Cold Coffee Magazine Issue 4

Cold Coffee Jacob Erin-Cilberto

Bad Parents & Bad Writers Advice on accepting constructive criticism Udder Chaos

By Anne Martin Editors Choice Poetry by members of the Cold Coffee Writing Community

Dennis Flemming’s Running Water An insightful story that delves into the mind of a marathon runner.

Interview with author

Mark P Henderson Novelist Mark Henderson shares his thoughts on writing a novel and getting it published.

“I have tried simply to write the best I can. Sometimes I have good luck and write better than I can.” Ernest Hemmingway 1 The Voice Of Promising Writers

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Featured Writer

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What’s in Your Cup? Cold Coffee Magazine is a quarterly publication produced by members of the Cold Coffee Writing Community. It is dedicated to the voice of promising writers everywhere, writers who might otherwise go unheard. Each issue features an interview with a successful author, a short story, a number of poems, a list of twenty books found in the CC Bookstore and several helpful articles on writing. All work published in CCM was submitted by members of the CC writing community (www.coldcoffee.ning.com). Those writers interested in seeing their work published in CCM need only join the CC writing community and read the submission process. All who submit will be considered but not everyone who submits will be published. As compensation, those writers whose work is published will receive an invitation to the online web site where each issue of CCM is produced. Advertisers interested in having their company or their products represented in CCM or on the CC community web site may go to the CC community and submit your interest to David Price, creator of Cold Coffee.

Magazine Staff David Price – Owner, Designer, Chief Editor Rachel Brower – Poetry Submissions Editor

Contributors Members of the Cold Coffee Writer Community Flikr community of photographers CCM is available through Magcloud.com

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Cold Coffee 6

Bad Parents And Bad Writers - Rachel Blackbirdsong

An article about the importance of listening to and accepting constructive criticism.

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Running Water - Dennis Flemming

A short story about a runner, a race and the mental challenges he must endure.

10 Featured Writer Jacob Erin-Cilberto - David Price 14 Interview with author Mark P Henderson Mark Henderson is this issues featured novelist. In this interview he talks about his experiences as a writer, his failures and his successes. In this Q&A Marks explains what helped him become a better writer and offers his advise on publishing.

18 Angel Of Windword - Maggie Dove Maggie is a first time author from Cuba who mailed us a copy of her novel, Angle Of Windword. Read about this amazing writer and her fantastic new book.

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MAGAZINE 20 Tortured Skin - James C Gillen Tortured Skin is a surprisingly fresh take on vampires written by an author with growing credits in the Horror market. In this review you can find out more about James and his thrilling new page-turner.

22 Udder Chaos - Anne Martin Udder Chaos is a fascinating short story defining one woman's plight. Anne Martin’s rogue writing skill makes this a quick and entertaining must-read.

Editors Choice Poetry

26 For this issue we have collected 22 pieces of enduring poetry. Members featured in this issue include: Michelle Jordan, JC, Jonathan Hamilton, Poppysilver, Mary Sweeny, Shai Adair, Hannah Kirk, Elissa Robertson, Fabian Franklin, Jenny, Cyre Phillips, James Brower, Guinevere, Smokin Joe, Pamela Price, P. A. Matthews, Mary Neilson, Debileah and David Price

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Bad Parents And Bad Writers By Rachel Blackbirdsong Now before anyone gets upset that this is going to be an article decrying parents or parenting skills I would like to clarify that that’s exactly what is it. However I’m not talking about those who are parents in the traditional sense. This article is for those who use the excuse of their writing being like their children and because of that stance refuse to listen or accept constructive criticism in any form. Of course many of these precious babies are neglected of necessary care. Certainly if you left a baby in a loaded diaper and refused to do anything to change it you’d be considered a neglectful parent and rightly so. It’s the same with writers. If your writing needs to be changed or shall we say edited because of typos, sentence structure issues or any of the many writing issues that can occur, what is better, being a neglectful writer who refuses to make those necessary changes or caring enough about your work that you’re willing to take an honest look at it and do what

you can to help it grown and improve? True no parent – the traditional type or the writer type – wants to hear what’s wrong with their children; especially if they don’t see any wrong themselves, but sometimes that is exactly what needs to happen. Just as sometimes parents have to endure and attend parent/teacher meetings or meetings with counselors and therapists, writers also need to learn how to accept constructive criticism. I’m not saying this is easy nor am I saying that I haven’t fallen into the bad parent bit myself at times. We do fall in love with our writing because it is our baby. Only a writer knows how much effort goes into their work as they watch their stories, poems, novels and whatever else grows from an idea into completed projects. It’s very much the same as it is with parents who give birth to children and put a lot of effort into giving them care and love so that they can grow up and mature.

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Of course this is the dividing line between good parenting and bad. Good parents nurture their children. They provide them with love, but also discipline because they want their children to become good people when they grow up. This isn’t an easy thing since in teaching these vital life lessons to their children, parents have to look at their children’s faults, strengths and weaknesses with love and honesty. Sometimes in this pursuit parents have to take on unsentimental roles because it’s what best for their children. Writers have a relationship that is very similar to that with their work. In order for their work to become as good as it can be they need to be able to look at it honestly and without sentiment. Sometimes another pair of eyes can see things that they don’t. I know that because I am oftentimes better at editing others work than my own so I’m grateful when others reciprocate their editing abilities to me.

The problem is that many writers don’t appreciate such help. They use the excuse of their work being their baby as if the rest of us haven’t any idea of the concept. Perhaps I’m wrong but when someone uses that excuse to me, who as a fellow writer clearly understands the relationship that we all have with our writing, I feel as if they are saying that they care more about their work than I do. Well I do care about my writing and if my writing needs to be edited I care enough about to edit it and not whine. Just as a caring parent realizes that they have to work with their children to help them become well-behaved, a writer has to work on their writing to ensure that it is well-written and polished. Editing is a discipline. It takes discipline and commitment and yes, love to work at your writing. When I see other writers who have been willing to make the necessary sacrifices to their work it makes me appreciate them and their work all the more. However the same cannot be said for those who clearly aren’t willing to make those sacrifices. True, we all make mistakes. There is no such thing as perfect writer or perfect writing, but there is a difference between refusing to work at your writing and not. I am in the second category. I am a good parent to my writing. So the question is what kind

of parent to your writing are you going to be? It really doesn’t matter what the answer because you’re the only one who will know it, but just the same it’s a good question that all writers need to ask themselves. No one sets out to be a bad writer just as no one sets out to be bad parent. Just as no parent wants to be known as neglectful or uncaring of their children, no writer wants to be known as someone who writes things that are filled with typos, grammar, structural, bad plots and storylines or any of the many issues that often need correcting and editing. If this happens by mistake that’s one thing. There is no such thing as writer who doesn’t make mistakes, but if there is a refusal to edit or listen when others point out mistakes then you’re on the road to becoming a bad writer.

about how good your work is as much as they care about scoring points or ranking then that answer is pretty clear. However if you want to grow as a writer and create works that you can be proud of that are worthy of publication then that answer is pretty clear as well. That is what I hope for myself, and that is why I work at my writing. Do I think I’m the best thing out there? Absolutely not, but do I think that I’m better than I was when I first started writing, yes indeed. I love my children and I discipline them. It’s not easy but the effort is well worth it. As far as my writing goes I am a good parent and my children are disciplined, well-mannered and loved.

It doesn’t matter how much talent you have or how original your ideas are, if you don’t discipline yourself to edit your work or learn how to take constructive criticism then you will never grow as a writer. Your babies will be neglected and never become the fine pieces of work that they could be. So the answer to my question is up to you and up to your own personal commitment as a writer. If all you want is praise on social sites from fans that don’t care 7

Running Water By Dennis Flemming At the fourth mile, I pull off my sweat-soaked shirt and throw it to the ground. A St. Louis Track Club volunteer will pick it up. They clean up the shirts and caps, discarded liquids containers and cups, headbands and wristbands. Some volunteers offer drinks at aid stations along the twentysix-mile course. I grab a drink at each station whether I need it or not, so I can stockpile fluids that I will lose as the race progresses. I perspire more than most runners. Some cool their bodies better through efficient evaporation and don’t perspire much. I wipe everything with a small sponge: my belly and chest, my eyes, forehead and the sides of my face; forearms, and the back of my neck. I squeeze out a shower that hits the pavement and speckles it with grey spots like loose change. It is me—part of my physiology—I squeeze onto the earth, and runners in my

wake press me onto their shoe soles while I tread on the bits of those I am chasing. Amid the soft pattering of runners’ shoes, I recall summer mornings of my youth. My brothers and I pulled bullfrogs out of farm ponds by skewering the amphibians with trident-tipped spears. Alert creatures leapt to watery freedom and issued warning calls. Their neighbors let loose a cacophony of croaks, leaps, and splashes that spread ripples around the pond’s edge. I can never run a long distance race without thinking about those frogs. Soon, I will sound like one. A familiar discord of croaks begins to emerge from the six-mile aid station ahead. I check my balance and slowly bring my right forearm parallel to the ground. Volunteers are shouting, “Water!” and “Gator aid!” I grab an overflowing Dixie cup from a water-soaked woman and slam the cup to my mouth, taking in the cool liquid with one gulp before I drop the spent container. Now, the uncomfortable wait while the pocket of air that tagged along with the water and settled at the top of my stomach like a golf ball finds its escape route. Fifteen seconds later, I join the chorus of runners burping like bullfrogs. I

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laugh, imagining us launching our long sticky pink tongues and capturing little winged protein supplements in our path. Laughter gives me a slight energy boost that a rush of sweat immediately thwarts. Saline oozes from my forehead and flows like tears into my eyes. I slide my cotton headband around and bring a drier section to my forehead—it won’t last long. I’m down to my shoes, socks, shorts, sponge, and headband. At ten miles, I ditch the limp, heavy headband. Running and wiping become my endurance dance. My feet are calloused in the right places and I wear the right shoes, so moisture can’t blister me. It’s me, my sponge, and sweat. I had never given much thought to the sponge until training for this event. Marathon training is about a three-to-fourmonth process. One increases distance each week from five miles per day to 22. The longest runs are on Sundays, which is also the day of the week they hold the marathon. A few weeks before the race, I average 13 miles a day. Consequently, they are my greatest sweat periods. I buy six-packs of sponges, palm-sized models of green, blue, and yellow.

They are cheap and, for what they do for me, the best bargain in the world of running. The day before a marathon is a rare day with no running. It’s all about energy conservation. I was resting in preparation for the grueling task and then I got an idea. It started as a possible way to make some extra money. I’d find a way to buy the sponges in huge quantities, which would reduce what I pay from cheap to negligible. The simple re-handling, shipping, and internet marketing charges would let me tack on a profit and give my fellow runners an item that cost less than what they would pay at any retail store. I’d write up a set of directions for pre-soaking and rinsing, and the proper period before the accumulated body odors demand attention. A setup in my garage could be a fun experiment and if the idea took off, someone else could easily manage it. Ladies and gentlemen, introducing the Runner’s Sponge. It occurred to me that I might be ripping people off selling them something they could walk into any supermarket and buy. But from me, they’d really buy the idea—a valuable idea that I’d proved useful in a new way. I’d charge a few bucks for a package of six,

so it wouldn’t be about the money. I decided to put a disclaimer in the package insert that recognized this fact and offer a money-back guarantee. The project excited me and Mount Ego erupted. I imagined multitudes of my surrogates everywhere, on every school track, every jogging path, street, and roadside. Sweaters like me, running throughout the world wiping and refreshing themselves, squeezing themselves, my proxy bits, onto the ground everywhere. Drops and splashes left to evaporate or collect onto the shoe soles of people from every nation. One day’s accumulation of that salt laden perspiration could start a new ocean, the Sweatific Ocean, off the coast of Me. I pictured myself sailing under a clear sky and reveling in self awe when a white, grey-stained envelope plopped on the deck near my feet. The envelope contained a damp foulsmelling runner’s sponge. A storm of envelopes poured thousands of dirty refund requests into the boat, threatening to capsize it. Postal workers in scuba gear rose from my waters and dumped sacks of putrid wet packages on the deck. My sea of Me began swirling, pulling my cargo-laden sailboat to-

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ward some unknown punishment for the sins of my ego. I wished I’d rented a motorboat. Burps from the runners ahead of me ended my nightmare as I approached the twelve-mile station. I wiped and squeezed out some of myself onto the pavement. What did I need, water or Gator aid? The last two miles had gone by fast. One day I’ll get serious about the Runner’s Sponge. I slowly bring my right forearm parallel to the ground.

Featured Writer Jacob Erin -Cilbirto Jacob Erin-Cilberto has been writing poetry since 1970. Some of his credits include a nomination for the Pushcart Prize for poetry in 2006 - 2008 and appearances in numerous magazines and journals including: Cafe Review, Wind Journal, Pegasus, Skyline Magazine, Hudson View, Black Widow, Pen Himalyas and others. He has authored 10 poetry books including Against The Current. and his latest book An Abstract Waltz, which is due out in December. When he’s not writing Jacob teaches poetry workshops for the Heartland Writers Guild, Southern Illinois Writers Guild and Union County Writers group which, allows him to share his love of the art with others. When asked about his writing Jacob replied, “ I feel like a conduit when it comes to writing poetry.

[It’s as if] I’m not responsible for the words I write...the feeling is one of the words coming to and through me. I write in spurts. When it is there, it is there and I feel I must do it. Maybe [its] a calling, who knows? But the muse has her own mind and appears as she will. I feel very lucky to get to do this thing called poetry.” “It makes me feel alive.”

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From the mind and pen of Jacob Erin-Cilberto The "Elmo" Theory dominant genes "how to" manuals read instinctively against the crossbred hairs of stiff resistance love tickles me within but the laughter withheld the tape shuts itself off with the first giggle as i wiggle out of the feeling plastic skin constriction your face is the fantasy i play with in my diluted mind God's sway from a factory of resuscitation the breathing doll on life support trying to smile just a smile a hint of a smile to indicate life beats within a toy's breast.

Jacob Erin-Cilberto

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Extraction flat line me into your light share the knife let's cut the vein and find the ore of love within i'm a miner in need of an adit access to your gold charm let's hold hands wander across the sky heaven is a horizontal hope lying vertically challenged within an ascending filament of infinite blue bedrock.

Writer bare minimum, Hemingway type charisma, thin silk under jeans inviting glances dark eyes in spasmodic stares ephemeral reckonings the flowers rose beneath the wings of dispassionate reason, tattooed longing released alone, hands reach into pockets of wistful balance smooth material finds its way into novel upbringing, innocence finds its way into streets of chaos

Jacob Erin-Cilberto

grab a sign and follow me into blissful yesterdays we can recapture the iconic rashness and find that it really was a well thought out idealism that only was understood after we undressed the consequences of wonder and walked together hand in hand... believing it could be real and we could fly away in daffodil dreams.

Jacob Erin-Cilberto

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Anonymous Traveler i've been through the wars and the fields of dreams the innocent front seats and not so innocent back seats through the rose colored glasses and dark glasses through the bruising days and soothing nights the demonstrations and lines of demarcation been a clunker, a junker a true blue spelunker searching a new cave for feelings to explore having abhorred the rest thinking i was the best ridden upon subjunctives the "if i were you" and "if i were he" conjunctives the twists of fate and getting there just a little too late sold my soul for passion and bought it back for ration fed my ego's mouth then saw my friends go south i've been stone blind and stoned blind thrown out at the curb while riding in some absurd dream some Aesop scheme seen my life abundant with cheer redundant with too much beer held the knife to my brazen throat while toting the white flag of submission felt my weary pen out of commission eaten of complacency lost my decency smoked the last of my cigarettes fingers yellowed with regrets but found summation in my isolated nation of one, that when my life is said and done and i am seasoned for my fall i won't need to stall, for i've done it all, and will die with vibrant colors on knowing the ground which i will lie upon will accept me just the same as any other leaf with any other name. Jacob Erin-Cilberto

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What makes a story good? Is it perfectly written scenes and flawless plots? Herman Melville, author of Moby Dick would probably agree that both of those elements were important to his novel, but to me what made that story an American Classic are the characters. The first line says it all … “Call me Ishmael.” If you know the story you know Ishmael wasn’t a ship; he was the main character or at least one of the two if you consider the whale important to the story. It’s the characters that propel a story along its tracks. They are the focal point that keeps the reader glued to a book. Great characters are remembered for what makes them unique, a character whose personality sets them apart from the crowd, whose dilemma is more desperate than anything we as readers have ever experienced. As a writer, creating the iconic character can be a personal and life absorbing event, but it can also be the most rewarding. One writer who knows this is Mark Henderson, author of Perilaus. In his psychological thriller Mark writes about an author who has difficulty separating himself from his character. In this interview Mark talks about his writing techniques, inspirations and publishing experience. CCM: Welcome Mark and thank you for taking this time to be with us. I’ve read a little about Perilaus and I am intrigued. It really delves into the mind of the writer. Tell us where the idea for this story came from? MPH: There were several sources. One was my fascination with story-telling and its importance in human life: ‘historical fact’ always yields to the demand for ‘a good story’, whether in history per se, or in legend, or in criminal trials, or in newspaper reports, or in the rumours and tales we all repeat. Another was my experience of tutoring inmates in a Scottish prison, including convicted murderers. Talking to those men helped me to understand (1) how criminals can actually fail to remember their crimes and retreat into fantasy about them, and (2) how serious miscarriages of justice arise in the Scottish system – fuelled by a particularly nasty tabloid paper. Yet another was the one you suggest - writers become deeply involved in the novels they’re creating and the characters take on lives of their own. CCM: As a fellow writer I’ve had people to come to me after reading one of my stories and ask if there’s some kind of personal connection between the story and my life. How about you? Does Perilaus hold some kind special link to you? MPH: In a trivial sense, all fiction is informed by the author’s experience and knowledge. In Perilaus, I used my experience of tutoring prisoners, as I’ve said, and I also made some use of my knowledge as a physician. But the book isn’t in any way autobiographical – I’m neither as dissolute nor as paranoid nor as self-centred as its protagonist… at least, I hope not! CCM: I think anyone who has tried to write a psychological thriller will say its not easy keeping the voices separate and distinct. How were you able to do this so successfully? MPH: That’s a good question, and it applies to fiction writing in general. I follow Tur15

genev’s policy (though not quite to the extent that he did!) and write CVs for all my characters. The rule is, make sure you know more about each of your characters than the reader will ever discover. Another trick is to make sure that they all speak in different ways, and behave in different ways. That way, they’re sure to remain distinct. CCM: When did you know you had something special here and at what point did you decide you wanted to pursue getting this book published? MPH: When a small Canadian press told me they liked my short stories so much that they wanted to publish an anthology of them, I started to believe I could be a fiction writer and might therefore write a novel. Perilaus was hard work, but I showed an early draft to my daughters, both of whom are vitriolic critics of everything I write. After they’d finished ripping the draft to shreds, they both told me it was a great story and could be published. After twelve drafts, it was indeed published. CCM: Being a British writer, was the process for getting your book published any different for you than it would be for an American writer? Did you use a U.S publishing house or a British one? Did you self publish and if so how was that different for you? MPH: I used an American publishing house because it’s even harder for a first-time novelist to be considered by agents and publishers in Britain than it is in the States. Self-publishing is a fraught business, though it’s becoming increasingly popular, but (to mix a couple of metaphors) it’s a minefield and there are a lot of sharks out there. Anyone considering going down that route would be well advised to follow the excellent guidance that Mari Sloan provided in CCM2. CCM: Every successful writer that I’ve read about has a story about all the rejection letters they received. How about you? Did you see your fair share of rejections and how did you persevere? MPH: British agents – when they replied at all – responded along the lines: “New author? No chance.” They didn’t even read the manuscript. What made me keep going was the ego-boost of having the short story anthology published, and nagging from my daughters. They told me to try possible outlets in the USA. CCM: What’s next for writer Mark P Henderson? Do you have a new story you’re working on or is there something bigger in the works? Perhaps a movie based on Perilaus? What are your plans now? MPH: A film of Perilaus would be hard to imagine – a major challenge! Currently I have a spoof fairy-tale in press with a small publishing house, once again in the USA, and I’m working on two novels. One is a satire on the increasingly Orwellian surveillance society of modern Britain; the other is based on a folktale from the area where I live, the Peak District of Derbyshire, England. I’ve collected about 50 Peak District folktales, with the intention of publishing the collection in due course, but this particular one has the makings of a novel in it. Like all novels, though, it requires a lot of historical and other research! 16

CCM: Cold Coffee Magazine is dedicated to the voice of promising writers. In parting what advice do you have to offer writers who might see what you’ve done and dream of something similar for themselves? MPH: Keep going, don’t give up. Don’t let negative criticism put you off. And get your family and closest and most trusted friends involved – they’ll help you to keep your head up when the going is especially tough. On behalf of Cold Coffee Magazine and those who read it I want to thank Mark for doing this interview. It is my hope that every writer can realize their dreams and I believe that with successful writers like Mark taking the time to offer advise others will follow.

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The Writer In a world where the overwhelming percentage of readers are women it is not surprising to find that one of the best selling genres are romance novels. This fact might explain why there are more romance writers than many other genres. That being said, I find it exciting, with all the competition when a first time author is so successful. As the granddaughter of a author and publisher, Maggie Dove was born into writing. Her family owned one of the oldest newspapers in the Americas and twenty -six of her letters to the editor were published in The Miami Herald. Angel of Windword is her first published novel and the first of the Windword Trilogy. The Blurb Evil forces are at play surrounding Angelique Beauvisage, but she has no clue. Sensuous and suspense-filled, ANGEL OF WINDWORD, begins with a murder that takes place four years before and turns into a perilous cat and mouse game played by two reluctant lovers, who spin a web of deception that only their love can unravel. Having traded the blissful existence of her beloved Loire Valley, An-

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gelique Beauvisage finds that Windword Hall has more than one villainous skeleton in the closet. The Review Maggie Dove writes a wonderful debut novel in a style similar to that of famed romance writer Judith Mcnaught with intelligent writing and well developed characters, no pun intended. She deftly builds on the much used “girl forced into marriage with a man she does not know while she has a true love from childhood that she must leave behind” and weaves a tale that is gripping and fresh. That the hero and heroine do fall in love is no surprise and exactly what every romance reader wants. That she builds the murder mystery to a very suspenseful end that keeps the reader guessing throughout the tale is rewarding to the reader and a testament to Dove’s writing skill. She even pokes fun at the frivolity of romance novels with excerpts from a book author supposed to be the rage in London and beyond at the time. Look for Maggie Dove’s name on the bestsellers list in the future. These 242 pages could have been 500 and the reader would be left wanting more....

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The Writer In a market saturated with vampire novels comes James C. Gillen, author of Tortured Skin, the Paul Isaac Vampire Series. I know, just another Vampire book, right? Wrong. Jim Gillen has managed to do what many vampire enthusiasts have failed to do; he’s written something original. Tortured Skin was published by Kerlak Publishing and won the Royal Palm award for best in horror, and also was a finalist in USA Book News' best in Horror for 2009. Set in Orlando, Tortured Skin takes its reader on a journey to the shady side of a city built on tourism, where vampires have come out of the shadows. The Blurb Paul Isaac, vampire executioner, has a problem. In spite of public opinion and politics, he still has a macabre job to do. He finds himself in pursuit of a sadistic monster and injected with a deadly virus designed to turn him into the very thing he hunts. Now. he must choose between being manipulated by vampires and solving a bizarre case. Paul uncovers a sinister night club that caters to the dark side of pleasure and pain that might not only hold the key to his survival, but may bring him closer to the rogue killer. He must learn to face

his own inner demons and trust in those who may just turn out to be less monstrous than himself. The Review An intriguing read that offers a new angle on the mingling of humans and vampires as well as shape shifters. That vampires now have lawyers and rights is ironic as they are possibly working to take over mankind. The hero uncovers a club where humans are willingly being defiled by that which frightens them most. He discovers that the very real human desires are as frightening as the monsters they covet. Some humans are even willing to die for the euphoria they perceive death will offer. Behind all this is the monster Paul Isaac seeks but his journey to find his own cure as well as the cure to protect mankind takes all his wits and skills along with the assistance of a seductive shape shifter. Isaac has to question the desires of mankind as well as his own to succeed and finds that sometimes assistance comes in the most unlikely of forms. Isaac is a brash new hero in a riveting vampire read. Reminiscent of Van Helsing in a modern day setting which leaves the reader wanting more…… 21

suffer quite so much from my duality. Janet took a number of self-study modules, and Jan got her usual pity from her professors.

Udder Chaos

Sex was a whole different ballgame – one that my FGM must have taken into account when granting my wish. Every boy on campus wanted to sleep with the nearly-frigid Janet. As Janet, I had to fake about 99% of my orgasms. A boy had to work hard to get me excited, regardless of how horny I was. Jan, on the other hand, got so little sex that she/I could almost orgasm at will, and if a boy was intent on braving my folds of flesh to fondle my enormous breasts, I could give him the best sex of his life. While Janet suffered an endless string of boring admirers, Jan quickly got a reputation for being a giant firecracker in bed and soon found a steady boyfriend of similar size and inclination.

“Fat cow!” I was tired of hearing it and said the wrong thing while my sadistic Fairy God Mother was hanging around. That taught me to pay more attention to my use of the English language. “I just wish that sometimes I could be thin and beautiful,” I'd said, and she took me at my word: just, meaning that it was to be my only wish, and my misplacement of sometimes meant that sometimes I am now thin and beautiful. I was 15 when I made that fateful wish.

Choreographing it all was tricky. Janet and Jan had to be room-mates for it to work, even in our senior year, when most of us had single rooms. Janet had to be certain that her lovers never stayed past midnight or they might get a scare in the morning. Jan's boyfriend, Ben, got the occasional morning treat of seeing Janet in a nightdress, while Jan was “in the shower.” He was embarrassed to be caught, and slipped out before Jan's “return.” The change happened by 3 am, and I usually jolted awake, especially when becoming the beautiful Janet. I had to be careful, sort of like Cinderella and her chariot.

Ever since, 2-4 days per week, I have been a C-cup beauty, thin, trim and perfectly formed. The other days – well, at first – I was my usual bovine self, fat (a G-cup at 15!), pimply, and with thick horn-rimmed glasses that invited derision from my classmates. I say “at first” because it was like I was two different girls. At school, they wouldn't believe I was the same person, in spite of my almost identical grades – Fat Janet was a straight-A student, regardless of the fact that she attended school only 2-4 days a week. Thin Janet fared only slightly worse, in that she was only at school 1-3 days per week. Thin Janet's teachers weren't so forgiving of her absences on test days. Fat Janet always got make-up tests. It meant that I often got to take the tests twice.

After I graduated with my two honors degrees, Business (Janet) and English (Jan), I knew that I could never get a job, since I would quickly lose it through my unpredictable “absences.” I had come to that decision during my junior year and had resolved to have Jan diet to make her more similar to Janet, but Ben “loved her just the way she was.” When I tried to prove my dual existence to him, I stayed Jan every night for six straight nights – until we completely sated our sexual appetites, and he went back to his room. As punishment, I remained frigid Janet for the next week.

My parent's never quite understood. They didn't believe my Fairy God Mother explanation, and I couldn't produce her to prove my point. After my “last” wish, she left, mentioning the Costa del Sol. My fateful mistake had freed her from her duties. In time, my parents became willing to facilitate my separate identities, providing the required sick notes and enrolling us separately at the same university. Thin Janet won a scholarship, so tuition was free, and Fat Jan (as she came to be known) earned grants for academic excellence. Janet was the President of the Delta Zetas, while Jan was President of the Honor Society. I improved at scheduling classes, so that my grades didn't

I soon dumped Ben and continued as “normal” until graduation. Dieting was difficult. As Janet, I could eat a truckload and not gain a pound, but as Jan, if I but looked at a chocolate brownie, I gained weight. I even tried exercising. Janet could run a world-class 10K, while Jan had difficulty walking around the 22

block. After a while, I realized that starving Janet helped Jan lose weight, but that made things worse. Janet, while maintaining a perfect 98 lbs, became weak and tired – and so did Jan.

man, Janet could break a marriage, either by breaking the man or causing unbelievable jealousy in his wife. Janet was equally loved and hated to an extreme. When I decided that Janet could never again leave the house, I became her for long stretches – periods usually lasting until I had no food left in the fridge. When I ultimately tried to have food delivered, the delivery boy made a pass at me – no, he did more than that – but I won't go into it in detail. That at least reminded me that Janet needed sex as much as Jan, even if she found it as boring as hell.

Over the course of the next two years, Jan shrank from 256 lb to 206 lb. While most women lose their first weight in their breasts and last in their hips and thighs, I was still an H-cup. But having lost 50 lbs, I dared not stop there. I needed Jan and Janet to be able to pass as the same person. Hence, more starvation and rigorous exercise. It was only when Jan began lifting weights, that it had some effect on her – our – breasts, though none on Janet's. Soon fat turned to muscle, and I had shrunk to a svelte F-cup. I could even jog a mile without collapsing in a heap. Fat Jan was turning into a shot-putter.

I couldn't put my finger on it, but Janet craved being desired as much as Jan craved being touched. Men couldn't get enough of those enormous mammaries – to see them, to touch them, to taste them. Jan let them, as long as they satisfied her lower down. Jan's firm melons were just a means to an end, whereas Janet's apples were ripe and desperate to be plucked. As Janet, I wanted men to want those breasts as much as they wanted Jan's. I had become more jealous of Jan than the Fat Cow was of all the other girls in their school all those years ago. The new Jan was popular, had as many men as she wanted, when she wanted them – and with no consequences in the morning. Jan was also infertile.

By the age of 25, I had trimmed down to 165 lbs and could bench nearly 200. Working out still didn't change Ms Perfect (Janet) at all. Most of my Fat Jan weight had become muscle, and my breasts were still enormous. That's when I bought contact-lenses and dyed my hair blond. Oddly, Janet had always had perfect eyesight and blond hair, instead of my natural red. At one point, I tried dying Janet's hair red, but the next time I changed into her, it was back to blond. My FGM had made Janet perfect, and there was no way to change that. Even now, in my 40's Janet could easily pass for 25 – but I'm getting ahead of myself.

Janet was not. Jan didn't even notice when Janet got pregnant. It was as if Janet were a completely different person that Jan didn't know. Around that time, I also started spending more time as Janet, as many as 5 days a week. Being Perfect Janet, I had no doubt that my son would come to term – a son, because perfect women only have sons, i.e. heirs, first.

Getting my weight down to 145 was another five-year struggle, with thin, muscular arms and legs and still huge breasts. I decided then that they would never get any smaller, since they had begun bulking up with muscle. I was a top-heavy muscle-bound behemoth. I supported myself by writing as a freelance business journalist, so I could sit at home writing, while making infrequent appearances at the offices of my clients – as Jan! My reclusive lifestyle didn't allow me much socialization, and if I was going to get laid, I was going to enjoy it. Janet wouldn't, of course.

I so wanted a daughter. If my FGM had come to visit, I would have begged her for one. Jan thought nothing of it. The pregnancy was out of her control – and out of her body. At 8 months Janet looked about to explode, while Jan looked as fit and muscular as ever – with as healthy a sex life as she had ever had.

That elicited punishment, however. Janet became even more attractive to men with age and had them drooling at her as she walked past – and I'm not making that up. She caused more havoc on a single trip to the supermarket than all of Jan's nights sleeping with married men. By smiling at the wrong

Janet then got what she had always wanted – the desire to be touched. Along with all the other cravings, the perfect pregnant woman wants her man to touch her, and Janet felt it most in her swelling breasts and tummy. Unfortunately, the delivery boy was long gone – 23

and Jan's lovers weren't around on the right days for her.

fect loving mother, and Jan, humping every guy she could fit in on her nights, while Eric slept.

As both Janet and Jan, I became quite conscious of the future. How would Jan cope with a daughter around the house, and how would she nurse her while I was Jan? When I was young, I always envied Janet (as Jan), but now (as Janet) I couldn't stand Jan's sordid lifestyle. She didn't want to settle down, and she had no desire for children. I began to dread the day that Eric was to be born. He would have no father, a loving part-time mother, and a mother who didn't care at all, who would be forced to take care of him most of the time.

In May, when Eric was nearly a year old, Janet decided to take him to the beach. Our body was back to being perfect, and still needing to be desired, I wore my skimpiest bikini. I enjoyed watching men drool that day, even more than before, and I could have had any one of them. I think I had more fun playing with Eric as the focus of every man, than I had enjoyed in my entire life. I resolved to take Eric to the beach as often as I could, and Jan couldn't stop me. Instead, Jan started spending time on the beach as well, as if competing with me. Eric proved to be the perfect man-magnet – and Jan was wearing my bikinis! They didn't cover much upstairs. As Janet, I cringed with embarrassment whenever I thought about it.

The closer I got to term, the more I stayed Janet – for a full 10 days before I gave birth to my beautiful son. Those days were difficult. Having hidden herself away, Janet had no close friends and my parents had died 2 years earlier.

Although other women on the beach feared Janet's perfect body, they came to love Eric, and several privately confided what they thought about how my “sister” paraded herself with my child. Janet soon surrounded herself with other women as friends, as opposed to rivals, and they even learned to tolerate their husbands drooling over her. Jan, conversely, spent her time on the beach surrounded by men, each vying to be the one allowed to massage her with sunscreen.

As Jan, any resolutions Janet had made about our lifestyle were soon forgotten. I knew I had to take care of her kid, but that would eat into a lifestyle that I had earned through my own hard work. She was perfect, and had everything she wanted handed to her on a plate – smart, beautiful and desired – desired even more while she was pregnant, but even more off the shelf. My two selves hated each other then, and only Janet seemed aware of it. She feared it. If one of them was to win, it would be the no-longerfat Jan – skinny Jan with the giant udders. That's what she called them. Men just wanted to squeeze them like they were milking a cow. Jan was the “original” free from enchantment. Janet thought her days were numbered. Eric would lose his mother and she couldn't stomach that.

In October I met … well, that will have to wait. I recognized him, especially his face and his large hands, but I couldn't place him. Although it was too cold to spend a day on the beach in a bathing suit, Eric and I went anyway. We had new friends there, and Eric loved the beach, almost as a second home. Jan had stopped going, since the population of male flesh had dwindled. That was when I met him – him! I was in love instantly – a perfect love, a love that could only be loved by a perfect woman. He was perfect – well, not exactly; he was perfect for me. He was tall, thin, long-ago divorced, and the same age as me.

Fortunately, after Eric's birth I remained Janet for another week, dutifully pumping breastmilk every night just in case I would wake up as Jan in the morning. I love Eric as any perfect mother would love her perfect son. Jan was like any father would be, fumbling and jealous of the bond between mother and child, but because I was really both of them, I held it together. I had no choice.

It turned out that we had gone to university together, and that he was in Jan's department. He was more than in Jan's department – he'd spent more time in Jan than anyone else had.

Within six months, I was back to normal: Janet, 2-3 days a week as a recluse and per-

It was Ben – a now thin, confident Ben. A Ben that was now an English Literature Professor 24

at the University of Chicago. He had recognized me, and couldn't believe how little I had changed in twenty years. Eric took to him immediately, as quickly as I had. I was smitten.

almost never here.

Ben gave me his card, and as a nervous afterthought, asked for my number. He couldn't wait to phone me later that evening to invite me over. I feared that I would stay the night, and wake up as Jan, so I turned the tables on him, explaining that Eric kept me from going out at night and that I didn't have a regular babysitter.

“You finally back from the Costa del Sol?” I asked cynically, as my daughter kicked inside my belly.

“Do you still call it your fateful mistake?” asked a familiar voice, startling me.

“I've come to look after your new one,” she said, “if you will let me, after what I put you through.” “I wouldn't change anything,” I answered.

It didn't take long for him to confess to me that he had been in love with me since university, and went almost as far as saying that he only slept with Jan hoping to get a glimpse of me. Jan was too hot for him, too dangerous, but I was too beautiful, and he thought that I would never be interested in him – I was too perfect and too in demand by more handsome men.

“I am glad to hear it.” “Will Jan ever come back?” I asked. “She's part of you and will never leave. She is all the sordid thoughts and desires you've ever had, all rolled into one.” “It complicates things with Ben.”

What did I think of him then? Does it matter? I thought he was brave to stay with Jan so long, but he was addicted to her, and she to him. I was addicted to him now. As Jan, he gave me everything I wanted: devotion, and the physical love that I'd missed out on in high school. As Janet, I was too worried about getting in the way of my real self – my real self!

“It doesn't matter, he loves big breasts.” “But he said ...” “All men love big breasts … Yours appreciate his hands more.” “As tiny as they are?”

That's hard to believe, now that I'm pregnant with my daughter – our daughter. It will be a daughter, since the perfect woman will have a perfect daughter after she has her perfect son. A third will be … I don't care. I love children, and I love Ben, my husband.

“Don't mock my workmanship! They are perfect – and his hands are perfect for them.” She reached over and stroked my belly.

Ben almost hit the ceiling when he first woke up with Jan – thin Jan with the giant udders. I don't blame him for what he did. It kept Jan happy, and gave Ben the most sublime morning after the most sublime night we'd had together. He still finds it hard to believe that we are the same person, with two different bodies and personalities. It is fortunate that I wake up as Jan much less than before. Whether I am Janet or Jan, Ben is still the same: my perfect lover who adapts perfectly for me. He's confessed to preferring my apple -sized breasts and softer musculature, but Jan will always be his dynamite, and he is dynamite enough himself to keep her happy at home. While I am pregnant, however, she is

“Please?”

“I don't care what you say; I'm not going to name her Cinderella!”

“Maybe Cindy, but only if Ben agrees.” “He will. He's your perfect husband.”

Anne Martin

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Editors Choice

P O E T R Y 26

SHUSH WIND

The Phoenix

Shush wind…be still waters for my thoughts belong to me And only me…my mystery is Not free for everyone to see.

Today is the day The day the world stood still and held its breath A day that would not be forgotten Like the Phoenix, a nation to rise from the ashes The ashes of our fathers, mothers Of our daughters and sons Of our husbands and wives Sisters, brothers and friends

Shush wind… quiet streams Your releasing my internal haunts And silent dreams. Shush wind…quiet trees Third eye, is no longer blind Of me. He’s seeking the keys To unlock what is stored inside my mentality.

Like the Phoenix, to be reborn out of fire Fire from our hearts and souls Reborn in commitment and resolve Reborn in compassion and tolerance Reborn in unity Like the Phoenix, to rise and take flight Rise to replace tears with determination Rise to replace complacency with diligence Folly for wisdom

Shush wind … quiet leaves My hearts desire Is no longer Safe upon your breeze.

Today is the day It is our day and no one else's A day that will not be forgotten

Shush wind…hush mountain peaks be careful of what you leak For *Malach ha-Mavet Feeds on the broken hearted, Tear drops, spilling down my cheeks.

JC

Shush wind…cease flow He’s aware of the dark hole That grows rapidly out of control, with in my soul. shush wind…Be still my pen Not another written word You will send. Shush wind…be still time Hide me quick within rhyme Shush wind…quiet down, thoughts of Mine… For I’m positive, He’s right now reading Between these lines. Michelle Jordan

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They will shout, “Beauty must be convulsive!”

Trouser Bottoms Coffee? Perhaps on the veranda, dearest. You have hyacinths in your hair. I have long fingers through mine. Do you remember the notes we made On the backs of Pliny’s letters? Bloody long, terribly dullBut meticulous. Lord we were fools. “Ummiddia Quadritilla has died,” You laughed and I cried! For he had been far to blunt, As you noted, “he had a knack of being crude.” Yet I was a little confusedTo see your pretty face so enthused, So sweet..... Always with the smell of hyacinthHanging in your red hair. And the scent of orange; creeping across your neck. Don’t you remember my face? I took the train! You won't know it now. For I am old. I am tired; I wear my trousers with the bottoms rolled. Smoking from my window, I eat over the sink; And I read my paperWith one eye open and the other closed. I watch them march. From my seat on the river bed, They have Shakespeare’s hands to his sides, Head in a noose. For he does not care! “For them?” You say it as if you are shocked, No he never loved them, Do I? Of course not! Am I glad? Never!

Do you remember? “Regulus lost his son!” You laughed, It was a, “misfortune,” he Didn’t deserve. I criedYour face was so absurd, With stars pockmarked across your skin...... And we will whisper, “Or it will not be at all.” Each of us should be shot! I am a liar. You are the fool. Andre is such a pessimist. And dear Pliny so awfully rude. “I have turned to the remembrance of things past.” I am old nowConfused. My head hangs above your mantel, While you wear my favorite shoes, It is utterly baffling. Perhaps it is time; we take coffee, tea and toast. And then after, but only thenWe can dance!

“While I thought that I was learning how to live, I have been learning how to die.” Always with the smell of hyacinth Hanging in your red hair. And the scent of orangeI will scream, “Beauty must be convulsive,” And you will whisper, “Or it will not be at all.” Don’t forget when I go! I like to wear my trousers with the bottoms rolled. Jonathan Hamilton

Always with the smell of hyacinth Hanging in your red hair. And the scent of orangeCreeping across your neck.

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Memories Amongst Discordancy Time has paused within shades of blue and red The innocence of childhood faded, nostalgia blessed Images fading Memorabilia laid to rest Sorrow yearns for restoration of the soul Dare to open I can not Harmony, I implore you to calm a fearful heart To release the rope I can not A tender balance The music box must remain closed for to look inside is to realise that only memories are left Decaying against discordant notes Poppysilver

Why? Stuck against the wall unable to move; My heart is beating out of control. What is it that I have to do, To prove that success is my goal? Unending searches yield emptiness and pain; I am sinking lower in the sea of despair. I cannot quit for I have all to gain, As I grasp these handfuls of empty air. Confidence and trust are slipping away, As I sit here and wait in the silence. Just one little spark of eternal light will sway, This mood from total defiance. When he closes a window a door will open, That is what they always say. No longer able to watch sorrow deepen, I scream to the sky this day. What is it you want me to see? What is it that I must do? I know that it is not up to me, But the almightiness in you. Rent is coming due and I am afraid, Of what the future does have in store. Show me the path before it’s too late, Because I can’t take this anymore. The tears fall on saddened cheeks, As I watch it all just slip away. Mary Sweeny 29

Day Dream There's a heavenly place I like to visit whenever skies are gray. Or whenever truth immures me within its dreary bogs. When I dare, I go there and I am young and beautiful as ever I once was and more. I dance a glorious dance there, jumping and twirling; running and laughing as gracefully as a hundred butterflies. Under the pristine sunshine, birds offer their melody to the heavens with not a trace of sadness. I dance there among the flowers of the field as I await one there. His arms are strong, his smile inviting and eyes filled with more love than I have ever known. And for a moment he is there and reaches his hand to mine. Our fingers almost touch just as reality's gentle rain taps on my window, robbing me from my lovers touch and I am old again. But as I sit here in the present, gazing out the window as if to see into another dimension, I know one day again I'll dance there. And when I tire of dancing, I'll fly. Shai Adair

Waiting these roots are planted deep, leaves are weathered and weary, waiting for the earth to rumble. strangers dwell in their own dimension becoming lovers with time and place. I trail down a rip in the universe with little strings tugging at my eyes. just down the trail of memories, into the neverwas, where I find it impossible to sleep. Hannah Kirk

London Legs Living, strutting Classlessly slutting Flushed skill Worthless thrill What do you want? Naked chance Fix the trance Ripped condom night Not so polite Now do it again Elissa Robertson

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Welcome me to eternal restThis is the way my world endsNeither in fire or in ice. And despite all that I have tasted and desired, It won’t end with a bang upon the wave of a whimper

Messrs Jenkins and Jones No sorry I do not follow, “Surely you must? Surely you should have heard?” No I’m sorry but that is just not true.

........

God, You say so little, Yet you speak so much! Chitter, chatter, chatter, chatter, chatter, Fool! For once I shall beg – Sit there, say nothing. That’s right sitting pretty! “Silently?” Good God, yes! I shall read my sports pageYou can look antique.

Heavenly father, Take me I am yours, But I have been buried already, Amongst sand and fallen minarets. “One of the stuffed men, One of the hollow men,” Above all one of the unlucky menAlone.” (It has been said of us beforeBut this is indeed the generation who look awayLiving in the decade of no looking back. It is better that we know nothing and say nothing.)

........... I have heard nothing, I shall always know nothing, I shall remain the fool.

Do you remember? We were vulgar. Little children we were vulgar, Bathed in moonlight, Your beautiful faceSo ugly with stars pockmarked Across your skin. You sang for me, “Hark hark the dogs, Do bark. The beggars are coming to town, Some in rags and some in jags, And one in a velvet gown.”

.......... “Some say the world will end in fire, Some say in ice. From what I've tasted of desire I hold with those who favour fire. But if it had to perish twice, I think I know enough of hate To say that for destruction ice Is also great And would suffice.”

But let us not gesticulate any longer. Of course you are still a pretty little girl. Face framed in soft red curls. But you aren’t the little girl I once knew.

As a little boyI would build a vantage point, With antique jewellery, marble gates, Church graveyards, minarets, Coffee cups, broken saucers, Odds ends, sand castles And castanets.

Perhaps..... “Of course I have doffed my cap, To a host of rich men’s follies, Come a girl has to eat.”

¬¬¬Yet I have seen nothing. Lord I know nothing but, The sun rises and the sun sets. Between that moment and its realisationI sleep as one of the stuffed men. I shall lick my woundsThe red badge of courage adorned upon my breast.

But where was I? “And a girl must have a roof over her head. So what if I gave a little pleasure? It was only for money after all... Being pretty does helpI can still look in the mirror.

“Heavenly father,

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Don’t tell me I had, “ways out,” Where were you?”

Repeat after me-

Looking away I would hazard at a guess.

“I have heard nothing, I shall know nothing, I will always remain the fool.”

“You refuse to seeYet it is happening before you! This is the real world.”

Jonathan Hamilton

.............. I have heard nothing. I know nothing. I remain the fool. ............. The wind targets the bridges and the treesThe rain targets the houses and the streetsThis shall be the way our empire falters....... “I am looking away.” (Jack and Jill went up the hill... Jack fell down... And Jill came tumbling after.) I will admitI have dragged myself by Upon your coat tails. You left me with broken images that I have turned into pocketsFull of dust. Don’t fear! I tried to piece them together It was however to be frank with you, Impossible! ............ In memorandum! “Didn’t you hear? Don’t you care? Regulus lost his son And his son lost a father before him! Mrs Jenkins and Mrs Jones ran away together, Leaving Messrs Jenkins and JonesTo their own devices.” Silence please! “But don’t you care?” Enough please sit Look antique!

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IF If mercy leads our footsteps Wouldn’t forgiveness surely follow If hope is alive in our hearts Shouldn’t a new start be in tomorrow If love for fellow man is professed Wouldn’t actions be forthcoming If compassion were more than words Shouldn’t fewer lives be succumbing If lips speak often of kindness Wouldn’t many harsh thoughts disappear If tongues frequently utter love Shouldn’t eyes release fewer tears If hands offered aid and support Wouldn’t those touched be well sustained If bodies proffer companionship Shouldn’t there be less of separation’s pain

Death And Beauty The air is so hot it parches the throat And lays on the tongue like baking powder A sidewinder dances across the road In mirage pools of shifting asphalt The roadrunner is an ugly bird He looks nothing like the nemesis of Wile E. Coyote His cartoon caricature is flattering But at forty miles per hour, his speed is adequate It is a deadly game; dancing with vipers in the sun The roadrunner makes it look like child’s play Imagining bare feet on the sweltering pavement One can understand the choreography Beauty and death burn together side by side Endless lands stretch forth in shimmering seas Sweat trickles down the neck in rivulets As fiery lungs scream with every breath Cholla in the arroyo burst like purple pansies; Pink prickly spines like a porcupine Beneath the summer stones are scorpions And the orange and black Gila resting Mighty Saguaro arms rise to the sky From Doric green-sleeved columns Crimson fruit decorate the branches With the perfume of lily-white flowers The arid dunes roll empty and ancient Where nomad travelers are eager to leave But brave and dazzling sand inhabitants Burst in flames of death and beauty Fabian Franklin

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If words and thoughts could change a thing Without genuine heart behind them Wouldn’t far less souls stare into the void Faces drained of life and so ashen If much concern and consideration Were truly given and not merely said Wouldn’t there be less damage Less rivers of crimson red Jenny

Word Play Captivating is your voice which speaks such intimate tones that make me want to get to know, you fantasizing about the things we can do that I can do to you or you can do to me but see right now i just want you to allow me at least one chance to get that one glance to be able to stand face 2 face eye 2 eye toe 2 toe and look into your eyes so that I can be the outsider looking into the depths of your soul they say the eyes are the windows to the soul and if your hands are always freezing then your heart must be cold and I say the hate is much weaker than the love as the joy is much stronger than the pain and you represent that droplet of water cascading down my body since that’s all it takes to start my RAIN.... MY MIND WONDERED FOR A SECOND -back to reality-, -back to the presentLet's talk about your past being realistic How many females fell victim to your seductive words and your poetic thoughts

only to be shut down by your goodbye remarks? I’m not trying to be a statistic so why allow myself to fall victim AND SO lets visualize what our live could be like together and remember what it wasn’t without one another cause see... a picture worth a thousand words is nowhere near equivalent to imagination and memory which is PRICELESS so I could write and write line after line show you a picture but memory is the only factor forcing you to remember that time if it was blood you shed I could get accustomed to sharing mine with you and if you had to sweat I could see myself running a mile FULL SPEED so that I could sweat too and those tears you said your eyes forgot to cry god sent you to me so I can lend you my crying eyes I cant help myself but to feel this... Attraction so let me add it up for you since you hate Division and Subtraction you + me can only multiply that’s why when you mention I have you un-divided attention I be like damn

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Defective prime directive cancelled, obsolete and defective I am, disease caught in the gears, rust from these tears eats away slowly, so many puncture holes from shots of the unholy, wires fried fire inside, confused, polluted message does not compute, muted machine abused, misused no truth registering, festering information, no relation to humanity, no sensation left in me, power drained signal fades, defective souls final days

cause a home divided cannot will not and just wont stand. I gave you the chance to mentally entice me and you sexually seduced me ever so politely your poetic words grasped my mind, my body, and toyed with my soul I am a female he is a male so how could he possibly know things about me, he never was told so... don’t pardon me, sir. your pardon has been begged its crazy how such a beautiful flower could have blossomed from a note which was so vague. so when I do get the chance to stand face 2 face eye 2 eye toe 2 toe I will look into your eyes so that I can read the depths of your soul if I like what i read I will allow your voice to hold me in cap-tiv-ity so that I CAN GET TO KNOW YOU

James Brower

Cyre Phillips

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You Never Rang Blanking out by the phone an eager little girl awaits a ring a melodious ring, a comforting ring a ring that will sound the arrival of her mothers voice she should know better than to leave her ears open to sounds that just don't exist She should wake up from this dream she calls possibility hat will only encourage her to cry later on that night so why does she try? why does she wait? like we all did once as kids on Christmas eve Eagar and excited for just one gift The gift of love to ring melodiously through her house she blanks out in front of the phone she knows it wont ring but she imagines that one day she will hear something Guinevere 36

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The Thorn The fading rose of autumn Its petals slowly molting One by withered one At end of brown leafed stem Whose falling leaves reveal The biting thorn that lasts Through all the seasons of the year Smokin Joe

Take Me With You In my heart I love you In my mind I know you But sometimes not at all Please, take me with you when you go I know your favorite foods What calms you What sooths you You are imbedded in the fibers of my heart Even when you’re with me And we’re so far apart Please, take me with you when you go Even if I’m scared It’s what I want to know For just one day Let me go with you When you go Pamela Price

Punished You crave being hurt, thus, I consider my lies icing on the cake, a delectable reward, punishment for loving me. P. A. Matthews 38

The Light I grow weary of this struggle Darkness has descended upon my life Holding me in its sorrowful embrace My limbs have become weights Begging me to give up the fight The darkness whispers as it squeezes tighter There is not end. There is no light. My heart rejects those false words I know there must be light, some hope My limbs grow heavier still The darkness rebelling against my hope A glimmer so small, but it is there Just ahead, I will make it. There is the end. There is the light. Darkness thins, its suffocating embrace lessening My burdens lifted as I enter the beam So warm and welcoming, peaceful and loving As I come to rest in the brilliant glow I feel comforting arms encircle me Keeping me safe and secure from the darkness Loving me, welcoming me to the end and into the light Mary Neilson

Repeat after me“I have heard nothing, I shall know nothing, I will always remain the fool.” Jonathan Hamilton

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40

Just Like Dejavu Dreaming as I cross over to the other side Eyes closed gently, not open wide Like de ja vu, there will be memories of you I shall live to a ripe old age As death becomes me, just turn the page… My heart will just stop right on the spot She just decided it was time to go home The Lord was with her, she died not alone This is the way I die on that fateful day I’ll go ever so softly into my deep sleep My children with me, as they try not to weep Like de ja vu, there will be memories of you Debileah

Trixma Held captive in not one chamber but many inside this pyramid of deception, of mastered illusion and various levels of knowledge. No common ground. Lines have been crossed with covert, invalid actions. As bridges burn, a release must be found from within. The human mind has been imprisoned. Thoughts are no longer our own, they are manipulated to believe lies that suffocate other lies. Conformity deceives us all. The masses fight among themselves whilst enemies approach with haste behind closed eyes. We have become disconnected from reality through fear and conflict. This storm has enraged the ocean we numbly float upon. I will no longer tread the water for fear of drowning. The depths I have sought have immersed me and it is impossible to return. Sunlight has taken the hand offered by the night. A church bell in the distance laments with a somber tone. Poppysilver 41

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The Man In Me

You think you know the man you see......

You don’t know about my struggles and how hard against the mold I fight.

You don't know where I've been

Do you understand how hard it is,

or all the miles I've run.

to know this man and being his,

Why I cried a month of tears,

and the times I've failed to do things

the nights I spent in fear,

right?

how my families ties came undone. You don’t know about the void You don't know about the morning

that fills the space within my heart.

I found our bible torn apart.

There are walls that can't be breeched,

How about the late night beatings,

a me that can't be reached,

the drinking and the cheating,

and the attempt to love again that fell apart.

about my mother's broken heart?

.....you don't know the man in me. You don't know about the years David Price

or how much I missed my dad. You can’t imagine all I've lost, how I paid or what it cost, or how much more I wanted than I had.

You don't know how close I've come to doing things I haven't done. How much I tend to drink, sometimes scream before I think, and how much like the father is his son.

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