Cloud Women's Quarterly Journal

Welcome ~ Ximopanōltih!

     Yes, Spring is definitely here and somehow many of us still feel the urge to continue to hunker down in our nests and protect ourselves from the forever chill of winter climes we experience by the constant bombardment of the so-called president of these United States’ outlandish behavior .        Sadly, the stench of his hate permeates the country as his followers become ever bolder. Believing that they can berate others, with their constant English only and go back to your country diatribes, with impunity.  We’re all so sick of it. And many of us would rather not deal with it at all.      45′s behavior is much worse than that of his followers, because he fuels racism and xenophobia from the highest level of our government.  He gives impetus to people like Allison Johnson, 45, who was recently arrested in Norman, Oklahoma for vandalizing the Chickasaw Nation’s regional office in Oklahoma City and two Democratic party buildings in Oklahoma City and Norman, Oklahoma. Chickasaw Nation staff arrived to work to find that their offices had been vandalized.  The words “Indians will be gassed” and “lamp-shaded” were spray painted on the property.  “Savages HH” plus anti semitic statements which included Nazi symbols, and other graffiti supporting Trump’s re-election were also found. Johnson has turned herself in. But we shake our heads and ask, in what kind of mind does such a fanatical level of hatred fit. And in 2019 no less. What is to be done to heal this nation?      We here at Cloud Women's Dream Society and the quarterly journal that we publish, hope that in our efforts to include the rich creative work and diverse voices of our nation’s women that we will be able to plant more seeds of solidarity, hope, and beauty. We need them.      This is National Poetry Writing Month and we are proud to feature  poems from many talented writers – we love poetry! We also offer some wonderful fiction, creative non-fiction, photography, and some great recipes. Please enjoy!

Ma Xipactinemi, (Be Well)

The Editor

FLICKR/JASON CARGILL Bluebonnet photo

photo “Earth is in Prison” by the author

#45

Tyrants hate critics.

Some crooks hack people to death.

There will be blood.

This is war.

Masks

We wear the measure of our beauty

We wear our disappointment

We wear the words and opinions of others

We wear our parent’s opinions

We wear our grandparent’s smiles

We wear our neighbor’s gossip

We wear optimism and fear

We wear inner turmoil

We wear our partner’s words of love

We wear our children’s needs

We wear our kindness

We wear our anger

We may wear masks of arrogance

We may wear our pride

We may wear our indifference

We wear our lives: some hard, easy, sad

We wear our promises, oaths, titles

We wear ourselves out   

When a trickle… becomes a river…then a flood

…When People of the First Light saw ships and strangers disembark

…When the conqueror ran out of the woods firing loaded guns

…When they loaded us onto slave boats in shackles

Then a trickle becomes a river then a flood

…When an Indigenous mother loses her child at gun point

…When her child is kicked in the neck by a nun as punishment

…When her child dies in residential school, buried in an unmarked grave

Then a trickle becomes a river then a flood

…When a black sedan enters the rez , children run and hide

…When a Cree adoptee has a Bat Mitzvah and is told Indians are savages

…When a Navajo adoptee is taken at a hospital and disappears, raised by Mormons

Then a trickle becomes a river, then a flood of blood and tears.

Trace Lara Hentz (made an honorary member of the Talligewi Sovereign Nation) is an award winning journalist.  Her memoir One Small Sacrifice (2nd edition, 2012) was retired in 2018 and she plans to work on it more and un-retire it eventually.  Known for her in-depth interviews for national Native newspaper NEWS FROM INDIAN COUNTRY, she won many awards, authored many academic papers, and co-edited the acclaimed book series Lost Children of the Indian Adoption Projects. [www.blog.americanindianadoptees.com] In addition to her own chapbooks of poetry, Trace has also contributed to a number of publications.

April

Tree swallows dive

the lake’s still surface,

while placid ducks

watch from shore.

Snowdrops bloom.

A breeze blows.

Winter retreats 

then returns, 

then retreats again.

Flowering

We’re settling into spring, the buttercup sun rising over robins rustling in new nests, the sky violet with expectation, the oaks bloodrooting themselves deep into clay soil, fanning their mermaid-weed hands to catch obedient light. We never believe it will stay, spring, but it always does, preaching from its Jack-in- the-pulpit about the world’s beginning and end,  which comes when summer ragworts itself into view, and again when fall finally goldenrods through it all.

Sheltering in Place

The robin sitting in a nest in my white pine knows that isolated thunderstorms will develop late, with strong winds possible, and showers again in the morning. She’ll sit, because that’s what she knows to do, there on her four pale eggs nestled in a bed of soft grass. The rain will fall, and she’ll deflect it on waxed feathers, with an understanding that branches might bend and twist, but she’ll remain steady in her nexus of bark.

Foraging

The woods are a supermarket, shelves filled with dandelion leaves and violet flowers, turkey tails and oyster mushrooms, ramps and water, everything restocking each night, each season, our conscience the only cashier.

The following story appears in SanTana's Fairy Tales and is reprinted with permission from Raspa Magazine.

Zoriada and Marisol

     I am an enchanted woman named Zoraida.

     But of course you already know my name. You knew me when I was alive.

     In this life, I reign from far, far above the castles and queens. I travel by whispers, wishes upon the North Star and hushed weeps. Just like you called upon me in midst of bloody murmurs, wishing for death to ease the pain. Some call me death, others the Godmother of life.

     In my last life I too thought it was my fate to die as a woman on a night like tonight. But death came just too soon, leaving me trapped between other’s lives and my own.

     I was an unfamiliar name in a city filled with dreamers. I was strong like the palm trees swaying in the Santa Ana winds and lyrical as the parrots living under the green, mama bird-like wings of the Pacific Coast palm trees. My legs, long and silky, danced to their own melody without any awkward stumbling or mispronounced schemes.

     Fortunes—I had none.

     My purse was of more value than the coins clinking in its deep corners and melancholy was my lover leading me into the bitter sea. Still, I lugged my stitched heart in weary arms— leaving it exposed to everyone I passed on the dark, twisted streets.

     I was inspiring, so you kept saying when you spoke of me. But now, I appear in reflections, cupped hands and wishes.

     For as long as I could remember, I wanted to twirl my long hair between china-red fingertips and blush when I cupped my breasts in front of the standing mirror. I wanted a man to caress my curves, from my hips to my puckered lips. But to most, my type of love was forbidden—cursed by society like the familiar tragedy of Romeo and Juliet.

     Love—I thought I would find it.

     But when my limp body was found, winded and pale as the ocean’s spume, it cast a shadow over those close to my heart, leaving only the jagged sounds of shattered dreams and a person by another name—the name I was given at birth, not the real me.

     Before I tell you what is to become of you, please keep breathing. As painful as it might be, I plead for you to keep breathing—at the end I will ask for your wish, I promise you that.

     When I was at my last breath, I regretted believing someone would actually love me and wished for death. You think you prefer not feeling anything but the truth is your despair has summoned my presence—because we are the same. Like you, I too was first called a boy at birth. A boy who stared at other boys and envied the red ribbons the girls wore in their long wavy hair. It was a girl who helped me see who I really was.

     “I like your eyelashes. You would make a pretty girl.” She was ten like me, and wore an eyelet dress with matching socks.

     “But I’m a boy.” I was dressed in jeans and plain t-shirt my mother picked out for me.

     “Those boys are mean to you. Do you want to pretend to be a girl and play with me?” I still remember her, she was the first to accept me.

     Before I could fully see beyond my own skin and feel the moths flutter wildly in my heart.

     But really it could have been anyone thereafter: my mother, my only sister, my first lover—all paid me a compliment about my soft skin, perfect lips and almond shaped eyes. It wasn’t until many years later my hair became my true beauty.

     Back then my name was Gabriel. My mother said she chose my name because I was her little angel. I wonder what all their birth names were before I helped them die. I learned to never ask. The names they give us do not affect who really are.

     Here, let move your hair out of your eyes. Your curls are such a pretty shade of caramel, perfect with your brown skin. It saddens me to see it fading. Doesn’t the lavender oil feel good on your temples? I used to rub it on myself after a “bad” day. I should’ve taught you more when I was alive.

     My mother taught me about the healing powers of the oils as a boy. I think my mother knew then it would be the only thing she could pass on to me to heal myself. Lavender is for balancing, soothing, normalizing, calming, relaxing, and healing. Ginger for warming, strengthening, anchoring. And oregano oil is invigorating, purifying and uplifting. But my favorite of all is jasmine—it induces calmness, relaxation, sensuality, and romance. My mother often reminded me of the healing pur- poses of all the oils, even when I jerked away angrily at fifteen because I told her she should’ve taught me to fight instead.

     I added some jasmine on your wrists. You will be able to smell it later, should you choose to live.

     I remember the first time I was beaten by the neighborhood boys. They never liked me. They called me names my mother would never approve of, “Joto,” “Faggot,” and “Maricón.” I never told my mother why they chased me down the alley. I just told her they were boys from another neighborhood. That’s when my mother started chanting all the remedies. Often, on the day after applying oils on my face and limbs, my mother gave me a cup of ginger and arnica tea with breakfast. She also gave me a lemon lightly covered with honey, in case the tea left a bad taste in my mouth. Lemon is uplifting, refreshing, cheering. I say honey is just as sweet as a rose at your nose tip and solely to indulge. My mother would say it was anti-inflammatory, to help with the bruises. Should you decide to get up, I left some honey and lemon on your table, all you have to do is boil water. I do hope you choose to get up but I will understand if you don’t.

     At nineteen, I ran into my mother’s house blubbering tears. When she asked what happened. I spat the words out as if she had always known. I didn’t try to ease her into my real identity or even try to confront her with it. She saw me in pain and did what came natural to her.

     “Mijo, who hurt you? Come here, come here, let your mama hold you.”

     “Mama, it hurts so much.”

     “Where mijo, show me where. I will get my oils.”        “No, don’t go. Mama, he used me, he used me. He told me he loved me. And I just gave myself to him.”            Instantly, my mother dropped her arms. I looked at her and called for her, “Mama?” She just stared at me without any words. I knew then it would be hard for her to understand. I knew then everything would be harder and I would have to learn to heal myself. And although my mother never asked me to leave her home, I felt it was necessary, out of respect. On my last day, she burnt sage around my body before I walked out the door. But I couldn’t continue with the silence, it was like sucking on a lemon with cracked lips.

     I’m sure you have a similar story. We all do. I don’t ever assume mine is the worst. At the time I thought it was best we didn’t share our pasts, but now I wish I could’ve told you more when I was alive. We all feel pain differently, some of us know how to heal ourselves, others don’t know anything else but pain.

     Look how they left you, how did you even make it into the apartment? And your beautiful dress, did they really have to rip it in three places? You are such a beautiful woman, skin softer than all I have ever felt.

     I see the sewing machine in the corner, a new fabric hanging from the needle. You know, that’s how I managed to pay for my own change.

     I see myself now reduced to a skeleton in a hand stitched cloak. I have shed all the layers of flesh, skin and gender. You’ll look like this when you’re dead too. How trivial our differences become, between lives. In my last life, I did succeed in becoming a woman, the only part of me you knew. We are a lot alike. We both hungered to be accepted, I succumbed to the death of it. You want to stop the pain; I now regret wishing it away.

     But I didn’t know I was coming to heal you.

     I only realized you were calling for death when I entered this apartment.

     When I first moved out of my mother’s home I found myself wandering through days in no particular direction. I lived in this same small apartment, making the living room my stage, such as you did too. The man who took me in was not a lover. Sometimes he would say he found me in his own reflection, like a walking mirror reassuring his presence; other times, he’d say I found him, like an abandoned newborn fawn wobbles towards a horse for comfort. Once he claimed he saved me, without saying from what. But now I know, his guidance prolonged my life to be what I am now.

     I remember very little of the first year out of my mother’s home. But I do recall the sun rising after I left the apartment, sometimes several hours later. I knew I was on a path, something better than before, and possibly a change, though I can’t remember ever contemplating these things on my way to the warehouse where I worked as a packmule. The man said there would be times when the sunrise would make me smile. Yet, since the day I met him I only showed him the face of an orphaned child. He was rarely home when I returned after night fell. But with time, things did change. My hair grew longer and longer. I kept it just passed my shoulders. On the days I remained home from work the man taught me to sew. While the man dressed himself before leaving for the night, he spent the time lecturing me about drag etiquette and giving a hands-on lesson on how to convert woman’s clothing to compliment our bodies.

     “Remember, inhale while you zip-up. Exhale when you tousle your hair. Scream when you need to, because we all need to scream when we do.

     “Pat your lips before walking out the door. And shower yourself in the scent you wish to perspire.

     “If anyone, and I mean anyone honey—man or woman— even looks at you with disgust, just blow them a kiss as you pass them by. Be who you are, walk tall and mighty like a queen.”

     He also gave me my first dress. He said he hoped it brought the same memories as it did him. I can’t say it ever did.

     The only clothes I had from the time before my change were the threads my mother provided, the plain white t-shirts she afforded with the labors of her healing. Instead of throwing them out, I used them for lining, to keep the one who taught me to heal close to me. I knew in her own way she showed me love.

     The man was my strength, as I hoped to be yours. The man told me he had to let me walk on my own. He gave me his room, with a closet full of beautiful dresses, and colorful accessories. Caddy corner from the sewing machine sat a vanity mirror covered with make-up tips and inspirational quotes— words I heard him tell me time and time again but I was too tired to make them my own.

     About a month after the man left, I began to use his things, tailored each piece to cling to my waist. It was in his absence that he taught me how to be a woman. I hoped to pass on my things to someone one day too.

     It is odd how you called to me when I first crossed your path. You were the first to compliment my hair, “I like your hair, reminds my of an onyx stone. Is it real?” I laughed, put my arms around you, teased you about your little boy clothes and brought you home the same night. You were my lost child of the night. But of course you probably do not remember your first year either. Or maybe you remember everything, and I’m just a foolish lost soul.

     I bet you thought you would never know what happened to me or why I left. I didn’t mean to leave you like this. It was an honor to see you bloom. Unlike me, you listened to my words and teachings like a starving child licking your lips over breadcrumbs. I never gifted you a first dress because you made it when I was gone—in one day. You wore it before your hair grew out and your curves filled it in. You were the fawn born a doe. I never say I found you because I know you saved me from me. You gave me the courage to face my change and to own my new name.

Zoraida. Marisol.      Like sisters. I was more like jasmine; you are more like ginger. We both healed each other.      Yet, it was I who fell for the wolf disguised in sheep’s coat. My prince promised me an untold fairytale. I wanted to keep him all for myself. I never shared his name or the details of our prelude. I left before you came home. I left wearing a new dress, carrying my finest purse and wearing matching shoes. I hoped to be swept off my feet and carried away in his arms. He did just that.

     My prince let me enjoy our shared meal and drink one glass of red wine. He offered me a ride home. The stars were out and my shoes were not made to walk the streets. How could I deny?

     I prepared myself for the good night kiss. Pushed my hair behind each ear, dabbed my lips lightly on a tissue to avoid leaving him marked. I would thank my prince shyly while looking up to his eyes.

     But before I could tell him where to turn, my prince drove in a different direction. When I joked about getting lost, he said he had been watching me from long ago.

     “I saw you first at a bus stop. You applied red lipstick on your lips.” He said the words while his black eyes turned to see me.

     “Oh, it must have been a day I was running late.” I responded and giggled while looking away.

     “I watched how your hair grew, before it even passed your ears.” This time, he spoke in almost a whisper, staring straight ahead.

     “Oh, what do you mean? It has been this length for months.” My voice cracked and my body tensed up.

     “I’ve been watching you, pretending, pretending, that’s all you do!” His voice changed its tune, his brutish words echoed as if they bounced off each window in the car.

     The car came to a stop and it wasn’t at my home. I immediately went for the door. When I moved away from him, I felt a roughness around my neck. My hands didn’t have the strength to reach the door or window. I tried to scream but the noose got tighter and tighter. My fingers burned from clasping the rope, trying to keep inhaling. I got very tired and let my eyes shut. When I awoke, I was tied at my ankles and wrists, laid in a small space. I was in the trunk of his car. I tasted metallic on the tip of my tongue and was undressed. Pain, pain, every- where—like ten beatings in one day. I could only close my eyes to dream of something better. I awoke to my prince opening the trunk to beat me more. He didn’t speak, nor could I with the gag in my mouth. I could only wish, wish I would have never believed another could love me. I never awoke again.

     A young woman found my body, behind a dumpster.  I watched her walk out from the nearby building as I floated above my naked self. My scars under my breasts were practically invisible and the ones between my legs were beginning to fade. I covered myself in lavender and tea tree oil every day—it was my daily ritual. The relief brought me happiness. I knew how to heal myself but I couldn’t undo what my prince had done.

     I passed the first months after death watching you. I hovered over you when you walked alone at night. I rubbed oils on you during your sleep. I wanted to heal the pain my absence caused. But when I read over your shoulder that they excluded my name, the name I chose for the real me, I wished I could live again. They erased me, replaced me with the helpless boy my mother raised. They convicted my prince for killing a man, even though I grew up to be a woman.      It was anger that forced me to listen. I heard the cries from others like me. Some cried to die, others prayed to live. I couldn’t allow for them be alone in such desperation. I left your side to be with them. I applied oils and spoke comforting words as they whispered their wishes. Each time I arrived at a newly bruised body, I feared it might be you.

     Today, my worst fear came true. But now I can truly be the wiser woman you need me to be. You have a choice Marisol, you can choose to die today or to live past tomorrow, live to speak aloud our names. Give them a reason to speak yours in the present, let mine be a legend. You must choose between life and death. Only you can choose.

     Tell me my dear sister, tell me what you desire, I will help with the pain. Inhale the sage I burn for you now, it will cleanse you of any doubts and give you strength to speak. Is it life or death you seek?

     I will make whichever wish you choose come true.

Para Maia Tú y yo somos. Somos de magia Escondida en las montañas; Somos de agua Y de lodo; Somos el barro Y el humus. Somos de masa orgánica Y materia cósmica. Somos de luz Y somos sombras Somos la corriente fría Que viene de arriba Somos la arena ardiente Del desierto Somos el aire seco Y el sereno Tú y yo somos Somos de aquí Y somos de allá Venimos de lejos Y nacimos aquí Somos cruzadas Somos revueltas Somos mojadas Y somos secas Somos raíces Y somos ramas Somos la hoja Que nace y hace vida Y luego se seca Somos comida Somos pasta Somos el venado Y el coyote Somos las plumas Del colibrí Y las garras del halcón Tú y yo somos El pinche colmo Y la más grande maravilla Somos la astilla Y el suave ungüento Somos demasiado Y nunca suficiente Somos angustia Y somos la calma De todos somos Para todo somos Somos la sangre De muestro pasado Y los huesos De nuestro futuro Tú y yo somos Esta tierra Y esta luz

To The Aztec Dancers Whose Dancing Is Spiritual Labor

From mountaintop

to mountaintop

you dance…

Praying                          stirring the souls of your ancestors

and mine,  moving all…

Teotl 

Fantástico

U wo du hi

Feathered colors blending

Brightening the sun

Dark fingers swaying

Making their way upon a long-remembered journey.

Drums                beating inside and out

Your savored hearts

Pounding… pounding… pounding…

White Eagles watching 

Winds swaying    praying bodies   awakening bones    rattling campanas    ringing  fueling  fanning flames.

 Nothingness forbidden.

  I can see you.

Once knowing you

Long before you began to dance 

on these 

North American mountaintops.

Teotl 

Fantástico

U wo du hi

Notes:

Teotl is the Nahuatl word for wonderful, awesome, terrifying.

Fantástico is Spanish for fantastic.

U wo du hi is Cherokee for beautiful.

In These Mountains

As dreams begin to dance themselves awake

after a day of full flushing rains in these mountains

the bronze hands of women reach from beneath the earth,

their bones glowing like neon fishes in cave waters.

Droplets pelt the under fur of delicate wild flowers

steam rises to kiss moistened lips of falling leaves

while I wander around inside the past

hearing the bronze women calling my name.

Memories unfold from around these glorious ancestral mountains

positioning themselves into low hanging fog

touching the soft breasts of those who pay attention

as the rains fall down into running waters

stopping only when instructed so by the Thunder Being.

Sweet tobacco smells rise from the white water falling

and I taste the aroma as it floats into my being.

This is when the memories come close enough to smell

but not close enough to touch.

Just close enough to taste

but never close enough to touch.

And sometimes late in the afternoon

after it rains all day in these mountains

If I know in just which direction to tilt my head

and if I listen intently through the raindrops

I can hear gentle, sleepy, rhythmic sounds

of small rounded pebbles clicking inside tortoise shell rattles

strapped to the ankles of the bronze women

as they dance the Green Corn Dance reminding me

I am never alone in these mountains.

They Dance Round Still

The drums are dead

They beat the drums to death

The people are dead

They shot the people to death

There are drum beats still

Beats from the dead drums

The people are dead

But they do not know this

They believe still

They believe still

They tend to their young still

They tend to their young still

They dance round still

They dance round still

They dance round still

They are ghosts who do not know they are dead…

Welcome to the Dawn  

Copyright © Kim Cunningham

     When I think of the word worship; many thoughts come to mind. I immediately get a visual of people crying at the Vatican in Italy or praying in Makkah, Saudi Arabia. I have been to both places, and even though they were supposed to make me feel closer to God, I honestly didn’t feel it. Don’t get me wrong, of course, I believe in God or a higher being or the universe, but I don’t see that going to holy places increases or decreases the value of my worship in any way.

     I learned at a very young age that worship meant rituals to most people around me. But it never made sense, how could "something" that created every inch of this earth be locked up in a house in some random country?  And all of us had to travel there to find Him? But when I voiced my opinions I was told, I would go to hell if I said such awful things.

     So, I worshipped God to please people.

     I also had an issue with the word “worship,” why does an Almighty Creator need me to worship Him or Her? Is God that arrogant? That thought I kept to myself.

     Eventually, I realized that I had been given my own way of appreciating God; through my writing. When I sit to write, I can go up to 20 hours a day without eating or sleeping. It’s literally like someone is pouring words into me and I am putting them on paper. As cliché as it sounds, its an outer body religious experience for me, where I feel most connected to God.  

     My writing is my prayer and worship.

Wilderness

Native soil

Old roots

Worn stones

Saguaros march

Birds gather

Raven floats

Canyon ash

Hummingbird surveys

Dead branches

Red hills

Tears swell

Eyes sting

I drink from the well,

Swallow ancient

Language, earth fire.

Lunar Halo

I am the white-lined sphinx moth with brown head and thorax

flying like a hummingbird. My body too large for its wings.

By a placid lake I perform a moth ritual each morning

before the night travelers sleep. A prayer written

and burned thanking the night for moon and stars

that help navigate my path. I bring healing to others

by drinking

the moon’s halo.

At dusk wildflowers speak of seeds blown to the sea.

They tell of a face in a mollusk shell who shares a story:

A young mother battled cancer for years,

and will be reborn. Her sister lives in the rocks by the ocean,

has a baby—

they sit in the sand and

rock to endless rhythm.

The energy of mountain rocks gathers experiences

of the generations. The story reminds of a friend

gone, where I touch her in nectar memories.

A shadow song:

Safe. Small. Once I was small. Hidden in earth.

Nature is large. I want to feel small again.

Mirage

Love alone is the fountain from which all virtues fall

as drops of sparkling water.  

Bowl of Saki, October 8, by Hazrat Inayat Khan

Angel cries out / from a well,

Come for the water blessing.

She stands knee-deep in holy water / while streaks of diagonal

clouds diverge. Water drops plop and echo / as she rises.

Crystal eyes reflect / in the filled bowl.

                                               I approach / in silence,

eyes downcast / and wait to be cleansed. Incense permeates.

The angel / chants and prepares / with care. / Blesses thyme

flowers, rice, and well water.

She pours / the sacred fluid

over my head / into the fertile canyons of my body. Sun blinds

my drenched eyes. I wake to dry heat / and a Tri Dhatu bracelet

on my wrist / to resist disaster.

I am girdled by granular,

transparent crystals / like Salacia, female divinity

of the calm and sunlit sea, / once a verdant place.

Our child would be / half human, half fish.

It’s that time of the year again National Poetry Writing Month, you know, the tortuous — a poem a day for thirty days, and, it’s also Spring cleaning time. Yay!

Time to go through those closets and gift or recycle anything you haven’t worn for more than a year, to store the winter clothes, and to get out the lighter weight ones… that’s of course if you live in areas where the weather is at all predictable anymore, but I digress.   This article is more about what we use to clean with and some suggestions of natural cleaners to use as alternatives to the more noxious and toxic ones we all grew up using like bleach, oven cleaner, that blue toilet bowl stuff and on and on. The same products we’ve always been told are the only effective cleaners to get out grime, odor, and germs.  But exposure to chemicals used to make these household cleaners can have adverse effects on our health. A recent study by Scientists at Norway’s University of Bergen, which tracked 6,000 people over two decades, found that lung function decline in women who regularly used the products, as in those who worked cleaning for a living, was equal to those with a 20-cigarette daily smoking habit.

Household cleaners can cause mild irritations but have also have been linked to asthma, cancer, and hormonal imbalances. They are responsible for thousands of poisonings every year, mostly of children. There are other good reasons to stop or at least limit their use, and that is that these chemical filled cleaners pollute our air, water, and earth. They pack landfills and contaminate water sources and marine habitats after being washed down sewer systems. Petroleum-based cleaners and plastic packaging also help deplete nonrenewable natural resources.  

So here’s a list of some alternatives you probably have in your fridge or pantry that you might try this Spring and on into the future.

Lemons

Lemons are natural disinfectants because of their antibacterial properties. For many, the refreshing citrus smell exemplifies cleanliness. ( Use lemon juice on cutting boards - kills bacteria, in garbage disposals - throw in the rinds to freshen, and in the laundry - ½ c. lemon juice added to rinse cycle brightens whites.)

Salt

Good old-fashioned table salt can be used as an abrasive cleaner. (Again on cutting boards - you can mix with lemon, for caked-on foods on baking pans, and as a soak for pots/pans.)

Vinegar

So powerful and economical, distilled white vinegar is one of nature’s most versatile cleaners. Its odor can be a bit overwhelming, but the smell goes away after it dries. (Use for countertops, sinks, windows, mirrors, appliances, floors, tubs, and showers - you name it.)

Baking soda

Baking soda is used in many refrigerators because it helps absorb odors but used in water it can also help dissolve dirt and grease. Like vinegar, baking soda has a wide variety of uses. (Refrigerators, ovens, cupboards, anything that needs scouring like pots and pans, use in your laundry to remove grease/dirt.)

Tea tree oil

Australian tea tree oil is well-known for its medicinal purposes, but the antibacterial and antifungal properties of this essential oil can also be useful in the home. You can make an all-purpose cleaner by filling a spray bottle with a quart of warm water and then mixing in 15 drops of tea tree oil. I spray down the shower after each use with this mixture. For areas that have mold, or if you need more concentrated strength for cleaning - like toilet bowls - you can use a more concentrated batch of 2 teaspoons to two cups of water and pour in, brush and voila!   In the case of mold on shower or bathroom tile use the spray and leave on to dry, it may not make the discoloration to fade completely but the mold will be gone.

It’s April, so if you’re not going to Spring clean - write poetry instead, or better yet — do both!

Happy Spring!

Reprinted with permission.

    I see it parked besides my car, in the library lot—the old Volvo with a scratch on the side. Strange to find it here. It addresses my attention as if it were an acquaintance. A part of myself, to be exact.

    Well, it was part of my dream-self—a wish from my early teen years. I wanted to buy such a car as soon as I’d grow up. I knew little about it, still I wanted it. Not immediately or soon, but sometimes.

     For a long while I had no car at all. I was broke and necessarily so. When things slightly improved, my car (like everything I possessed) wasn’t what I would choose but what I could get. Second hand, cheap bargain. My car—like my job, clothes, home… my partner as well, I suspect. I was happy that way.

       Thus the Volvo slipped in and out of my consciousness. For decades I forgot about it. If I thought of cars I worried about keeping mine going, possibly until eternity. In rare moments of fleeting enthusiasm or irrational hope—when I envisioned money and luck would come visit me—I recalled the object of my longing. Used, pre-owned by a friend perhaps. No matter how kinked or bumped, no matter which color. Sturdy engine. Strong Swedish parts. Spacious, stretched like a train or a boat. Oh my, what couldn’t I carry within it!

     I suspect this was the secret core of my passion. What sparkled my feelings must have been the Volvo’s capacity in such a slim body. As I pictured myself at the wheel I smiled, thinking of what trunk and seats might contain.

    Not a bunch of children... well, a few. Equipment and artifacts! Paintings, sculptures. Easels, canopies. Music stands, amps and microphones—all the elements of my traveling trade, multifarious and marked by an abundance of cumbering accessories. They would fit in the Volvo together with roadmaps and food, raincoats, swimsuits, of course books and notebooks.

    The car’s magic proportions would allow yet another accomplishment: I’d be able to pick from the sidewalk all those relics I transmuted into art, stage décor, or home furniture. No shelf case, no ripped Japanese shade would be left behind with nostalgia. There would be no limit to the size of my rescued Christmas trees.

    And the Volvo would prove my career went in the right direction. Making transportation proper and safe, it would justify the slight oddity of my perambulating lifestyle.

    In the library parking, at once, I realize how the perspective has changed. My desire has shot down without me noticing. I can sense it while in front of its object: nothing lights up, nothing fires. Time has run out, I guess. Now I wouldn’t be able to lift the goods I wished to stuff in. I no more crave early setting of market booths. I’m fed with performance. I do the same things—with less enthusiasm, especially no expansionistic views.

    On the contrary, my views have become quite reductionist. Not that I’d want to change. I have kept the same loves—in fact I have deepened into them. Only, tiny concentrates are what I can stand. What I need now is lightness.

    I have reached and surpassed the Volvo phase, though without the Volvo. I’ve carried a lot in the cars I could afford. I’ve picked from the street as much as I could handle. I’ve done things and been places. I have exhibited and I’ve been exposed. I have been quite fulfilled… maybe I didn’t realize it. Maybe I felt it in portions, installments, without guessing the installments made up the whole. I thought my finish line was ahead, while I was past the finish line.

    I have taken the sweet path of return, wavering through the countryside, amazed at the beauty of wild flowers. What I dream about on this evening dusty road is to leave my last car for a bike. I know—it sounds as going back to the beginning. A bike…

    Should I tell about the first one I rode without training wheels? An instant of panic, then Dad hit me—because of my fear he mistook for cowardice, without giving it more than thirty seconds of trial. Father struck me. My lips hit the handle and I got a small cut. Unavoidably blood makes emotions escalate or collapse.

   I gave up. Dad went for an afternoon nap. Mother hushed me into my room. There, mechanically, I started bumping my head against the wall. I’ll never forget that hour. I kept banging my forehead against the concrete, though I didn’t and still don’t know why. Was it weariness, was it self-loathing? Wish to justify my dad’s opinion of me?

    I eventually stopped, then went out in the torrid mid-august sun. Daddy slept. Quietly, I hopped on my bike, concentrated, and rode. Easy. I mastered it in a minute or two. What a thrill! I became a bike lover until my belated first car. I guess I shall return momentarily to that cheap, darling locomotion. To that skill earned with some loss and some glory. It should be my next goal, my closest horizon.

   Do I think I betrayed myself not getting the Volvo? The name sounds like “I want” in my native tongue. It has fragments of the word “revolution” in more than a language. Sure, I “wanted a revolution” in my teen age, and I promised I’d get it no matter the cost. Did I?

    If yes, I didn’t receive a mention about it. No degree, no diploma, not even the diplomatic vehicle—so to speak—I aspired to ride in. No signs of rebellious achievements were earned, or extremely faint—they are vanishing, while I pedal away.

Though currently there are very strange affairs of state taking place in Nicaragua, once there was a dream for a better world for the people than under the deadly US backed Somoza dictatorship.  Here is a poem I wrote back in 2004 commemorating the promise of the Sandinista Revolution which triumphed in 1979, and the hardships it has had to face over the years since. 

nicaraguan revolution

i remember the morning sun that burst into our hearts. the nicaraguan revolution, new sun of the poor, illuminated the world and our tongues warmed by its nectar spoke future.

Sandino was alive moving mountains of desperation; freedom scented the air. you and i, dear sister, hummed our song of  self determination. no bird was capable of the joyous flight our voices carried. our goal was to join the Sandinistas and be the first to enter managua with red flags aloft, in the wind, moving history forward.

we did not join and we have seen nicaragua under the shadow of a sad Sandino. who could have imagined the vast deceptions many had up their amoral sleeve. dicen  the good only dream the good. the nihilistic blame it on human nature as though betrayal was the original sin of the Americas. we are born this way or made this way? the answer lies within the seed called history.

no one foresaw the seeds of betrayal the imperialist planted to ensure their stay. but when the good seeds gestate another period of hope and freedom. when the new seeds bloom, i will be an old woman, but i will be prepared for i have learned that the sixth sun is imprinted in my hands and its ollin calibrates my life.

the six sun can only come into being by putting my hands to work and someday i will enter managua, gray haired, wrinkled, chimuela pero feliz, with the innocence of an eighteen year old singing a song of freedom: "nicaragua, pedacito of the great Azteca, eres libre, eres.

photo © Onasill ~ Bill Badzo  Some rights reserved

Store Street

     It was a cold Saturday morning in October. Whilst the usual herds of workers slept in their beds, Kitty Page was heaving herself to Store Street. Friday morning, Kitty was galumphingly searching for her keys, sieving through her puddle of clothes, opening moaning cupboards and slamming timid drawers. She was already ten minutes late for work and spied the set of keys lying on the kitchen table. An hour after slipping behind her desk, her hands ran over the familiar fluffy feel of her keyring in the back of her bag. The borrowed set was quickly forgotten about and remained on her desk. That evening, Kitty was chugging down her vodka lemonade in GAY when her phone rang. She picked up on the third ring. She bellowed over the music that she’d get them first thing tomorrow morning, hung up, and made her way to the dance floor.

     A light drizzle fell from the pregnant clouds parading the dark October sky. A breeze touched the trees and whisked autumn leaves around Kitty’s ankles. Store Street’s rusty coloured bricks reared against the darkened sky and Kitty made her way over to the oak door chiselled into the bright bricks.      As Kitty fumbled in her handbag for her work fob, a wad of last night’s receipts dropped into a puddle. She fetched a sigh, plugged her stained Oyster card in her mouth, bent over and picked up the receipts. She winced at her reflection in the murky water – black circles ringed her eyes and her straightened blonde hair was spiking at different angles. 

     Leaning on the oak door, she placed her fob on the sensor, smoothing back her hair, and waited for the familiar beep before throwing herself into the reticent building. 

     When you enter Store Street’s narrow square entrance, in the middle sits a heavy square lift that has sat there since the 1930s. To your left is the open mouth of the stairwell, spiralling up like a snake up to the top floor, choking the lift’s frame. From the stairs you can spy on the lift’s car and the mechanics through large dusty windows. The once white walls of Store Street are now blemished with dark scratches and paint stains. Like most days, a lonely plastic bag patiently sat by the door, waiting for a volunteer to take it out. Kitty plonked the soaked receipts on top of the bag, wiped her hands against her jeans and started up the stairs. 

     She climbed just shy of the last set of stairs when she stopped. Last night’s vodka slushed around in her belly, threatening to crawl back up her throat with every step. Her hands planted on her knees, she regained her breath, then carried on up the stairs when, suddenly, a screech like a tortured child rattled up the building. Terror leaped in her and she stood dead still. With a tortured whine, the lift lurched into life and crept up the rail. She gazed in fixed concentration at the approaching car and the strained ropes and wires. Red lights winked through the dust as the lift rose above her.

     Kitty gave a measuring glance as the lift stopped on her floor and crept up the last few stairs. The doors creaked opened. Kitty waited a few seconds, but when no one got out she lugged herself through the office door. The lift stood silently, just as it had when she walked in a few minutes earlier.      

     She stood with her back to the door, short sharp gasps of breath escaped her mouth. She paced her way to her desk and grabbed the abandoned keys. She stole one last glance over shoulder before making her way out of the room. 

     Daring to look from the corner of her eyes, Kitty’s gnawing intuition made her etch slowly towards the tenebrous mouth of the lift. She plucked her phone from her backpocket and ran the torch around the dilapidated lift. Deep scrapes scarred its wall, splatters of white paint lingered on its floor and a dim bar of flickering light suffocated in its dust and fly-filled coffin. 

     Her eyes descended to a small wet patch on the dull thin carpet. She dropped to one knee then inched herself back, glanced at the ceiling, then clapped a hand over her mouth. A humming noise began to tickle her ears. There was a moment of silence before plumes of red spray spurted from the walls. Cacophonous snorting laughter and tortured and ululating screams boomed around her. Kitty pressing her hands against her ears and snapped her head following the sounds. Kitty caught a whiff of an iron scent seething from the lift. 

     A slow repetitive thump began to compete with the choir of screams which seemed to rattle Kitty’s ribcage from the inside out. A red fog drifted from the stairs and coalesced around her feet. The heavy and monotonous thump thump thump grew louder. A muddy pair of feet were spuming up hazes of fog as it marched around the corner. Kitty slowly got up from the floor and gazed up. A woman stared at her.

     Her face dead white, the woman’s grey eyes were vacant and inhuman. Half her face was peeling off, exposing raw and pulsing flesh. The woman’s frail body was dressed in a low collar shift dress coated in dirt that hung just above her knees. Her legs and neck were dotted with purple bruises and mud. Her mouth drew back into a grimacing smile and blood leaked from her upper lip. Kitty noticed a hint of scar from her philtrum down to her chin. 

     The bashing of rushing blood and erupting screams roared and echoed off Store Street’s walls. The woman shifted her eyes and slowly held out her hand. Overwhelmed with dizziness and languor, Kitty only managed to shake her head. Her rubber soles whistled as she took a large step away, anchoring herself against the banister. Then, with a snap, the lift returned to its quiescent state and the woman, fog and blood all disappeared. The sudden crescendo made Kitty trip down the stairs and her head connected with the cold floor. She blinked back the pain and barreled her way out of Store Street. 

     The next morning, the sun was cowering behind the clouds. A heavy shadow made Melissa Smith look up from her clutter of papers. Fear and panic was scrawled on her colleague’s face. 

     Hunched over, Kitty fiddled with her fingers and her eyes were shimmered with tears as she relayed the events of Saturday morning.

      “I haven’t got time for this silly story, Kitty.” Melissa put her hand up and returned to her pile of invoices. 

     “I’m not making this up!” Kitty’s voice was thin with fury. Melissa sent Kitty a single peremptory dour look. Kitty locked eyes with her then straightened herself up, her face fervent with anger. She did not have the temerity to argue any further so made her way back to the desk and it was not spoken about again.

     Kitty harboured the hope it was all some sort of mind blip or belated illusion from the night’s concussion of drinks but still took Store Street’s steps two at a time. Kitty was also assiduous on removing her shoes, so she could surreptitiously whisper across the floor to not wake the lift. Quickly, her thigh muscles began to tighten and bulge and her breathing began to gain a slow capable rhythm.

     Three weeks after that cold Saturday morning in October, the lift cracked and hissed to life again. Kitty was hefting a folder full of reports on a lazy Friday afternoon when a scream ricocheted in her left ear, making her jump. Kitty cut her eyes in the lift’s direction just as its door opened. The same lulling humming rhythm began to brew and the cold prick of fear returned. 

     Kitty dropped the folder and turned for the exit when she stopped. Her eyes widened. An impregnable power engrossed her. She eased her way closer, her face dead white. The screams and snorting laughter began to crackle like an out of range radio before spurring into full pitch. She began to creep up and then peered in. It was a roaring bloody windstorm. Blood was seeping through the walls and ceiling, now in thicker sprays. A gale was howling, twisting the blood around in crimson sheets. 

     A shadow of fear fell on her face then an inimical force pushed her in. Her mouth peeled back in a scream but suffocated from dark red blood sliding down her throat. Blood snaked across her and the wind twisted her red matted hair in front of her face. The lift jolted. She looked around in dazed incomprehension. The door was closing. She ran for the door, the treacle texture below pulling her back. The woman from before appeared in front of the door. The peeled part of her face flapped with the wind. She gave a single shake of the head and her face split into a bleak grin cracking her face like a fault line. She shouted over the contending vociferous wind and choir of screams. When the lift’s lips finally sealed, a fire alarm rolled throughout Store Street, swallowing up Kitty’s screams.

     Melissa was slumped over her laptop and rolled her eyes when the alarm rang. Knots of workers spilled out of the office and leisurely descend downstairs. Herding the remaining people out of the office, she heaved her bag onto her shoulder before checking the emptiness of the office. As she shut the door, she saw the folder sprawled to the side of the stairs.

     A momentary coldness crawled up her spine as she remembered her conversation with Kitty. She darted her eyes at the lift. The sign above her crackled to life: In case of fire please use the stairs. Melissa backed away, balking the idea, and headed down the stairs.

     Kitty’s wails began to weaken. Her panic and fear had shifted gear. With her shoulders slumped, she knelt in despair as the blood surged around her. She stared up at the single light and closed her eyes. A single tear cut through the blood on her face as the last person left Store Street.

With several years of academic writing behind her, Elena Chapman saw an opportunity to express her creativity through short stories. Elena was raised in Bristol and now lives and works in London. An avid reader, Elena has always enjoyed writing and hopes her stories will become a strong voice for females by challenging society’s stereotypes. Elena’s passion for running often features in her work. Elena's first short story was published in STORGY Magazine, November 2018.