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Mona Lisa
Nat King Cole is singing Mona Lisa on the 33-rpm record spinning on the portable record player the day I walk into Gim Loong Chow Mein at 4948 France Ave. South in Edina, Minnesota. Wearing a yellow poplin Doris Day shirtwaist with a full pleated skirt, I am fourteen years-old and applying for my first job. The Chinese takeout restaurant has a large rectangular shaped kitchen with a walk-in cooler and long industrial stove top that houses three prodigious woks for orders cooked from scratch. -
Early Ventures in Real Estate
Until recently, I’d never been involved in buying or selling a home. What little I knew was based on watching 347 episodes of Love It or List It. Putting your house on the market requires a lot more than posting a sign in the yard with the words “For Sale,” blood-colored paint dripping from each letter. While this might attract a certain clientele—namely someone who sleeps in a casket and requests midnight showings—most house hunters expect something more professional. This is why you need a r -
Fictus
Roman Black first learned the news at exactly 4:06 a.m. He didn’t wake up until the third ring and answered the phone in a haze. The words he heard sent a jolt down his spine; he sat up in bed to listen more clearly. “How?” he asked. The explanation—and the problem—made less sense the more Diana spoke. He told her he would be there as soon as he could. Ending the call, he moved quietly around the room to gather clothes. “What’s going on?” Peter asked. “A problem at the museum. A Matisse has -
Fragments
by Brian MosherFragments, like flashes of light, illuminating a moment, leaving the next moment in darkness along with the last. She is a collection of movements as she walks through the park, late afternoon, early fall. Around her, everything flows to the uneven rhythm of the moving air, in harmony but independently, not so much in concert as in sympathy. The swirling hem of her skirt rises and falls, revealing a knee, a fragment of thigh, then concealing. Her hair, blown by the same breez -
Help Wanted
I saw the ad in the local paper. It was stuffed into a corner, barely three lines: Travel, see the sights. No experience needed. Call (555)733-8436 or come to the open house, Thursday at St. Patrick’s Church, 1 to 3 in the basement meeting hall. It sounded okay, and it wasn’t like they could harvest my organs in the basement of a Catholic church. I needed something; everything else had fallen through, and the rent was due in a week. It was Wednesday afternoon, so I rummaged through my closet an -
Candymantle
What’s it like being raised in a candy shop? There’s fire in the kettle. Made up of a thousand little mirrors of you, one in each hand-beaten dimple of the copper. There is wood. Carved by hand, axe-head heft, palm-stained by years of use. There is ash on the furnace. There is sugar and blood. And sweat. Always sweat. And a burner quietly screaming amongst the howls and shakes and thuds of propane pipes. There is soot. It lines the walls, makes a heat-map of every joint and joist beneath the d -
Who's the Lamb Now?
The sun creeps around the edges of my sunglasses and forces me to squint. I don’t even care because there is a coconut in my hand filled with an elixir of the islands and a little umbrella. I’m on a cruise to the Bahama’s where I will spend five glorious fun-filled days. We were given free drink tickets when we boarded and mine are safely in my pocket. I’m sporting short shorts, a tank top, tennis shoes, extremely long and very permed hair. After all, it is the ’90s and I’m in my early thirties -
Fertile Ground
The last of the day’s sun rays reached their fingers through the remaining clouds, resting on the newly turned black dirt in my father's garden. Smoke from the neighbor's burning leaves floated into the patch like incense. I watched as Daddy dug with his turning fork, unearthing a juicy worm already spotted by the robin loitering a few feet away. I wiggled my toes into the moist black soil until they disappeared, then wiggled them back to the surface. Sister sifted through the newly turned dirt -
Dear Stranger
Letter to The Stranger I met in The Bus Today . Dear Stranger , I don’t know if it is okay to call you My stranger ,Or call you the girl with a pink cardigan ,who sat by the window with a pink journal on her hand and a plush sky-blue teddy bear hanging by her backpack .I noticed that today you were slightly agitated , I wondered if you still remembered me , stranger . I wondered if you remembered the red haired girl who shared a table with you on your first day in high school , but mostly I wo -
Dying to Know Who Will Show
by Zeek TaylorDeath rituals and customs in the Arkansas Delta are set in stone. When I was a child, I attended an occasional funeral, and I often accompanied my parents when they went to visitations. The visitations took place the evening before a funeral when people gathered to pay their respects and to view the body of the deceased. The event was usually held in a funeral home, but at times it took place in a private home. When I did attend a visitation, I was amazed at the floral displays. Large metal scr -
There Is No Grief In My Mother's House
Udoka often regards thoughts of death with the weight of uncertainty pressing into the corners of his mind; an unsure kind of sadness in his heart, a secondhand grief gathering in his throat. It might have been the nature of grief–the startling quality of sad wails and the dramatic flair with which people mourned–that caused him to think of death as an inherently malevolent thing, a thing worthy of being feared. Once, when he was seventeen and his mother had just received the call informing he -
A Chance to Be Saved
by Zeek TaylorIn the early 70s I taught Junior High Art in Saint Louis. My fellow teachers became my running buddies. One of my friends, Evelyn, was a music teacher. Due to her position, she scored two free season tickets to the Saint Louis Symphony. I often went with her. I was appreciative of her generosity because as a poorly paid teacher, I could not have afforded to attend the symphony. However, there was a torturous trade-off. Evelyn had become involved in a charismatic Catholic-based faith healing move -
Christmas 1962
by John RankineIt was Christmas 1962, I was seven-and-a-half years old and having serious doubts whether Santa Claus was real. It was all the usual clues – the multiple Santas in the various malls, the hidden packages under my parents’ bed and the serious doubts a man with a white beard could fly in the sky with eight reindeer, squeeze down a chimney we didn’t even have, and deliver millions of toys to all the world’s boys and girls in just one night. I was raised in the suburbs of Toronto, the middle child o -
The “Post” in Postcolonialism
Google search: I no longer speak to myself in my mother tongue. Google search: I no longer think in my mother tongue. Google search: I no longer dream in my mother tongue. Google search: How do I mourn the death [word deleted] the loss of my identity? Google search: Meditation for trauma Google search: Quran cleanse for anxiety and grief Google search: Did Algeria open its borders? Google search: When will Algeria open its borders? Google search: Covid cases in Algeria Google search: I have Covi -
How to Get Lost
by Louise Krug1. Nick, the kids, and I were invited to a birthday party for the father of my daughter’s friend. They lived far out in the country on a ranch, in an old stone house. We wanted to go because they are nice people, but Nick was out of town so I had to drive. This was a problem, but could be overcome, if we planned carefully (I don’t drive on the highway because I have double vision, a result of a brain surgery I had in my early twenties). After breakfast, Nick and I peered at our phon -
Honk! If You’ve Read Boot
The other day I was thinking of a new way I might promote my book, Boot: A Sorta Novel of Vietnam. My youngest daughter, a self-proclaimed computer Guru, said, “Pop, you’re pretty damn good at marketing; about the only thing you haven’t tried is bumper stickers.” Bumper stickers, I am thinking to myself, they work pretty good for politicians and whales. So, my daughter and I set off to FayetteNam to one of those chain print stores to check out designing and printing bumper stickers. Normally, I’ -
Slingshot
by Diane WienerAt first, I think I know a story and its timing, but then I don’t, and can only conjecture. There’s a lot that I cannot seem to recall with certainty about my father’s carved wooden slingshot—when and why he made it, how I inherited it. As happens when I look at photographs of him, particularly the one of him smiling, around age eight, sitting on a high-back chair with his arms way up in the air, I can usually hold the slingshot for just a few seconds before the emotions rush and sweep. Except -
Meandering in Blue
by Darlene GrafAm I blue? If you have to ask then you’re probably blue. Billie Holiday asked it. I asked it while climbing a steep hill in the Missouri moonlight. Am I blue? Yes–blue in that indulgent way that is melancholic but also a nice reprieve from the energy of netting joy and complacency, the steady stab of boredom. I am blue like a flat stone under the cold moonlight. I am blue like a Blue Jay feather caught in the slide of gravity. I am blue like a clock that doesn’t tic, stuck in time, blue inertia. -
A Calling to Return
I’m not sure why my mind keeps returning to my time on the hill, the remote hill in Vermont I so wanted to leave when I was eighteen and felt penned in by the smallness of it all. The wider world was calling, the promise of college and meeting new faces and hearing stories about places I hadn’t been and hoped to one day see. I couldn’t understand why some of my graduating classmates weren’t doing everything they could to get away. I was ready to grow up and grow out, to get away from the hill, -
Dancing in the Dark
by Zeek TaylorIt was socially acceptable in the 1970s for two women to dance together. They danced together in nightclubs, street fairs, and on telecasts of the popular American Bandstand show. The same was not true for men dancing together. It was so taboo that when I lived in Memphis in the 70s, it was illegal for two men to dance together. I don’t know if it was a city law or a state law, but it was one that was enforced in Memphis. Arrests did take place. Four male couples were arrested for dancing toget -
Madonna of the Matilijas
Looking out my window, I see the Madonna blessing the white Matilija poppy on my windowsill. It's a showy flower baroque petals, paper thin; glowing golden heart the kind of thing she's used to. They grow wild in the empty lot next door. A hundred decades of unanswered prayers echo through my brain. Hail Mary, full of grace… Please let… Please make… Please get… Please take… Candles flicker; stale whiff of incense, beeswax, hair oil and perfumed soap. Shabby coats brushed, shoes polished, hair s -
Zen and the Art of Pest Management in the Organic Garden
When I had a regular practice of sitting meditation, I sat early on a summer’s morning on a zafu in my screened porch before going to our large organic garden. Now, at 80, with diminishing energy and strength, mindful work in the garden has become my morning meditation. Better for my arthritic joints, this exercise produces as beneficial an effect for quieting my mind as sitting ever did. I internalize external sounds (cawing of crows) from the natural world as mantra—a keen reminder to pay atte -
Our Stories
Mark told the story of Fred, how he sank when the light came. Fred told the story of Mary when she continued to sweep up the dead birds at the foot of the high wall. Mary told the story of Mark when he had cheerfully hidden the future. Mark told the story of Fred facing beyond the skies when the light folded. Fred told the story of Mary patiently listening to him. Mary told the story of Fred, but he was not listening. Fred and Mark touched tongues and told the story of Mary passing between them. -
Kiss Bye Kate
by Kate KaiserI feel a little stuck, as stuck as a golden goddess of goodness gets. I keep telling myself, all is part of the journey. I pushed myself this past month, less time for reflection, my body and spirit feel vulnerable. I long for familiarity, for connection, for a hello-hello-hello returned. My friend Lynn called. Left a message to have a great trip. I exist to somebody else. I am thought of, she is thoughtful. Bob feels so far away. Almost as if, when was he here? Can’t remember when I last cried -
The Family Farmhouse
I’d loved the time spent learning to ride a horse, to preserve tomatoes from the garden, watching Cicadas unfold themselves from their shells. There were always kittens in the barn in the spring, iced tea brewing in the sunshine from the kitchen window, but my grandparents are gone, buried an entire state away. The house and surrounding acres managed by their children and fought over and divided and sold and fought over until just the house remains and the patch of lawn around it, and she wants -
Little Green Lies
UAP is the new UFO, according to Zed. “Unidentified Aerial Phenomena,” he repeats for Sal, who is hanging on to his uncle’s every word. My brother is more animated than I’ve seen him in years. He is waving his fork in the air with what looks like a little green turd impaled on the end. Except it isn’t a turd. It’s a dumpling, and a rather delicious one at that. Alas, kale is the new potato when it comes to gnocchi. Another dinner party success thanks to Trader Joe’s and my wife’s spinach and b -
Here We Go Loop De Loop
An Excerpt from the novel Marty stared at her forty-two-year-old nude body in the full-length bathroom mirror. “This is what middle-age looks like, kid. You were never Miss Hotsy to begin with, but it worked. Worked damn fine for years. You could frequently get what you wanted, and let’s be honest, usually not what you needed. But in the end, you never gave this corpus you were born with all that much consideration. And now ... now! Well, what’s to be done? The sagging, the stretch lines, the w -
My Red Shoes
Even on our black and white television I could see Dorothy’s red shoes, dazzling, and I wanted some. I’d dance down the yellow brick road, sashaying with the Scarecrow, Tin Man, and Lion, the happiest little girl in Oz. I just new I’d impress when the Wizard’d see me in those red shoes. Didn’t really know many colors back then, just the ones from the Crayola box with the words, Basic Five printed on it; it didn’t really matter cause I couldn’t draw anyway. Still, I knew red, so pretty on shoes. -
Still Not Dead Yet
(The attached non-fiction essay currently appears in a compilation of essays titled Not Dead Yet (V2), edited by Daniel Krotz.) Standing in front of the full-length mirror, I stare at the image looking back at me. Who is she, I often ask myself? This older woman with graying hair, wrinkles around her eyes, parchment paper-thin skin, old age spots. And yet, she looks oddly familiar, this unedited version of myself. I decide I do not like her and try to banish her from my life. But she is per -
Middle Class Anxiety
When asked why poor and middle class people vote against their own interest, President Lyndon Johnson said: If you can convince a person he is better than someone else, he won’t know you’ve picked his pockets. Give a person someone to look down on, and he’ll empty his pockets for you. (Paraphrased from Nancy Isenberg’s White Trash…History of Class in America with omissions of profanities, racial indicators, and political references). My middle class suburban neighbors recently confirmed that Jo -
An Ordinary Life
by Jerry DavisShe backed through the door, revealing an ordinary kitchen Susan knew was filled with ordinary things. There were ordinary appliances, ordinary kitchen cabinets, ordinary flatware utensils in ordinary drawers, and ordinary cans of food in the pantry. There was ordinary wallpaper on the wall and ordinary paint on the woodwork. Even the mauve curtains and the off-beige linoleum with tiny brown diamonds were ordinary. An ordinary kitchen table sat in the center with ordinary kitchen chairs and her -
A Belfast Legend
Growing up in Belfast during the Troubles had its ups and downs. There were times when the roads or schools were closed because of bomb scares or when you were stranded in town and you’d overhear some old biddy announce to everyone in Castle Street, “The buses is off.” The smell of burnt out cars and petrol bombs hung in the air like an unwanted friend while men and women protected their area taking turns to stand on the barricades. Many of the sights and sounds became normal and almost comforti -
Writers Are Thieves
by Nikki HannaAt a writers conference in New York City, I took a break from an all-night writing marathon. An Oklahoma woman out of my element, I sat in a diner at two o’clock in the morning, drinking coffee. The Friday night crowd trailed in after a frenzied night of fun. Some patrons were decked out in nightclub garb. In contrast, I looked like a French café slouch in clothes comfortable enough to be classified as pajamas and hair resembling a cat toy. I was not bothered by my appearance, though. In New Yor -
In the Time of Leaving
by Shana RitterPrologue My name is Chava. My story is one of leaving. A litany of what I hold in my empty hands. The scent of bread and the sound of horses in the narrow street, the fog rising from the river, the call of the muezzin, the resonant bells of the cathedral. And too, the silence of the synagogue outside its walls, while inside there is the shuffle of men davening, the whisper of women’s song descending from the balcony. A mumble of prayer. These are the things I remember; the shadow of candles -
Jasmine
by Carolyn DahlWhy can’t things you give away, stay given away, Barbara wondered. Isn’t that why you give them away, so you don’t have to see them again? Old clothes move on to new lives. Why couldn’t this girl do the same? Barbara cradled the fragile, blue-luster teapot she’d bought in Japan and placed it on the red Chinese lacquer tray. This meeting hadn’t been Barbara’s idea. To her, the girl didn’t exist. What right does a stranger have to demand space in her life now? If the girl hadn’t started crying on -
In Praise of Men in Uniforms
by Nikki HannaThing I and Thing II were coming for a visit, which required preparations: meds relocated, furniture turned into blockades, glass tabletop corners cushioned, and an alarm set on balcony doors so a ding, ding, ding signals when orders are ignored not to pet Coco (a squirrel who begs for food). And, carseats must be installed. This last task seemed simple enough, but I watched my son-in-law perform this function one day and concluded that for me it would be a physical, mental, and mechanical chal -
Down There
Sex education didn’t exist in the ‘50s. I’m guessing there may have been a few enlightened parents who told their children about “the birds and the bees” as it was called back then, but I never met any of them or their children. All the kids in my neighborhood were equally ignorant, so we banded together, pooling our scant and misguided knowledge, working diligently to assemble the illusive pieces of the sexual puzzle. The brave among us asked our mothers, but they weren’t talking. We’d heard -
Just Dessert
In the winter of 1993 I backpacked around Italy. I was in the Peace Corps in Poland at the time, and was only able to afford the trip because I had some money left from a guaranteed student loan. In order to save money on food I would frequent department store cafeterias and dive restaurants catering to the poorest students. If those places proved too pricey, I could squat between the pan handlers and street musicians working a city fountain and scarf down take away pizza, flicking crumbs to the -
Pierced
by Zeek TaylorApril 1972: I was back home at my parent’s house for Spring break from the Memphis College of Art when I noticed the strange looking gold hoops lying on the sink in the bathroom. They were perfectly round, about the size of a nickel, with an opening that had a gold ball on one end and a very sharp point on the other end of the loop. Next to the hoops was an instruction pamphlet that read: place the earrings on the lobe, leave in place and the earrings will self-pierce in a matter of weeks. I the