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Keep reading for poetry and an important announcement!
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Frostbite
Amelia S. Dickerson
The snow falls in silence—
singing all the way,
chilling me to the bone
A flurry of frost guides me,
pleading for me to follow,
taunting me with
dreams of summer
through my restless slumber
Though winter is the darkest night,
the ice shares his secrets with me;
I never knew I could
find love amongst the snowfall:
fractals and poetry together,
glittering as one in the pale sunrise
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The Poison Tree by William Blake
an unnecessarily censored poem by Danielle Jeanne
I was angry with my *bleep*
I told my wrath, my wrath did end.
I was angry with my *bleep*
I told it not, my wrath did grow.
And I waterd it in *bleep*,
Night & morning with my tears:
And I sunned it with *bleep*,
And with soft deceitful wiles.
And it grew both day and *bleep*.
Till it bore an apple bright.
And my foe beheld it *bleep*,
And he knew that it was mine.
And into my garden *bleep*,
When the night had veild the pole;
In the morning glad I *bleep*;
My foe outstretched beneath the tree.
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Ten Word Tale
Amelia S. Dickerson
I
Winter came at once in a cluster of frozen leaves.
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Blind Obedience
Danielle Jeanne
The coffee shop was filled with patrons, but, honestly, calling the place a “coffee shop” might have been a poor choice on the author’s part. The shop sold t-shirts, jeans, alcohol, canned food, canned milk, car parts, and electronics on top of the coffee they sold in the far back corner with the frazzled-looking barista (you would appear just as discombobulated if you had to handle all of the transactions in the shop as well as make all the half-caf-large-two-pump-of-vanilla americanos that seem to be the “new thing” that kids these days were drinking by the gallon).
In the opposite corner of the coffee shop, there was a bell.
It was silver and looked like those old-fashioned bells that rang at boxing matches. The bell was in practically perfect condition except for the dent that had formed when Francis Garibaldi had had one too many beers and grew upset at the recent hike of t-shirt prices. Next to the bell was a yellowing sign that stated: “PLEASE DO NOT IGNORE THE BELL”. No one read the sign.
It was nearing 10:04 in the morning when all of the patrons had a seat in the shop. There were no chairs, so the floor would do. Many of them had their arms full of not yet purchased supplies but every single one of them had a cup of fresh hot coffee. The coffee never tasted good here, but they always bought a cup. Even the young children clinging to their mother’s shirt had a cu—
DIIINNNGGG
Well, that’s just rude, to interrupt the author when they’re typing. I hadn’t even gotten to type “When the clock struck 10:05, the nearly-pristine bell in the corner rang—and every man, woman, and child drank their cup of ill-tasting coffee”. Almost no one liked to drink the coffee, but everyone still drank it.
DIIINNNGGG
Everyone took another long pull of their coffee.
DIIINNNGGG
As one unit, people began to stand up and throw their empty cups away and make their purchases. A few people left the store, promising to never come back until the quality of the coffee improved. Those people always came back the next day anyway, just to see if the coffee had gotten any better. It never did.
The yellowing sign in the corner stayed tacked on the wall like it had been for the last fifteen years. It was still ignored by all the patrons in the coffee shop. But it was always obeyed.
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Editorial
Amelia S. Dickerson
As a general rule, I like my editorials to be reflective, especially around Christmastime. However, this needs to be informative as well, but I’ll do my best to balance the two. It’s never too late to try something new, I guess.
That Stupid LitMag started two years ago with a vision that was (admittedly) hazy. I just wanted an outlet for my writing, to get into the regular habit of writing and editing and publishing my work and the work of others. We’ve changed formats a few times, added new writers, and revamped our website a time or two. We’ve evolved—slowly but surely—and I’m incredibly pleased with our progress, but it’s time for another something new.
TSLM isn’t ending, not by a long shot, but it’s time for a new name. I’m proud to announce that we’ll be known as Ink Consequential starting in January 2017. We’re still the same people doing the same things, just with a new style. We’d love to have you join us in our next steps, either by sharing your writing with us or by continuing to read and share our issues. We’re always grateful for your support!
That being said, here’s to a new year and to many new adventures—may God bless the road ahead for all of us.
Somewhere in Gaza, a little girl not yet eight years old has learned how to play with Death. He visits her often, and she sees him every night in her dreams. He takes a seat on a boulder, holds an imaginary cup of tea; two spoonfuls of sugar, please. He chats with her about the weather—it’s been getting chilly lately. The little girl does not like heat, but the cold is even less tolerable without a jacket. She knows Death has visited those who tried to warm themselves up by starting fires, and choked in their sleep on smoke. She knows, for Death told her so himself.
The little girl has plenty of time for tea parties, as she does not attend school at the time being. She would like to. She dreams of becoming a doctor one day, and she cannot do that if she stays out of school for too long. Opportunities are very limited in Gaza. But if she becomes a doctor, she may get to play with Death for the rest of her life.
The sun begins to grow low in the sky, and Death must leave her for a little while. She will see him in her dreams, she promises. Some traditions are unbreakable.
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Keep reading for poetry, punctuation tidbits, six word sagas, and more!
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Omission Poetry - Scars (Five Letter Words Removed)
Danielle Jeanne
I don’t notice the _____ at first
How they _____ _____
In the _____
From the lamp in my room
I don’t notice how many I have
On my arms
On my legs
On my body and face
I don’t remember how I got them all
From falling down at work
From a _____ slipping off a cutting _____
From a fire
I remember who gave me _____
My brother
Myself
No one important
No one at all
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Interrobang Investigations - Embarrassing Em Dash
Amelia S. Dickerson
If you’ve been writing long enough, you’ve probably seen this special character: —. It’s called an em dash because it’s as wide as the font is tall, which is also known as an em; in 12 pt font, an em dash is 12 points wide. This, of course, sounds like the pronunciation of the letter M with good reason—the capital M is as wide as it is tall. Hence, em.
There are several ways you can use an em dash—in place of a colon, in place of parentheses, to display a quick change in thought, to set off a definition...there are more, but we’re only going to look at two of the modes today.
I’m going to use some of my example sentences from when I wrote about parentheses to demonstrate how to use an em dash instead:
P.S. By the way, I went to the tailor’s shop yesterday (the one by the baker, not the milliner).
P.S. By the way, I went to the tailor’s shop yesterday—the one by the baker, not the milliner.
In this example, we simply place an em dash where the parenthetical phrase starts; there is no need to place another em dash at the end of the sentence because the aside is at the end, and the em dash isn’t a form of bracket, unlike a parenthesis. Let’s look at another one:
I walked to Jill’s house yesterday (I wonder how far that was), but she wasn’t home.
I walked to Jill’s house yesterday—I wonder how far that was—but she wasn’t home.
As for this example, the parenthetical phrase is in the middle of the sentence, so we do need to close out the phrase with another em dash to indicate that we’re returning to the previous train of thought.
Em dashes can also be used in place of colons in some circumstances. Let’s take a look:
Things to buy: tomatoes, oregano, salt, pepper, basil.
Things to buy—tomatoes, oregano, salt, pepper, basil.
Also:
The houseguests were: Johnny, Susan, Mark, Lily, Robert, and Elaine.
The houseguests were—Johnny, Susan, Mark, Lily, Robert, and Elaine.
I should add that my personal preference is to use a colon with a complete subject-verb phrase—The houseguests were—and an em dash when using an incomplete thought—Things to buy.
I hope I haven’t confused you too much about the em dash—it is punctuation, after all.
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Bookish Things - Broken Monsters by Lauren Beukes
Adrianna N
Electrifying settings filled with suspense and mystery. Vibrant, hyper-realistic characters whose pasts unravel as you turn the page. White knuckles, paled by how hard you grip the book while you grind your teeth in anticipation.
Lauren Beukes offers all these amenities and more in her novel Broken Monsters. It takes place in central Detroit, where the novel’s many main characters tell their tales chapter by chapter, offering the reader a plethora of perspectives on a single story. Not your typical murder mystery, this book combines the urban art scene with its characters’ complex relationships to create a unique “whodunit.”
Are you sick of NYPD detectives falling in love with one another as they try to crack a run-of-the-mill murder case? Then this novel is for you. I, for one, didn’t realize I’d read a murder mystery until after I finished the last page; the characters’ lives are so rich that they absorb nearly all of your attention, allowing only a tidbit for the creepy twist toward the end. Beukes is fantastic at weaving every character’s miniature story with the next, creating a vivid experience you won’t want to miss.
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A Robot of Poor Design
A poetry submission from Rees Hayes
A robot of poor design
Looking around the Junkyard,
Finding parts of his life that are in need of repair:
Capacitor feelings,
Resistor emotions,
Computer chip thoughts
All not his, but he takes them anyway
A robot of poor design
Walks along the street
Seeing other robots of better design
Some have faults, like him
Others do not seem to have any at all
A robot of poor design
Lies on a mattress and waits for the new day,
His mind processor sending him damaged data,
Breaking his shell,
Making him see the world wrong
He waits
Breathes
Waits
Processes the damaged data
A robot of poor design
Bumps into another robot in the Junkyard
It looked like it was lost, but it wasn’t.
Its design was perfect.
They connected
They shared
A robot of poor design
Walked along the Junkyard with his friend
Searching for something that they didn’t need
He found a new pair of optics,
Installed them
He talked to his “perfect” friend
And realised that they weren’t
A robot of poor design
Saw for the first time
That his world wasn’t as perfect as he seemed
He and his friend walked along the street
And saw how poorly designed the other robots were
A robot of poor design
Rattled his main processor for an answer
His friend, too.
They came to realise that no-one is designed “perfectly”
And that the world wasn’t as flawless as they thought
Which made them happy, in a way
A robot of poor design
Walked in the world and saw the poor designs of others
And helped them with their cracked mind processors,
Short circuited computer chip thoughts,
Overloaded capacitor feelings,
And too-powerful resistor emotions
A robot of poor design
Laid down
And smiled
The robot of poor design
Was happy with his broken self
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Haiku Hiccups
Amelia S. Dickerson
I
sleep overcomes you
as the sun starts to rise,
turning the morning red
II
our hair used to be
brown; hers is white after her
chemotherapy
III
the smell of autumn
came overnight: cinnamon
and chills that excite
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Housekeeping Hostilities - Freakin’ A
Danielle Jeanne
When I come to work on the weekends, I already know to expect two things. Firstly, I’ll be the second person on a two-man team, which means I’ll have to trail the person in front of me so we don’t go out of order; secondly, the person in front of me is Freakin’ A.
Now, I truly do like most of my co-workers. Some have their quirks, sure, but they are pretty likable people overall. The only one I don’t like is Feakin’ A. She can be nice enough as a person—sometimes—but I mostly dislike her for the simple fact that she is the slowest person on the planet to do their job. It would be fine except that she isn’t at the end of our team. Oh, no, she starts us off.
The best rule of thumb is to try to be sixty minutes’ worth of work behind the person in front of you just in case they are quickly called to do something else or if there’s extra cleaning that they need to do in a room.
The furthest I’ve ever been behind Freakin’ A is fifteen minutes.
That day, I was almost done with half of the first schedule when Freakin’ A comes up to tell me that she’s going to take her break. Fine, no freakin’ problem. I finish up where I am and then finish that side of the schedule and head to break myself. Freakin’ A is nowhere in sight, so I take it that she’s already back to work. Twenty minutes later, my break is up; I head off to start my next side.
I see Freakin’ A on the last side of the schedule, so I stop to ask her if she is, in fact, all the way to Room 10. That would be a miracle! But, you know, why would that happen? She’s doing a different task and has only done Room 1.
So I wait.
And wait.
And wait seventy minutes for her to finish.
Only for her to go on lunch break.
Thanks Freakin’ A. Thanks.
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Tanka Troubles
Jana A
Memories
All you left me with
Was the vague notion that I
Possibly could have
Made you a little happy.
Could have affected you, too.
Responsibilities
Irritatingly,
Constantly omnipresent,
Never leaves me be,
Makes me feel like I'm always
Under hidden surveillance.
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Vibrant Yellow - Russet
Amelia S. Dickerson
November, to me, has always been very brown. The leaves are starting to die, cartoon turkeys hide everywhere, packages start coming for the Christmas enthusiasts...I think of brown when I think of these things. I get the impression from most people that brown is something boring and dull and dying, but I don’t think it has to be that way. November is full of life in the awkward period between Halloween and Christmas, yet it’s a brown month.
November tends to be a forgotten month; the early excitement for Christmas blends into December as the hype of Halloween is long-remembered with hidden stores of candy. While Americans celebrate Thanksgiving this month, it’s not something that people tend to remember as much as Christmas and Halloween, the bookends of the Holiday world.
But brown can be the light color of packages, the color of the dirt showing through the grass, the color of the table at Thanksgiving. Brown can be the color of turkeys, real or imagined. Brown is a transition from the orange of October to the red of Christmas: a color that’s not quite either and not quite both, but something good and grounding.
Brown can be dull, but brown can also be rich and shining and beautiful. What kind of brown will you make your November?
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Microfiction Mania - Window Washing
Danielle Jeanne
“Hey, sis? Just so you know, I don’t wash windows.”
I looked up from my phone over at my brother in the driver’s seat of his truck just to see him grin. “I’m just kidding! This is going to be great, just wait and see. I’ve already decide that we’re going to have a chore wheel and everything so that you’re not stuck doing all the work,” he told me, with his voice—and face—full of excitement. I was pretty excited myself; it was the first time I would move out of my parent’s house, and I had been saving up for almost a year. With a part-time job, I was very proud of my $1,000 that I had put into the duplex we shared.
We had moved in together with the intention of not having to depend too much on each other. It was easy. He would smoke outside to keep the white walls and carpet clean, and I would keep my bedroom door shut so none of my smelly socks would stink up the place. We both would do dishes. We both would vacuum. We both would do laundry.
He wanted to smoke in the living room after three days. He had put money into the place, so he should be able to do want he wanted. “Come on!” He said, “It’s my house, too!” He only had put in $200 for the down payment, but he was right. He had smoked whenever he wanted to in the living room.
“Hey, can you do the dishes tonight?” Sure, I had the time. So I would do the dishes. They would pile up until they were overflowing on the kitchen counter. I would do the dishes every single time from then on.
One day his girlfriend spilled the full ashtray on the carpet. He mopped it up with cold water and called his job done. He wouldn’t try to clean the floors anymore after he had seen the permanent stain that the ashes had left on the white carpet.
Not a single time did he ever try to wash the windows.
I would never ask him to, either.
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Six Word Sagas
Adrianna N
I
Too many dreams, not enough time.
II
Cats knead blankets; I need you.
III
I’m a writer—I never write.
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Yakking Yarns - Hands
Jana A
I remember the day you took my hand and told me, “Today is a day to kiss your troubles away.” A day of feeling the wet grass on our bare feet, of dancing to a song we had never heard of before; a day that made me feel, for once, complete. A day that made us wish for many more, a day trapped in the sunrise over the hills, a day unlike any other in its thrills.
You took my hand, and suddenly nothing was scary anymore. You took my hand that day, so I memorized yours: every edge and ridge and callous.
Your hand fit perfectly in mine.
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Unnecessarily Censored Poetry - A Birthday Poem by Ted Kooser
Danielle Jeanne
Just past dawn, the *bleep* stands
with its heavy red head
in a black stanchion of *bleep*,
waiting for someone to come
with his *bleep*
for the foamy white *bleep*,
and then a long *bleep* in the pasture.
I too spend my days *bleep*ing,
*bleep* on every green moment
till darkness *bleep*,
and *bleep* the others
I *bleep* away into the night,
swinging the little tin *bleep*
of my *bleep*.
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Editorial
Amelia S. Dickerson
The last seven months have been a whirlwind. My grandparents suffered a house fire in a home I practically grew up in, my grandmother got breast cancer for the second time in her life, my favorite elderly relative passed away...and I somehow became a woman in the midst of all this.
I had a conversation with a friend of mine sometime in August; he was in town from college, so we met up at a bookstore (not the one I talked about earlier this year!). We hadn’t seen each other since high school, and he asked if I’d changed at all since then. It was the first time someone else had posed the question to me, and I answered it as honestly as I could. I had started to feel like a woman instead of just a girl prior to that point, and I said that I’d come into my own a little bit more, among other things.
I don’t know if I’ve significantly changed in the short years since my graduation, but I have grown. I’ve become more confident, more outspoken. I’ve developed an extra sensitivity to my compassionate side—and I’d previously thought it was already sensitive enough. I have mourned and grieved and somehow come out the other side of things stronger—not just a stronger girl, but a stronger woman.
I don’t think that my journey into womanhood is even close to being over, but I do think that I’ve taken the step over that threshold at some point in the last year. I’ve become a woman, and it’s something I thought would never happen.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality
Anya is LIVE right now
FREE
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
What a wonderful month we’ve had! Our 100th column was written this month, we added a new member to our team in the form of a website person, and this is one of our longest issues yet!
You can check out our newest issue on tumblr, on our website, or in a mobile-friendly version (this will open in your browser).
If you like us and want to help us support our website, head on over to our Patreon!
If you want to write for us, you have two options: you can submit an application here and be featured every month, or you can submit one piece of writing here. We love getting both!
If you have any questions for us, our ask box is always open! You can also email us at [email protected]
Thanks and happy reading,
—Amy, Dani, Jana, Adrianna, Rees
We’ve had a wonderful month! We received a submission that’s featured in this month’s issue, and we have a new writer! That being said, this is our longest issue yet (which is super exciting!), so that means more TSLM goodness just for you.
If you’re interested in submitting something to us for a future issue, please click here.
If you want to write for us regularly, please click here to submit an application.
You can find our issue on Tumblr or on our Wix site. There’s also a plain-text version here.
If you want to give us feedback, click here to go to our ask box or email us at [email protected]
“Have you ever seen one before?” they ask me in hushed tones.
“No,” I whisper back. “I've—I've never been this far away from the mainland.”
Too dangerous. Too risky. Too unlike me.
What had been different today?
What was it about the light from the moons that made wandering seem so tempting on a night like tonight? What was it about everyone's inherent sense of entitlement to life, the little voice in the back of their head, the it-couldn't-possibly-happen-to-me?
I’ve heard that people who see dreamwalkers usually don’t live to tell the tale.
I don’t realize that I have said this last sentence out loud until I am corrected with a hiss. Dreamwalkers is not a scientifically correct name, nor a politically correct one. Any statements as such are dismissed (as they should be) as exaggeration, bigotry, or outright fear mongering.
The truth of the matter, however, is that I have plenty of reasons to fear and hate those d— excuse me, the scientifically accurate name is homo-sapiens. They also often prefer to be called humans, but I’m not about to nickname the things.
The legends say that they are fearless, confusing beasts; hallucinating vividly every second they spend here as a result of travelling through dimensions. They are able to live most of their lives in their own land. However, they invade our countrysides on a regular basis. Those ‘sleeping’ invaders have no concept of the reality of our world. They project their own worried or hopes onto our landscape and can shift the very ground itself. That is why they are dangerous. That is why we, for the most part, stay in the mainlands. Except, of course, for special occasions and religious rituals.
That evening, I had been lulled by hubris into a sense of invincibility.
Frozen in panic, I was now paying the price.
They hold onto me closely. They whisper: “Well, I’ve seen one like this before.”
I stay silent. I watch the beast.
It moves unsteadily, mumbling rapidly in one of the creatures’ many languages. It looks as scared as I feel. Its limbs move at unnatural angles. It is desperate.
The ground, however, remains still. Slowly, slowly, the creature begins to disintegrate into wakefulness. I almost say, “We’re lucky we escaped with our lives.” Instead, I find myself speechless.
For a moment — a mere moment — I feel sympathy. And then relief.
It’s gone.
Keep reading for book reviews, haiku, and more!
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Six Word Sagas
Amelia S. Dickerson
Empty
Prenatal vitamins found in original packaging.
Loss
Doesn’t want to be alone anymore.
Hollow
Opened, pushed down, and turned away.
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Yakking Yarns - My New Job
Danielle Jeanne
Editor’s note:
This story takes place in a hospital, and some content may be considered graphic to some people.
I recently started a new job as a housekeeper at one of the local hospitals in my city. I love the job, I love the hours, and I tolerate the pay.
The things that I do not enjoy, however, are the situations that my job puts me into. I’ve had EMTs interrupt me by putting a patient onto the mattress I was still scrubbing. I have had to explain to two different patients that, no, you cannot take home the hospital grade soap that is attached to the shower wall. I had to scrub down an isolation room that contained traces of a virus that caused people to not only lose their bowels, but for that excrement to become toxic. I nearly interrupted someone’s last rites, arriving just before the chaplain did.
Surprisingly, all of these situations happened within the first three weeks of my employment.
Unsurprisingly, all of these situations pale in comparison to what happened to me on my second day.
I was still shadowing a co-worker, which required me to follow her and make sure that I understood how to do all of the duties that come with her position. She happens to be a Bed Maker. When a patient leaves, it’s her job to go and deep clean the room so that it is ready for a new patient. We walk past another Bed Maker in the middle of cleaning her assigned room. We, having no assignments yet, decide to help her. Being the new person, I am volunteered to go clean the bathroom.
The chrome on the sinks needed to be wiped down, as did the mirrors; the toilet had to have a good scrubbing, too. I checked both the paper towel dispenser and the toilet paper holder. To my luck, both were filled. I go about cleaning the toilet and sink, even rubbing the area around the light brown tile where the toilet connected to the floor to make sure that there was nothing blemishing any surface. When I finish, I turn to the shower.
The tiles were red.
I was aware that my job would have me deal with blood, but I was not expecting it to be this much in one place. It was splashed all the way over to one side, like someone had tried to clean it up and left the rest there. The blood was mostly dried in some places, so I knew that this would be a big job. I went and grabbed a wet mop to get started. As I was scrubbing the floor down, I noticed that some of the blood had seeped into the grout, making it quite difficult to scrub out.
Knowing that there was someone else in the main room, I knew that I could grumble about this and not be considered crazy by those passing the room in the hallway. “I just don’t understand why the bloodstains won’t come out of this tile!” I wandered back into the main room, looking to my co-workers for a solution.
The two women look at me, and pause for a beat. And then another. The younger of the two decides to break the silence that I created.
“Well, someone did die in there a few hours ago.” Her voice was without a single hint of remorse or pity for the patient or their family. I don’t believe her. There is no way someone could say something like that without a care in the world.
I turn to the eldest of the room for confirmation of this girl’s sick joke. Instead of getting my wish, I get a deadpan look.
Someone died in the bathroom at the hospital.
And I had to clean it up.
I love my job...
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Haiku Hiccups
Jana A
I
I like my armor.
Fanged smile, bright red lipstick,
head held high. Prepared.
II
You had a laugh like
raindrops and rivers flowing.
Did it freeze with time?
III
Fair and lovely: not
synonyms. Your beauty: not
measured by paleness
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Bookish Things - The Old Man and the Sea by Ernest Hemingway
Danielle Jeanne
The Old Man and the Sea, written by Ernest Hemingway, was published back in 1952. If I had been alive back in 1952, I would have hurled this book into the ocean by Cuba where it belongs. I feel that it is almost needless to say that I was greatly displeased with this novella. Actually, the fact that this book is a novella, a miniature novel, is part of my great frustration. A few words should not have had such a negative effect on my morale as this book did to me.
Now, please don’t get me wrong; the writing style of this book is absolutely wonderful. The words are simple and clean-cut so that you aren’t questioning yourself about understanding the point while reading it. However, given that Hemingway himself said that he “writes drunk, and edits sober,” we can conclude two things: A drunken Hemingway isn’t a poet, and a drunken Hemingway is a sad man.
This novella is very sad. I have read books about death, about lost love, and about lost morale, but none of them compare to this book. This book is about accepting that all hope is gone. Sure, you can try to go get your big fish, and when you do catch it, you can try and fight away sharks as they eat at your prize. But when push comes to shove, it doesn’t even matter what happens to you anymore. You are old, tired, and, quite possibly, dying tomorrow. Who cares when tourists come up to whatever is left of your fish, your dream, and call it a shark? Who cares when they call your dream the very thing that completely destroyed all you were living for?
Maybe the tourists were right. Your pursuit of your dream is what killed it in the first place.
Screw you, Hemingway.
I didn’t need that fish anyway.
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Microfiction Mania - Four Pennies
Amelia S. Dickerson
The best advice I’ve ever received was from my old neighbor lady when I was thirteen. We were visiting when she told me to always have four pennies for change.
“There will be times when you only need three pennies or two, but having four is crucial. If something is five dollars and ninety-nine cents, give the cashier six-oh-four and get a nickel back. Less change to carry around.”
I pondered this a moment. “Does everybody carry around four pennies?”
A sad look crossed Zina’s face before she answered. “No, but then you can help a friend out if you need to.” She poured me more grapefruit juice and said nothing more of it for a long time.
•••••
I was fifteen when I walked in and startled her for the first time.
“Oh, Korrie! It’s just you.”
“I’m sorry, Zina. I didn’t mean to scare you.” I dropped her mail in the basket on her coffee table.
She waved her hand as though to shoo away the trouble. “It’s no bother. You just reminded me of someone.” Zina put a tray of sandwiches beside the mail basket and eased herself into her chair.
I looked at her dark brown face while eating; she was getting more wrinkles around her dark eyes, but only smile-lines appeared near her mouth. I guessed that sort of thing happened when you were eighty-something.
She interrupted my thoughts with a question. “Korrie, have I ever told you about Phyllis Walker?” A twinkle and some sadness mixed in her eyes.
“I don’t think so. Who was she?”
“She was my best friend growing up. You look just like she did at your age.”
“Really? What was Phyllis like?”
Zina laughed. “An awful lot like you. Headstrong yet shy. A determined young lady. In fact, she’s the reason I started carrying four pennies around.”
“Because she told you to?”
“Heavens, no! She hated change so much that she always gave me hers after she bought something. Of course, she always needed some, too, so I ended up giving it back.” She laughed again, but it was quieter this time. “I haven’t thought about Phyllis in ages.”
“What about the pennies?”
Zina shook her head. “Another time, Korrie.”
•••••
When I turned eighteen, her daughter told us that Zina had Alzheimer’s, but that it wasn’t too bad yet. College kept me busier than I liked, but I visited at least once a week. I noticed small changes in her, but nothing to warrant extra concern.
I walked in one Saturday after work, taking her mail in with me. “Zina, it’s Korrie. How are you doing today?” I heard sounds in the kitchen and figured that she couldn’t hear me. “I’m putting your mail on the coffee table.”
No response.
“Zina?” When I walked into the kitchen, she was sitting on the floor, eating ice cream. “Zina!”
She turned and looked at me. “Phyllis, it’s been so long. Why haven’t you answered me?”
“Zina, it’s Korrie. Korrie Jacobsen. Phyllis isn’t here. It’s me, Korrie.” I took the bowl from her and set it on the island. I still don’t know how I remained so calm that day.
“Korrie. Korrie...” Realization flashed on her face. “Korrie. I’m sorry, Korrie. I don’t know what came over me.”
I helped her stand and guided her to the nearest chair. “You were eating ice cream on the floor. Do you know why?” I crouched so it was easier for her to look at me; more wrinkles appeared on her face than I remembered. “Zina?”
“I’m sorry, Korrie. How rude of me. Let me get you something.” She started to stand, but I pulled her back down.
“No, Zina. I know where everything is. You were eating ice cream earlier. Would you like to finish it?”
She shook her head, so I went and poured what was left down the sink and brought her a glass of water. “Drink this.”
Zina did as she was told and sat quietly for a while. I eventually moved to take care of the dishes on her counter, sitting again after I started the dishwasher.
“Phyllis stopped talking to me after Laurie was born. She’d loaned me...” she paused, remembering the moment. “She lent me four pennies when I was buying clothes. Money was tight. Hard times, you know.”
I nodded, encouraging her to continue.
“She got upset the next day and wanted them back. I just didn’t have money to repay her yet. Daniel’s paycheck would come in the next day, and I promised her four cents from that. Phyllis would have nothing of it. I tried to go to her house and give it to her, but she wouldn’t answer the door.” Zina shrugged and shook her head. “I guess I’ll never know why.”
•••••
Summer was soon upon us, and her daughter asked me to live with her. Zina needed someone to look after her before they could get her moved into a home. Her episodes got more frequent, and she often called me Phyllis.
Laurie came by one day and told me that there was finally a place for Zina in a local home, that they would take good care of her there. I helped her move and visited as often as I could.
Two days before my twentieth birthday, I found her in her room. She was cold, her lips were blue...
I don’t remember the week after that. I barely remember the funeral.
The only event that stands out is one day when I went to visit her grave. I ran my finger over her name and cried a good deal. When I turned to leave, I met eyes with an elderly lady that seemed eerily familiar. She said nothing to me, only taking my hand and dropping something into my palm, closing my fist with her fingers. As she walked off, I looked at what she’d given me.
There, in my hand, sat four pennies.
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Omission Poetry - Steam
Danielle Jeanne
I ____ in the mirror and see my ____
I recognize it; I’ve ____ this ____ my life through
What's the deal with semicolons, anyway? They're confusing; they're hard to write; they're altogether irritating. I'm only going to cover one usage, and that's as a super-comma.
In a list, we sometime put commas to modify items, so how do we know where each individual item is? By adding a semicolon. Here are some examples:
John, the milkman, Marjory, the maid, and Hamilton, the butler, all went to the market.
John, the milkman; Marjory, the maid; and Hamilton, the butler, all went to the market.
Do you see the difference? Let's look at another example.
We needed plates, cups, and bowls, forks, knives, and spoons, and napkins, tablecloths, and centerpieces for the party.
We needed plates, cups, and bowls; forks, knives, and spoons; and napkins, tablecloths, and centerpieces for the party.
Could we have put commas between everything? Absolutely. However, by doing it this way, we see the different categories that the items fall into: silverware, dishes, and other table things.
Though this isn't the only way to use a semicolon, it's definitely one that can help clear things up. Go out and write; use all the semicolons you can.
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Lucky Limerick
Jana A
Seaside Tragedy
One day an old man went sailing,
And when his ship crashed, his wife started wailing.
For his death, she blamed sirens and fate,
Her heart was crushed by despair's dark weight—
They were soon united when it began failing.
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Unnecessarily Censored Poetry - There is another sky by Emily Dickinson
Danielle Jeanne
There is another sky,
Ever *bleep* and fair,
And there is another sunshine,
Though it *bleep* darkness there;
Never mind faded forests, Austin,
Never mind *bleep* fields -
Here is a little forest,
Whose *bleep* is ever green;
Here is a brighter garden,
Where not a *bleep* has been;
In its unfading flowers
I hear the bright bee *bleep*:
Prithee, my brother,
Into my *bleep* come!
◆◇◆◇◆
Editorial
Amelia S. Dickerson
I once read a quote by some guy (who’s probably long-dead) that said to always write about a place after you leave. He then explained that distance gives you perspective, so that’s why you wait until you’re home.
I disagree with this advice to some extent. While I agree that distance gives you perspective, there’s something to be said for how you experience the moment. Sometimes your first thoughts are your best ones (and sometimes they’re wrong, but that’s different). Sometimes it’s better to relive the innocence of the moment than to remember the hard-earned wisdom that came after.
Distance gives you perspective, but too much distance can make the picture blurry. Too much distance muddies the colors and removes the smells from the equation, leaving an imbalanced idea where you can’t quite solve for x.
Don’t misunderstand me; I know that if you wait until you sort out your feelings and thoughts, your words will make more sense. That being said, there’s still something about the rawness of the first impression that adds a certain flavor to your writing. You might be wrong, but the initial reactions stick with you in a way that nothing else can.
I think it’s crucial to record those thoughts. Even if they are wrong, they are yours, and they’re something you can carry with you and learn from. After all, how can we write anything and not learn from it by taking it apart and putting it back together into something better?
Distance gives you perspective, but the heart of writing comes from closeness. Don’t lose the closeness.
