn't it be super if everyone remembered -- and honored -- the fact that we all came from the same gene pool?

>>My solution to the economic downturn? SPread the joy by reducing the workload of the employed by 20% (or more) and give the work to the un- and under-employed (because I don't know ANYONE who says the amount of time they work is 'just right').

***

The Writing... Lots of news, all good. UNCTION, a poem I wrote during the April poem-writing frenzy, was selected by Robert Brewer at Poetic Asides as one of Top 50 poems that month.

>>>>The complete first draft of PURE clocked in at 99,700 words as of Sunday morning. Yay! Now I can work on new stff. Double yay!<<<<<

The Reading... Finishing The Corrections (Jonathan Franzen) and deep into Annie Lamott's Imperfect Birds. Both fabulous. Other good reads, all shorts, include this week's 52/250 collection of flashes gathered round the theme of 'union of opposites'.

Enjoy your Monday -- may it soon be closer to Friday! Peace, Linda

A ∩ B

I think of us as a Venn diagram, two ovals making
union, my yin seeking optimal overlap with your yang.
But north-facing magnets perpetually polarize our
perimeters, every minor interaction implodes into
a push-me-pull-me tug-o-drama – the toothpaste cap
rolling in the bathroom sink, the crusted cans
cluttering the recycle bin, the maxed-out (again)
Visa. Tits-for-tats, our minefields of petty
disgruntlements escalate, words carelessly
scattershot – always, never, fault, hate – leaving
behind crumb trails of unarticulated ultimatums.

But then, we sleep or, perhaps, make love – no,
it’s fucking pure and simple – and we lose ourselves
in the animal noises, the words peel away, and our
amalgamations circle to their singular intersection.

***

Inspired the 52/250 prompt "union of opposites".

This 'story' a bit of an experiment for me -- I was trying for a 'concrete' prose poem using half or fewer words of the allotted 250 words. I dislike google's limited formatting options -- imagine this perfectly justified in Verdana 12 pitch font.

Peace, Linda

Monday Morsels: Summer, and the Reading is Easy...

JMWW Summer Issue 2010 is UP!!!! Mmm, mmm, mmm... what a smorgasbord of delights. Where to start? Always a fan of the word-weavings of Tim Horvath, he doesn't disappoint with SECTIONS, a chilling love told through sharing the newspaper. For seconds, check out Andrew Borgstrom's deliciously circular 525 POINTS, chased with Jane Hammons' moving PLEIKU JACKET. And more, so much more,... stories and poems by Sean Lovelace, Tersea Svoboda, J.A Tyler, Lily Hoang, Kim Chinquee, Jeremy M. Davies, Rae Spencer, and many more, including a treat by Robert Coover. Indulge in the reading... and send your best stuff our way.

The Daily s-Press features near-daily reviews on the best of independent press -- publishers, novellas, chapbooks, and litzines. Today proprietress Dorothee Lang features 52/250, a zine of stories and poems by a collective of writers gathered under a common weekly theme. This week, the theme 'cigarette smoke in the window' garnered 19 stories by such diverse authors as Susan Teppper, Darryl Price, Marcus Speh, and Kevin Myrick. 52/250 was founded by Michelle Elvy, Walter Bjorkman, and John Wentworth Chapin.

In the garden... the heat's wilted much of our flowers and fruits; this weekend's rain more a teaser than sustenance. Yellow plums are sweet this year, their sugars concentrated in the drought, and the hardy kiwis are starting to soften. The skins of the Asian pears are almost gilded. Currants finished their crimson show and I extracted six cups of juice for jelly and sorbet. The first tomatoes made their way into our salads, and I prepared a rhubard crisp last night, the last of the season. Soon, the raspberries will set their fruit. The daylilies are peaking, vibrant hues of gold and orange, lime and pink, ochre and lavender. Gorgeous.

Peace, Linda

UNFILTERED

Winter I hated the most. Winter, and days when rain pelted the ground in sheets too thick for space. Smoke curled, a yellow tsunami steam-rolling from the front seat towards the back where I sat with my sister. I made myself tiny as I could, imagining I was Houdini shackled underwater, holding my nose and practicing my escape. An hour into the drive I’d crack my window and sit on my knees to suck the moist air trickling in like a thief. Mother would turn around, the Pall Mall a fiery sixth finger. “Shut the goddamn window, Missy. It’s cold outside.” The smoke never bothered my sister; she wallowed in the fumes, a gill-breathing dragon. When we arrived at our destination, I’d tumble from the car, refilling myself with pure oxygen for the return trip.

Later, my sister and Mother shared a special intimacy, talking on the patio and tapping ashes into coffee cans. I’d sit inside the cool kitchen and watch from the window. When Mother died last year, felled by a stroke induced by her pack-a-day habit, my sister kept smoking and started running charity 5ks. In her last race, the contestants lined up, waiting for the gun; I watched from the sidelines. The air smelled electric, reminding me of riding with rolled-down windows, the shimmering wind pummeling us in a furnace blast. I remembered those summer months and wondered if they saved me from worse -- though what could be crappier than living life tethered to an oxygen concentrator?


***

Inspired by the 52/250 A Year of Flash theme -- cigarette smoke in the car.

A little too close to home.

Peace, Linda

The Cutting Edge

Today my head’s at war: good versus bad, logic versus emotion, high versus low. I’m in the middle of my raging melodrama when Patty opens our session with a cheery hello.

The others squeak back, reminding me of those sunny Happy Face stickers. Everyone “checks in” with what they’re feeling, doing, thinking. I slouch in my chair, transport myself to some other place, any place but here. I conjure up my kitchen, my trusty Wusthof. An excellent knife, an eight inch, ten/twelve carbon steel forged blade. Perfectly balanced. In my mind, the blade flashes bright and swift, decimating whatever lies underneath.

“Earth to Ben.” Patty interrupts my daydream. I open my eyes. “How are you today?”

I dismiss her with a wave of my hand. Laurel someone yammers about her depression. Everyone offers support. They’re so freaking chipper it makes me sadder, lonelier. Isolated in my melancholy. I continue rambling through my apartment to the bathroom, an ideator’s paradise: the hard surfaces, the mirror, the razor blades, the scalding water. The medicine cabinet: Motrin, aspirin, antihistamines, cough syrup, and lithium. If you take enough of it, lithium will kill you, though not very nicely. Inside the box of Trojans, a stash of benzodiazepines. Not enough to do me in, but taken with a glass or two of Dolce d’Alba, a hot bath, some Mahler, and the knife, they’ll make for a pleasant evening.

My dark mood lifts. Yes, I think to myself, this is how I will do it.

***

Response to the theme = The Balance of Terror, and a modified excerpt from BRIGHTER THAN BRIGHT.

Peace, Linda

BEACH BOD

Nothing jiggles. Not a hair out of place. Skin a perfect bronze, museum-quality. The bather stoops to the warm water, buttocks tight mounds. Water dribbles down the flat back, outlining hips and an ironing board stomach. Liquid crystals reflect sun and sky, almost blinding me. Jealousy surges, stronger than the languid swells lapping the beach’s edge.

I lean back on my elbows. Kids kick up sand as they run past the faded whales of their suburban hoi-polloi parents. I feel more than see Sam flip on his back, watching me behind polarized lenses. I turn towards him. Already red streaks his shoulders where he’s missed with the sunscreen. Sweat glistens on his forehead which, suddenly, looks higher than this morning. His head swivels to the shoreline, to the Perfect One, joined now by another taut body.

“He’s not so great,” Sam says.

“Who?” I say.

“That guy in the blue thong,” he says. “I mean, look at that gut.”

As if on cue, the man turns in profile. A small, very small, roll of skin flubs over the speedo’s top.

“Oh,” I say. “Yeah.”

Sam stares towards the horizon. I carefully push up from the sandy blanket, pulling down on my top. I look down at the fleshy mountains straining against spandex. Still perky, still firm. I suck in my stomach, clench my ass muscles, and make my way to the water, to better compare the competition.


***

This in response to the theme lovelies by the sea at 52/250, a group blog. We aim to produce a 250 word flash every week for an entire year. The responses to the themes amaze in quality, versatility, and interpretation. Check out last week's catalogue on Cartography.

Peace, Linda