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These and Other Laxities by Rois Beal

West Coast Eisteddfod Online Short Story Competition 2016

Quiet was hard to come by in Nairobi, day or night, but it was available to a certain class of expats, the bankers and businessmen and government officials who lived in Gigiri, Runda, Lavington, and other constituencies in the west of the city.  I never resided at Cedar Springs officially, of course.  Ben was the Embassy employee and I was not even a dependent.  But the uniformed askari who patrolled the lush grounds of the complex saluted me respectfully.  Ben’s ayah, Afaafa, gladly prepared sukuma wiki and ugali for me.  I tried to show her my appreciation with token gifts because greens, any greens, reminded me of home.  Ben’s celadon chintz sofa and upholstered chairs felt like my own, as did the photos of wizened women in ponchos and the dun-colored pottery he had collected during a tour in Peru.

We English teachers were consigned to less prosperous, although still livable, flats further north and east, subject to the blackouts, brownouts, and water shortages that only the wealthiest could escape.   I don’t even want to think about the drab little apartment in Umoja I shared with Kay, or Kra-zay, as I thought of her.

            Kay was one of those aging hippies who will never find themselves.  She wore flowing skirts and colorful boubou dresses.  I think I looked less conspicuous in my J. Crew outfits.  She had a Kenyan boyfriend, Bobby, who was not much older than I was at the time.  I’m no neat freak but Kay was the nastiest woman I’ve ever met.  I’m talking about stuff a woman her age shouldn’t have to be told, like the proper way to dispose of feminine products.  She left hairballs in the shower, dirty dishes in the sink, and odds and ends on the settee in our living room.  When I called her out on these and other laxities she would just smile, apologize, and tuck her long dishwater blond hair behind her ears.  She must have thought that hair compensated for the lines in her face.  Well, every woman has her vanity.

            Not that either of us was in the same league with the Kenyan beauties.  Whether Kikuyu or Luo or Kamba or whatever, they had that perfect skin and those perfect teeth that only a lifetime of eating very little sugar or processed food can produce.  They all seemed to have a wonderful sense of self-possession too, whether they were selling vegetables by the side of the road or being driven around in cars with tinted windows.  They knew exactly who and what they were.  Who could compete with that?

            I didn’t let myself be tempted by the Kenyan men although some of them were fine as all get-out.  They were friendly and polite but I knew the deal.  Other than a few foreigners who mistook me for Congolese, nobody ever thought I was anything but American.  That meant I was a cultural zero whose main attraction, like Kay’s, was probably owning a valid U.S. passport.  Knowing all this didn’t make it any easier to listen to Kay and Bobby getting it on in the next room.  Nairobi is a place where it’s good for a woman to have a man.

            I went out with other English teachers to bars, clubs, and restaurants as often as my limited resources permitted.  The more grizzled ones took me to holes in the wall that served changaa, which was illegal.  If you want to know what it tastes like just imagine searing pain.  Distill that sensation and put it in a bottle.  That’s changaa.  Kill me quick, it means in Kikuyu.  It should’ve been called ‘kill me cheap.’  A real beer cost about a hundred shillings, a shot of changaa ten.  Previously, I’d only been a social drinker but I started to overdo it on a regular basis.  I was lonely, didn’t really want to stay in Nairobi, but still too stubborn to go back to my mother in Atlanta.

            The summer before I had graduated from a well-known East Coast university with a degree in philosophy.  I hadn’t been home for a good week when my mom dropped the bomb: she and Sim were getting married.  She was giving me the rest of the summer to save for a down payment on an apartment.  I had to be gone by the first of September. 

Simuel would have been a decent-looking guy had he kept his gut in check.  But he was that creature which is rarer than a unicorn, a black man over fifty in good health with a good job,  and so I guess he figured he didn’t have to bother.  He had this adoring way of looking at my mother, almost like he was asking her permission to even exist, that annoyed the hell out of me.  I knew congratulations were in order.  Instead, I asked, “How am I going to find work in two months?”  My mother inhaled sharply and said, “Isn’t that something you should have considered when you were frittering away the time before graduation?”

            “Mom,” I said. “Be reasonable. You don’t get paid to philosophize until you have a Ph.D.”  I didn’t say that, much as I enjoyed exploring the systems of thought of Plato, Kant, Rousseau, and a boatload of other dead white men, I never really took any of it seriously.  It was more of a fun thing to do, like working on a puzzle whose pieces could be infinitely rearranged.  I sure didn’t think any of those guys were wrestling with some universal truth. 

            She said, “This is the greatest country in the world. Anybody who wants to do something productive can. You could have gotten yourself into grad school, law school. You think you’re just going to sail through this life but no one does.”

            “At least I didn’t get myself knocked up,” I said, and regretted it instantly.  How could I have been so cruel?  Getting pregnant with me is the only mistake my mother ever made in an otherwise blameless existence.  But she didn’t get angry, just shook her head like she was in her courtroom, preparing to sentence a hopeless defendant. 

            I took several crappy jobs that summer.  At one of them I met a Belgian dude.  He was, in fact, the son of the Belgian consul general in Atlanta.  He became enamored of me, I of the idea of escape.  We had known each other less than a month when he suggested I follow him to his father’s next posting in Kenya.  My mother told me my life was mine to waste.  “You are a most creatively lazy person but I do wish you a lot of luck. You’re going to need it,” she said, before she dropped me curbside at Hartsfield Airport. 

            She was right, as she always is.  The Belgian guy dumped me so fast it was like our relationship had been a figment of my imagination.  I was lucky to have arrived in Nairobi in November, during the peak hiring season.  Even so, it was nearly impossible to find paid work as an English teacher in a country swimming in volunteers.  It goaded my conscience that I was not among them.  My middle-class students at Kenyatta Private Academy were relatively privileged.  But their parents sacrificed enormously for them.  I couldn’t even take care of myself.

            Whenever I stepped in front of my class I felt like I was being handed something incredibly precious and fragile, something I was somehow bound to let slip from my grasp.  The children were always perfectly groomed and more respectful than any American student will ever be.  Their little cacao faces shone with earnestness and expectation.  I could never be as natural and relaxed with them as Kay, whom they adored.

            I couldn’t afford to buy much, but I hit the malls regularly anyway.  One day, I met a really nice older lady from Maine at the Junction.  She turned out to be the wife of a bigwig at the American Embassy and she invited me to a reception at their home.  That’s where I met Ben. 

Back home I never would have gone for a guy like Ben.  His being white was no problem, but he wasn’t my kind of white guy.  He was thinner than I like them, with light brown hair that was almost red.  He had on a short-sleeved shirt like a Mormon and sensible shoes.  All he needed was a pocket protector to complete the look.  Yet when I noticed his eyes on me I extricated myself from a dull conversation with a bald guy. 

Unlike his colleagues, Ben didn’t go on and on about how demanding his job was.  I liked that at the time, not realizing that his reticence helped me stay walled up in my bower of self-absorption.  We talked about the usual things: the weather, the pollution, the crime.  He told me he wasn’t afraid of getting carjacked, he had grown up in Jersey.  That took me aback; he was nothing like what I would have expected.

            That worked in our favor.  Adjusting to life in Nairobi – or Nairobbery, as some expats called it – was hard.  Things with Ben were so easy.  I didn’t have to play the complicated games with him that most guys get off on, not even in the beginning.  He took me to the Nairobi National Park for our first date.  We didn’t see a lioness devouring anything but we did see an unbelievably graceful hippo and a few dik diks and impalas.  And lots of trees.  Nairobi is called the Green City in the Sun but at the Park, the trees seemed to rear up with special pride, miles of acacias, cypresses, jacarandas. 

            After our non-date date, Ben took me home to his apartment in Cedar Springs for the first time.  He was the least endowed man I’d ever been with.  And the least self-conscious.  Our fumbling attempts to get everything in place amused him.

            “Just think of it as a compact version,” he said, with a sly little smile.

            My toiletries and various items of my wardrobe migrated to Cedar Springs gradually.  In the evenings, Ben and I played cards or Scrabble and watched bootleg DVDs.  Sometimes he had to go to dinners or receptions at other embassies.  I never got a clear handle on exactly what Ben did in the political section or why he didn’t live nearer to the other Embassy employees, but I didn’t pry.  He always asked me to come with him to American functions.  The Embassy crowd got to know my face.

            One evening after we’d dismissed Afaafa early so we could make spaghetti and love in the kitchen, Ben asked me if I wanted children.  I said I wasn’t sure.  I was thinking of the little Kenyan girls I saw, babies themselves really, taking care of infant siblings.

            “You’ll have kids,” Ben said. “Everybody does.”

            “That’s not a great reason,” I said.

            “Fear is not a great reason not to,” he countered.  “I had an awful relationship with my mother. She was toxic. But you don’t see me saying I’m never going to have kids.”

            “I don’t think I’m the nurturing type,” I told him.  The whole family thing was a touchy subject for Ben.  I knew his parents were divorced.  He’d told me he hadn’t spoken to his mother in at least a few years.  He had one family member he was really close to, his Aunt Rachel.  She called him every week.  He frowned at me.

            “Yvette, you need to stop messing around,” he said.

            “I did,” I told him. “Right after we met.”

            “I’m serious. Playtime is over. You should be thinking about your future. You’re not cut out for teaching. Did you ever think about joining the Foreign Service? You’d be a great diplomat.”

            The idea grew on me.  To join the Foreign Service all you had to do was pass a test and taking tests happened to be my forte.  I began to study for the Foreign Service Exam.  I plowed through books on American history and politics and back issues of the Economist.

            A few months later Ben said I had to leave Cedar Springs.  He promised it would only be temporary.  His Aunt Rachel was coming to visit for a few weeks.

            “She’s old, really conservative. Me living in sin would not go down well with her,” he said.

            “I always thought Jewish people were liberal. She’s not orthodox or anything, is she?” I asked lightly.

            “No, just traditional,” he said.  I gathered all my possessions and returned to the apartment in Umoja.

            I don’t know what made me decide to go to the Maasai Market on the Saturday the test would be given.  I had gone to bed early the night before, having asked Kay to keep it down for once.  My eyes popped open hours before the alarm was set to go off, when it was still so dark that even the roosters hadn’t begun to crow.  I dressed and made myself a cup of chai.  Too nervous to study, I thumbed through my copy of Montaigne’s essays.  When the sun had just risen I got into a matatu, which was pretty foolhardy of me, I’ll admit.

            By some miracle the driver got us to the market safely.  I strolled around like a tourist instead of a person due to take a very important test in several hours.  I spotted Ben.  The lady beside him didn’t look that old.  She looked like one of those spunky middle-aged women who are proud of their gray hair and eager to tell you where they got their shoes at such a good price.  They were bargaining with a Maasai woman who had a blanket full of beaded collars spread at her feet.

            As I came closer I saw that the not-old woman was the spitting image of Ben.  I waved.  He didn’t exactly try to look away, but he gave me the sort of neutral half-wave you give someone you see often but don’t know well.

            “Hi,” he said.  He told the woman, “This is my friend. She’s taking the Foreign Service Exam. It’s today, right?”

            “Yes,” I said. “Today is game day.”

            “Hello, I’m Rachel, Ben’s mom. Nice to meet you.”  Even the way she extended her hand reminded me of him.

            “Is this your first trip to Nairobi?” I asked.

            “Yes. I’m having such a ball. The food is terrific and it’s not nearly as hot as I thought it’d be. We’re going on a safari this afternoon. What a shame you’ve got that test.  A couple of Ben’s friends are coming and it’d be wonderful if you could join us.”

            “You’re too kind,” I said.  “But I’m afraid I’ve got to be running along.”  I never talk like that.

            “Good luck,” Ben called as I retreated through the crowd.

 

            I showed up at the Embassy on time.  I killed the multiple-choice questions.  I had the history and the political stuff down cold.  But the essay undid me.  Ben had told me that it didn’t even matter what position I defended as long as I did it well.  The examiners just wanted to make sure I could put together a decent paragraph.  Normally nothing is easier for me.  But that day I just couldn’t.  I was the first to put my pencil down.  The proctor’s eyebrows rose when she saw my blank page but I sat quietly until the test was over. 

            I make a very good living as an attorney but when I think back to my time in Nairobi I’m ashamed that it took me so long to see myself as I was.  I tell my own children, who are nearly grown, not to get too caught up in the logic of decisions because none of this is real until you make it.

END

updated by @americymru: 11/15/16 11:50:03PM

The Empath by Kd Rose

West Coast Eisteddfod Online Short Story Competition 2016

Stuck in traffic again.

There was a redness seeping from all the cars. Not well-formed but the cars seethed brick red. The longer she looked at her watch the more the traveling red seemed to thicken, conquering like an insidious fog among all the cars. Tufts of black puffed in sync from the roofs as well. But the black sprung up in small popping motions. Silent explosions, as if each car were an iron factory releasing fumes from the stacks.

If she felt hard she could feel greens and blues trickling through here and there among the red cloud which now seemed to cover everything in sight. The greens and blues, and oh, some silver there, wound their way in and out like small fishing lines wriggling amidst a larger more overpowering current.

The man behind was thinking so hard. Intense, subdued waves that came into her car. He was focused on her car in front of his as the representative of what needed to "GET OFF THE ROAD!" Oh how he hurt her ears.

"Why are you covering your ears dear?'' chirped her mother. "Traffic here seems much more civilized than I've seen at other times. All those nasty horns."

Her mother sent out little silvery wisps with her speech. They floated and began evaporating as soon as they formed. She watched them each break down delicately. It reminded her of watching bubbles burst in slow motion.

"Headache." She answered. Her mother seemed satisfied. Hey, it was plausible.

She was starting to feel sticky. The red fog had some elements of gray, then some brown, as people began to get complacent about the situation, settling in for the long haul of.....waiting. She felt it through her windows, the musty feeling of an old basement, still dank after a rain. She shivered a little. Her skin didn't like the touch.

"Oh dear," said her mother, "you're not catching a cold are you?" her concern wafted over in blue cotton.

"I'll be fine mother. Just anxious to get home," she answered.

"Well, dear, you know what they say about patience," said her mother, now content and beginning to flip through a magazine.

She tried to remember what it was about patience, but saw her mother's thought fragment split apart with distraction, so she turned her attention once again to the road.

Tasting metal now. Why was she tasting metal? Oh, she saw, as they crept a few feet up. A radio station on the side of the road. Honing everything together. Lots of focus. Lots of energy. Lots of metal in her mouth.

She took out a piece of gum.

"That will rot your teeth dear." There was no form to that statement. No thought existed behind it. It popped like carbonated soda.

The hair on the back of her neck was standing up. There was a cat....

........instinctual fear....somewhere. She craned her neck but couldn't see it. Her mind felt around and it seemed to be crouched someplace off the side of the road. Perhaps behind a bush.

The cars sped up by a mile or two. Her heart raced unexpectedly. An overload of anticipation and expectation came at her from all directions. Behind the wheel she almost felt like ducking. But she could see the scene, an accident, and the reason for the traffic jam up ahead in the distance. The mass expectation that soon they would be moving was built on nothing real. She knew they were in for several more miles (and how much more time?) of this.

Sure enough, waves of indigo hope turned into orange spears of disappointment. She concentrated on making herself non-solid. No–that was not the word for it. She concentrated on the part of herself that could allow. Yes, that was it. Allow things to pass through her. She felt their spears come but focused on allowing. The orange spears began to drip and distort. Soon an orange-blue waterfall began passing through her as if she were a sieve.

Where did it go? Where did all of it go? She saw the waterfall transformed by its contact with her. Now it was orange sparkles. Minute, delicate sparkles emitted from her. A delightful picture. The orange sparks put on a show, snapping in front of her with life, and then began dancing away, each one still a small burst of energy.

She saw them come into contact with various people within her sight.

As a spark hit someone they would involuntarily smile. She closed her eyes for a

second. A happy thought, it seemed. The dancing sparkles evoked happy thoughts.

Her mother was smiling. "Do you remember that homemade stew your grandfather used to make? Wasn't that the best you ever tasted? I'm going to have to make some when we get home!"

She didn't bother to reply.

And then, "now I don't know why I just thought of that." Her mother's face became quizzical.

"Yes," she smiled at her mother, "It was delicious." In fact her own memory of the stew had just spread a warm sensation through her. Like brandy flowing in her veins. "Yes, it would be wonderful to fill up on that again".

"Well cooking is what I'll do then," said her mother, "as soon as we get home! I think I'm in the mood to do some creating." Her mother went happily back to reading.

Meanwhile, she turned to other things. The red fog was getting more insistent; she felt it crushing the space around her car. Weighing heavily in the air. Puffs of black exuded from the others tops at a faster rate. And the billows were bigger. She started coughing. Her throat felt as if it were in a roomful of smoke. A dry cough.

Pressure began building up from everything on the road. Something was forming itself. Taking in all the red fog, the black puffs...the grays and the browns. Absorbing individual orange spears here and there. Collecting everything in its path.

Making itself.

She began to feel afraid. She couldn't see it yet, but it was happening alright. And the thing was so big.

She was allowed to move up a little. A car swooshed into the small space between her and the next car. She slammed on her brakes. The swoosh of the car was followed by a small lightening streak behind it. The lightening seemed to start from the interloper and return back to it like a boomerang. The car had an afterglow of electric static.

Her head hurt. For real this time.

The massive thing continued to form. Like an otherworldly architect, incorporating the environment into its structure. She could see faint outlines now of where it would be, though it wasn't tangible yet. Her head hurt and her throat itched and she wanted to be home. Small brown trails of pus were oozing from her. She instinctually stopped her

self-pity and refocused on the road. She noticed horns further in the background. Her car crept up a little more.

There was bright blue up ahead. A neon colored circle. She recognized it as the intense concentration of the workers at the accident. There was no red fog around them. It was as if an invisible wall of ten feet or so protected the center of the accident. No red fog within. There was only bright blue there and, yes she saw some bright yellow, stark fear as well. Uh oh, it must be bad.

She looked at the cars up near the accident and those beyond. At once she saw an overview of the stretch of road. She became aware of two eyes staring at her from a great distance. She was used to these eyes. They came and went. She was never sure if someone was watching her or if she was watching herself. They were midnight black; deep, penetrating, and focused. When they came she knew they pierced into what seemed like the core of her. Often they would focus on an overview that she herself could not sense. Like a puzzle picture completed. Other times they zoomed in like a telephoto lens focused on one microscopic detail. Sometimes she got their picture sometimes she didn't.

But she was diverted from the eyes for a second. The thing had formed! She felt it behind her approaching. A gaseous, noxious.....

But wait– somewhere at the same time she heard for the first time a tinkling. A silvery tinkling sound from....

Above? Yes, above.

Well at least not part of the fog, not affected by the toxic THING. The tinkling was the lightest bell. Like a bell made of feathers. And yet it made a sound. She thought it the most beautiful thing she'd ever heard. It seemed set apart from everything.

Yet, she heard it. When she strained to hear it louder, it seemed to go farther away. When she didn't strain, it almost seemed like...yes...although it was apart, it was also inside. But that doesn't make sense, she thought.

Or, now it sounded like a bird. The far off melody of a songbird above the din. No, not above, deeper. Ahh. It was a sound so light as to be inaudible, but with depth to penetrate the chaos all around. And it remained unaffected. Yes, that was what perplexed her. It remained entirely itself among the rest, and yet it was in no way separate. She listened, rapt.

She smelled evergreen somewhere.

Her gaze was drawn back to the eyes, still there. Unblinking, unmoving, focused lasers into the scene. This was one of the times she saw the other eye's picture.

The snapshot was an overview of the road. The road she and all the others were on.

Her car wasn't quite up to the accident, which she knew now must have entailed death. But the other eyes saw the road scene she had already left behind as well as the rest up ahead. Past that too. She saw through the eyes for a minute, though she recognized that she was not taking in the expanse that the eyes themselves could see. Perhaps she just could not translate what seemed too far in the distance. It appeared to her as blurry, though she knew the other eyes must be seeing it as perfectly clear.

What she could see seemed to be the parts closer to her. There was the murky red veil of fog behind her. She saw it went way back now. The line of traffic snaking back over hills and down beyond for what seemed like forever. Somewhere past that there was no red fog. But this was dimmer to her view. A place she assumed existed clearer, probably filled with only the little individual traits of pinks and turquoises, maybe whites and purples. Little streamers from drivers, zooming forth in what seemed like empty space, unaware of their own creation up ahead.

The red fog in front of her stood like an impenetrable wall. The majority of the road was opaque from it now. She ignored the desire to glance in her own rear view mirror and instead kept her vision internal, in sync with the other eyes still. She could see her little car, if she looked carefully.

The red pollution was a ways back.

Up ahead she saw the death scene, still surrounded by blue. Only through the other eyes could she see purple as well. Her own vision has missed it. A rich, resonant purple that seemed to sing.

She could take in the picture as from a satellite shot. The mass of cars passing by slowed at the accident. The passengers, for all their previous hurry, were awed and quieted by the sight. Their change caused the red fog to dissipate. They surrounded themselves with the deep gray of contemplation. Not the smoky, gray haze of complacency from before, but one that was profound and stark. Even with the kaleidoscope of colors that she saw through the other eyes, these cars stood out. Like a solid wall of motion, past the neon blue, and singing purple of the death scene.

Beyond that she became blurry, but she could see another haze. It seemed sky blue. She wished the other eyes gave her more than sight, as she would have liked to feel up ahead with her mind, as she did other things. But all she could make out was a thin film of sky blue. She could tell it was not made of the same matter as the horrid red fog. Not the same material at all.

Suddenly the eyes withdrew, catching her by surprise, and she was back within her own senses again at the wheel. She turned to glance at the passenger seat and saw that her mother sat dozing, magazine on lap.

Then she did something unexpected. With no prior thought, she jerked her wheel sharp to the left and cut across a highway divider onto the other side of the road. She was now going the opposite direction.

She was also alone, as the commotion of death had blocked cars from traveling this side of the road. She would tell people later, "a little bird told me to do it." She looked over to where she had been, a little surprised that no other cars had done the same thing.

"I guess they were intent on where they were going," said her mother, awakened by the sudden turn of events.

"You don't mind, mother?" she asked. She caught a knowing smile on the corners of her mother's mouth and the twinkle in her eyes.

"No," her mother answered, with a grin that made her look years younger. Her eyes gazed into her daughters. "I just like to go." Pink cotton candy emitted from her mom, surrounding a circle of beautiful purple.

Nah, it couldn't be, she thought to herself.

She put her foot on the gas and floored it.

updated by @americymru: 11/15/16 11:44:52PM

CHILDREN by Sukanya Basu Mallik

West Coast Eisteddfod Online Poetry Competition 2016

Chocolate-messy fingers and tangled hair

Scattered toys and crayons, everywhere.

Begging the elders to buy a bottle of gum.

For their tiny little innovations they want some.

A child is innocent beautiful gift of god blessed every day

So never ever hate them for whom or how ever are they

They want to fulfill their dreams and freely move around

Let’s all try to lift their blossoming dreams from the ground. 

Learning words ' like sorry and please.

Respecting by words ‘Mr.' & 'Mrs.' beyond their ease

Spending paper after paper ' for Santa's letter!

“Santa, I wasn't at all bad ' but I became better.”

So never ever trick them into living world with any pain 

They’ll hold it at their hearts and their hopes will be in vain

updated by @americymru: 11/24/19 06:16:51PM

There Is No Plan B by Bill Lythgoe

West Coast Eisteddfod Online Poetry Competition 2016

Exploit the world’s resources – yes you can.

Accumulate the wealth that sets you free

and help us implement the master plan.

 

A healthy profit’s more important than

a giant panda or a chimpanzee.

Exploit the world’s resources – yes you can.

 

Ignore the drones that home in, hover, scan

then kill in places you will never see

and help us implement the master plan.

 

Forget man’s inhumanity to man –

that’s how it is; how it will always be.

Exploit the world’s resources – yes you can.

 

The shit will never really hit the fan.

We know the score, accept our guarantee

and help us implement the master plan.

 

There is no global warming frying pan.

No fire will burn the likes of you and me.

Exploit the world’s resources – yes you can

and help us implement the master plan.

updated by @americymru: 11/24/19 06:16:51PM

Drawing Curtains by Chidiogo Akaelu

West Coast Eisteddfod Online Short Story Competition 2016

DRAWING CURTAINS

Sitting right opposite him, I could barely look at him, barely do anything these days. His concentration on the Daily Sun newspaper swaying carelessly from his hands to his outstretched legs, was an advantage as I did not have to worry about his usual quiver stare and gritty face. The Newspapers that lay beneath the centre table in our sitting room has seemed as permanent fixtures and a common furniture in the all large exotic furniture choking room. I didn’t bother looking at the fireplace this time. It had been my solace spot in which I gazed into and suddenly found answers to the troubling questions that seem to always rest on my mind from dawn to dusk.

The soft blues playing from the stereo had started to irritate me. My heart was racing, my life was tearing apart. How on earth would I reveal this painful truth? The truth about being lured to bed by this man sitting directly opposite me. The truth that this man, my father has put me in the family way. He behaved as though nothing at all had happened. This has got me more pissed with him. I could reason less or not at all. I didn’t know what to tell mom. Her reaction would probably be to throw me out and tell me never to come back. She never believes me. She thinks her husband is a saint and that I am the bad egg in the family.

Things were beginning to fall out of their places. I wished I could dig a large wolf-like hole and bury my miserable self in and never come out, at least, not in this lifetime. Thinking about all these, I didn’t hear my name from the kitchen as I was being called by mom. I only heard her mumble something about my not answering when I was beginning to regain my consciousness and focus on the reality. I just stood up from the sofa, transfixed and it seemed as though the marble floor had glued my feet to itself or probably, nailed it. I felt this sharp pain in my left foot. I felt like screaming and running off at the same time. I looked up to my dad, his face was still buried in the newspaper. Though I did not observe him closely, I knew somehow that he was on the same page as he was when this story began. My foot was still hurting, I only stopped to wonder why I was behaving so abnormal. It was at this moment I remembered that mom had called me earlier.

“Yes mom,” I answered as though I was just called.

Mom never really bothers about anyone answering her when she calls out. I guess, this made the situation worse for me as I realised how I forgot myself entirely in the sitting room. I still wondered what I was doing, sitting opposite that man, with his piercing stare that always posits his capability of scanning through one’s dress and revealing one’s underwear. This annoyed me most but now, I had to know exactly what mom was calling me for.

“Yes mom,” I blurted out again.

“Titilayo…” she started with her hoarse voice that almost made me pee on my pantie when I was in 8^th grade. I did not complete my homework and she shouted at me in front of my class teacher and even gave my teacher, Mrs. Bayo, the permission to punish me severely. That was my first encounter with this harsh voice of hers which I guess she developed not long before the incident. Ever since, I have become used to it.

“Are you now deaf or has Obatala twisted your mouth with iron bars that you no longer hear and answer to your name. What are you doing in the sitting room, eh? Is that where a responsible 16 year old girl should be while her mother is making food? Don’t you know that your mates are already married with children? C’mon, will u get useful.” She said finally.

I was still trying to understand if her talk about my age mates getting married and having children was a mere exaggeration or if it was true. Of course, I knew that over there in the north, things like that happen but, not in this age, not for me.

I moved quickly towards the already overflowing sink. The dirty dishes where begging for attention and I guess, I was on a rescue mission to clear the miserable looking sink.

“What do you think you are doing? I called you in here to help me serve your father. Look, take that bowl over there and get some water for him” Mother said, almost calmly, pointing at the grey emerald bowl on the right hand side of the freezer.

I didn’t feel great about this. I took that call as an escape from father, to get away from his eyes, those strange peanut eyes plastered on the rough lined face of his. He probably will be reading his newspaper still. My guess was not actually right as I stepped into the sitting room with the bowl of water, only to have his straying eyes search me as it caught mine. I almost slipped ‘cos the gaze came unexpectedly. I dropped the bowl gently on the centre table and walked swiftly back into the kitchen.

Mother noticed my countenance, at least, this once. She never seemed to care much about my facial expressions. They were always moody, except on some rare cases when I had to supply a reasonable laughter to a joke. Probably, she was used to seeing my face in a rumpled way. This time, I knew it was so obvious that something was wrong with me.

“Titi, what is the problem? Kilode?” mother asked me as she turned sharply with a bowl of ewedu soup with steam evaporating from it. She placed it side by side with the bowl of amala, properly and carefully pounded. It seemed as though she had forgotten her previous question to me. I didn’t even attempt an answer.

“Serve the meal and come back here, you and I need to talk” I felt somewhat scared. Mother had never really talked to me. I quickly took the tray of food to the centre table as father preferred the sitting room to the dinning because he could watch TV and rest his feet on the table, those hideous legs that found their way in between mine, not a long time ago. I had this flash, going down memory lane, but I didn’t want to think about it. Didn’t want to talk about it, didn’t even want to be alive anymore.

I went back to the kitchen as fast as I could so I would not have any conversation with father, at least, not now.

“Titi, wash your hands and meet me upstairs, we need to talk.” She emphasized this talk and it really got me scared. What on earth will I discuss with my mother, that fiercely looking and never concerned woman who cared only about her job, her money and her career…

She went upstairs and I quickly followed. I didn’t want her to nag at me because of her irritable temperament. I found some space in the clothe obsessed room. Mother had her room always scattered with clothes and other women stuff. It got me thinking, maybe that was why father practically gave her some space and insisted on their separate bedrooms. Nonetheless, I didn’t have to bother myself with that at the time.

Mother seemed to get the room in order just a little bit. She sat down at the edge of the bed, close to me. That feeling was not right, so guilty and uncomfortable. At that time, I realised that I have not really been close to mother.

“So tell me, Titi, what is the problem? You have been extremely quite these days, withdrawing yourself from the family. Tell me, what is it?”

I was just thinking, what family was she referring to? A family of three, where the husband is always keeping late nights with less time for the family, the wife, always in her work place or hanging out with friends and the poor child, always alone with no friends or siblings to share her experiences with. What a family!

I didn’t even know where to start from. Many things were wrong with me, it depended on the one she wanted to hear first. I wanted to reply “Nothing” but I thought to myself, if I was to break free from this psychological bondage, I needed to take action, one of which is expressing myself.

“Mother, I… am… pre… pregnant.” It was as though a bomb blast had just occurred as the thought of what I said banged in my head. Did I just say that? Mother was gonna kill me, I was afraid of what she was yet to do. Hit me, kick me, flog me, whatever, she had done those severally. To my surprise, mother kept calm. She simply took a curvy look at me and asked,

“Who is responsible?”

I wasted no time in telling her who.

“Father is.”

“What!” she screamed. Now that was more like her. “Your father? You must be joking.” I wish I were, she thought to herself.

“Ok, tell me, how did it happen?”

I narrated how father got into my bed, the day mother went for a vigil. I had complained of being scared to stay without mum in the house after I had a terrible dream. Father had taken advantage of that and deflowered me on that faithful night. It was too painful to even narrate and father acted as though nothing had happened. The story was even more complicated than this.

Mother became so mad and confronted Ade, my father, she could not imagine her only child being misused like that. She couldn’t think properly anymore. Soon, father’s blood was all over the place. The sitting room stank of blood, the same sitting room where he had his newspaper in his hands, reading it with a broad smile. Ade was dead, she had killed him…

updated by @americymru: 11/10/16 11:03:58PM

On Bended Knees by Chidiogo Akaelu

West Coast Eisteddfod Online Poetry Competition 2016

When the guns blew up the delicate walls

Under the bridges of solitude

We seemed to forget all our deflated balls

As our hearts cried out; not in gratitude.

To end our thoughts of agony

We took to our heels, bodies dangling

We moan and detest the acrimony

Oh! What a war of no mingling

With blood; splattering, people groaning

Our hope is lost as our knees find their place

On the ground; for mercy, pleading

How can we solve this? No space!

Yes, in our hearts, no space left to bear; to forgive,

On bended knees, the victims, we pray to live!

updated by @americymru: 11/10/16 10:58:31PM

DCLXVI by Stephen Lloyd

West Coast Eisteddfod Online Poetry Competition 2016

Number

The beast

Genetic.

...

Forging

The memory

Of water.

...

We pause

Mid-celebration.

...

Corpses

In the shell

Of light.

updated by @americymru: 11/24/19 06:16:51PM

Smolder By Dennis Friend

West Coast Eisteddfod Online Short Story Competition 2016

...

“What was your girlfriend’s name?”

Konni had been reading the newspaper when she glanced up slowly and stared at me. I could not read the look on her face.

What an odd question, I thought. Konni knew her name. In the 40-plus years we’ve been married, Konni has heard about Karen countless times. I answered anyway.

Wordlessly, Konni handed me the newspaper’s obituary section.

Karen’s name, the name of the funeral home and a brief “Complete notice later” summarized the end of Karen’s life in three sentences.

There never was a complete notice. The funeral home told me she had been buried in a pauper’s grave, attended only by her young daughter and the daughter’s guardians....

No headstone. No marker. No other survivors. No other friends.

She deserved better.

Her death unleashed a flood of memories, most of which I had buried for decades.

Softly whispering ‘I love you’

Karen and I stood waist-deep in the lake, the only two people swimming that chilly day in early autumn. Now, we were silent, clinging to each other like shipwreck survivors and kissing.

Karen started laughing and I drew back.

“What’s so funny?”

“You smell like a candy bar.”
“It’s cocoa butter. It’s like suntan lotion. It keeps you from getting sunburned,” I told her.

“I kinda doubt that,” she replied.

“Oh, and your mixture of baby oil and iodine works so much better.”

“Tell me, Dennis. Do you see sunburn here?” she asked, slipping out of my arms and flashing her bare back before diving under the water again.

I caught up with her. She spun around, kissed me and whispered “I love you.”

It was 1969, and that was the first time she ever told me that. The moment is frozen in time for me. Lyrics from a 1967 song by David and Jonathan perfectly described the moment, the mood, my time with Karen: “I can feel your warm face ever close to my lips and the scent of you invades the cool evening air, I can close my eyes and you're there in my arms still... and I hear your voice whispering ‘I love you.’”

To paraphrase a line from Erich Segal's “Love Story,” Karen loved her grandmother, the Beatles, life in the country, and me. I did not marry her. We did not live happily ever after. But she has had a profound effect on my life, despite the fact that I last saw her more than 40 years ago.

Some memories are faded or lost, since I have to think back to the days when my hair was not gray and most of my life stretched well ahead of me.

I have to think back to a humid summer evening in 1968 at a dimly-lit outdoor dance staged in a parking lot between a high school and a cemetery. I saw the petite blonde with her startling, hypnotic dark eyes almost as soon as I arrived. She stood out as if someone had decided to shine a spotlight on her. She seemed radiant. I thought she was beautiful.

So did my friend, who immediately asked her to dance. An attractive, dark-haired young lady saw me staring toward the pretty blonde and told me, “Her name's Karen,” then added somewhat ruefully, “all the guys want to dance with her.”

When the song ended and my friend left Karen by herself, I immediately introduced myself and asked her to dance.

I was enchanted. Karen was a high school senior who lived in nearby Bennington. I was a high school graduate ready to attend college in September. Karen and I danced for the rest of the night.

I was smitten by this beautiful creature with those marvelous eyes. She was funny, clever and fond of trying to confuse people with cryptic statements like “Intelligence is not to be confused with an organized mind.”

“Is that a famous saying?” I asked. “Yes, and much quoted.” She claimed.

Well, who said it?” I pressed.

She laughed. “I did, just now. Did you forget?”

She gave me her phone number and asked me to call her. I did. We began dating. I would make the trip faithfully, often in 15 or 20 minutes, even though it normally took at least 30 minutes to travel from my home in Omaha to her modest Allen Street house if one were to follow the posted speed limits. I chose to risk a speeding ticket. Who cares about a speed limit when you’re 18 and a beautiful girl is waiting for you?

We went to movies, to dances, to her school’s homecoming, to Friday and Saturday parties. She showed me her favorite retreat, a small, isolated rural family cemetery not far from her home. She said she liked the place because it was out in the country, peaceful and serene.

“I always think of how wonderful the country is,” she confided before adding out of the blue, “When I think of how beautiful nature is, I want you to be with me. You,” she repeated for emphasis, fixing her gaze on me.

No one speaks like this in real life, I thought. How could I not fall in love with her?

Happy together

A few years ago, I heard an odd and awkward quote: “Someone I loved once gave me a box full of darkness. It took me years to realize that this, too, was a gift.”

When I met Karen, I already had an attractive, intelligent, loving girlfriend. I was in the kind of relationship people usually reference by saying, “They belong together.” I wasn't looking for someone new. I was at this summer dance because one of my friends was suffering through a breakup. I drove him there so he could meet someone.

He didn’t meet anyone, but I did. Karen was blonde and attractive, disarmingly charming, occasionally philosophical and wickedly funny. She had hazel eyes that seemed to change color depending on the lighting, the color of her clothing, even her eye shadow, and she had impossibly straight hair that smelled of baby powder, Heaven Sent perfume and, occasionally, cigarette smoke. She liked to write, as did I. She spoke a little German, which she had learned from her grandmother, someone she regarded with awe and deep affection. I was to learn over time that she could be both touchingly vulnerable and devastatingly cruel.

But she seemed content, when we were together, to just be together.

When I showed up for her high school commencement and for the party at her house afterwards, she simply said, “Thank you for coming to my graduation and seeing me cry.”

Later, she asked, “What’s wrong with me? I can never seem to say what I want to say to you, or to do the things I want to do with you. For some reason, when I’m with you, nothing I want to say or do seems important. I’m stupid anyway.”

Karen was not stupid. She was imaginative, sometimes argumentative, creative, impulsive, maddening, a curious mixture of bravado, sexuality and self-doubt, but never stupid.

She was an involved student. Her high school yearbook listed activities ranging from mixed chorus, girls’ glee, small groups and music contests to participation in the Merit and Regents exam. She was an interscholastic test winner. She took independent study. She was involved with the school yearbook.

She occasionally sent me poems as well as letters. One of her poems included the lines,

“My thoughts come tumbling down in tears,

And so it seems through all my years…”

In turn, I sent her a free-verse poem filled with whatever wisdom a 19-year-old could muster.

I can remember only the lines,

“Some people walk white-caned through their lives

Not knowing the difference between

A sunset and

A sunset”

She said she loved it. She said she loved everything I wrote and everything I did and told me, “You should be a writer.” My dismissive answer was, “I have to work for a living.”

She shot me a look with those extraordinarily-expressive eyes that suggested I was a complete idiot and said quietly, “Some people make a living writing, and I believe it’s important for people to do what they love.”

I thought about it. Later, I changed my major from “teaching” to “communications” and decided I would become a writer.

Karen had that effect on some people. I was one of those people.

‘Cupid’s wings are not adapted for long range flights’

Karen didn't seem to care about material things, and never talked about money. I assumed her family came from modest circumstances. The dress she wore to the homecoming dance had seen better days and had a rip under one sleeve, but she moved in ways that masked the tear and conducted herself in such a way that no one noticed.

She seemed to accept people as they were. I never heard her criticize anyone for the kinds of cars they drove, the jobs they held or whether or not they had money. When I had a few dollars, we would go to a restaurant for a dinner or to a movie theater to see popular films of the day. She was not terribly fond of “Yellow Submarine” but loved “Romeo and Juliet.”

When money was an issue, we would spend an afternoon or evening at her house, retreating to her bedroom to talk, or kiss, or dance. We might lie wordlessly in her bed, arms around each other, listening to “I Will” by The Beatles or to the “Abbey Road” album.

It really didn’t seem to matter what we did or where we went. She seemed happy to be with me.

Over the years, some people suggested she was a coquette, toying with men without real feelings of affection. Maybe that was true. I don't know and I don’t care. Truth is, I refused to believe it then or now, because this is a young woman with whom I fell deeply and madly in love.

She found it difficult to believe I would be willing to drive to her small town as often as I did, simply to see her. She once assured me I would become bored with her, quoting James Bossard to back her claim: “Cupid may have wings, but apparently they are not adapted for long flights.”

My response was to cut my college classes a few days later to show up at her high school. I told her principal that Karen was a friend of mine, I was planning to become a teacher and Karen had, in the interests of higher education, convinced me to tour the school. He gave me the tour. Karen managed to conceal her surprise when I showed up in her classroom, accompanied by her principal, but later acted as if my visit was not just a masterstroke of brilliance but also the equivalent of an expensive gift. I still have a letter she mailed to me, scripted in her impeccable penmanship:

“Dennis, I was just thinking about you and how much you mean to me. And then I thought of how beautiful you are to me, and I started to cry. And when I cried, I realized that I think I love you. And I wondered why you would ever like something like me. You're beautiful and I love you. I think of your eyes and your face, and I know this. And I want to know you for a long, long time. Karen.”

‘Even if we can't find heaven, I'll walk through hell with you’

She could be charming and loving, but she also could turn inward, becoming distant and guarded, occasionally offering hints of deep insecurities and a disturbing childhood. She spoke of a mother who died just before giving her life. She once alluded to a father who had never been around, and of whom she would never speak. She told me the people I assumed were her parents were really her aunt and uncle, and that her sister was in reality her cousin. Most of the time, it seemed to me, Karen was alone. Perhaps it was by design, but she always seemed to be alone,

and one song she was particularly fond of was “Lady Samantha” by Three Dog Night, with lyrics like “Lady Samantha glides like a tiger over the hills with no one beside her.”

She had mastered the art of hiding her feelings. I introduced her to my visiting grandmother one evening, just before Karen and I went out. Karen was polite, respectful and thrilled to meet my family, but as we left, my grandmother announced loudly, “I liked your other girlfriend better.”

I was mortified, but Karen looked for a split second as if she’d been stabbed. She regained her composure and we went on our way, but it was clear to me she was deeply hurt and felt unfairly judged. It was obvious her pain was deep and abiding.

She never brought it up again. I never forgot it.

To describe our relationship as tumultuous would be kind. It was volatile, volcanic, explosive, with stretches of love, caring and intimacy punctuated regularly by angry outbursts, betrayals and sullen silences.

We broke up once after an afternoon of arguments and recriminations that began at her house, crossed the street to her best friend's home and ended only after I slammed the door and drove home, leaving her silent and curled in a fetal position on her friend’s couch. As usual, the argument was about love, commitment and sex.

“Get ready, because I’m about to sock it to ya,” she began, using a common phrase of the day. “How do you feel about me?”

“That’s my question,” I countered. “Every time we go out, we’re 10 minutes into our date and you’re telling me about some guy you had sex with. Then you tell me how bad you feel about it.”

“I know you’ve got plenty of girls on your list besides me,” Karen pointed out.

“I know. We’re not exclusive. But my point is, you do whatever the hell you want, just don’t tell me about it every time we go out. I don’t want to know about it. When we’re on a date, it’s my time.”

I was angry. So was she.

“Don’t pretend to care if you don’t, unless you want me for an enemy,” she said.

I was running out of argument, but added for good measure, “And I’m sick of hearing about your old boyfriend Bill.”

“What Bill and I had was only cheap physical stuff, for him and for me. I’ve forgotten about Bill now.”

A few days after the argument, she sent me a conciliatory letter, conceding she had indeed been evasive and insensitive and agreeing that “communication is so important.”

“We’ve got to beat this thing!” she wrote. “Hit me, yell at me or something! That’s what I want ya to do!” She quickly reconsidered, “Oh. Wow. I wouldn’t really want ya to hit me or yell at me.”

We got back together. At first, she announced, “I’ve come to quite a few decisions about guys. I don’t trust any boy anymore.”

Later she told me, cryptically, “I can live again, now.”

“I don’t understand. What’s that mean?” I asked.

Her answer: “I could never be myself with you before because I never wanted you to know me before. I like you and I’m not going to put on any acts with you anymore.”

‘When you’re young and in love’

“How did you do this? Isn’t this a new shirt?” Karen asked, tracing the burn hole on the back of my shirt with her finger as we sat on her bed.

“Yeah, the shirt’s new. So is the burn hole. How it happened is kind of embarrassing,” I replied. On the way to her house to see her on this picture-perfect day, I decided to put the top down on my newly-acquired, fire-engine red, ‘62 Chevrolet convertible. The sun was out, Jimi Hendrix was on the radio singing about a purple haze and I was in love. I absent-mindedly flicked my cigarette. The entire hot ash, carried by the breeze, flew off the cigarette and out of the car, then flew back in, going down my shirt and melting a dime-sized hole in the new polyester pullover before the searing pain got my attention.

“Oh, my poor Dennis,” she said before giggling. “It serves you right. You don’t throw a lit cigarette out of a car.”

“I didn’t…” I began, but she interrupted with, “Here, let me make it better,” lifting my shirt and kissing the minor burn on my back. I stopped talking.

Karen had enrolled at the same university I attended, so we now met almost every day. We knew each other’s schedules, walked with each other between classes, ate Cheese Frenchies after school at a nearby diner.

My school attire usually consisted of jeans, moccasins and tie-dyed shirts. Her outfits included peasant dresses. We were a couple of Woodstock wannabees. She was gorgeous and I was with her.

I joked for years that, when Karen and I walked by, I actually could hear other guys gritting their teeth. I would have wagered they were asking each other, “What does a beautiful girl like that see in a guy like him?”

She brought her quick wit to college, attracting admirers as we sat in the student center, trading opinions and witticisms over coffee and doughnuts with our group of friends. In my more pretentious moments, I fancied our group as a collegiate version of the Algonquin Round Table. I felt confident Karen could easily fit the role of the clever, quick-witted Dorothy Parker, while I would be Robert Benchley.

Karen sat next to me one day, a half-smile playing on her face, as one earnest young man tried to impress everyone with his opinions on life, death and everything in between. I thought he was an ass, and clearly involved in a transparent attempt to impress Karen. He ended his verbal assault with a dramatic flourish, reminding her and everyone within earshot that, “Someday we will all die.”

Her response came quickly: “And on all our other days, we will not.”

Her half-smile remained as he got up and left the table, angry that she drew chuckles from the rest of the group. She turned to me and whispered just loud enough for me to hear, “So there.” I laughed. Now we were both smiling.

As my feelings for Karen grew deeper, she seemed to become more serious and more vulnerable.

“A certain part of me will always be a child,” she admitted once. “I can feel it when I cry, because child-like thoughts enter my mind when I cry.”

“But we’re human. We both protect ourselves and we both keep our feelings hidden,” I told her. Then, she surprised me.

“This is my idea of God. He is so sweet, so eternally wonderful. And this is how you are to me. I love you. I think of your eyes and your face and I know this. I could never fully describe the way I feel about you. It’s too deep.” She paused and added, “Now do you know how I feel about you?”

Her dark eyes smoldered. “Dennis, I mean what I say.”

‘Are we out of the woods yet?’

The hill glistened with several inches of snow, it literally glistened, and Karen smiled.

“It’s perfect,” she said.

We had decided to cut classes to come to this park. We brought a sled and I brought a flask of Phillips Sno Shoe Grog, a concoction of brandy and peppermint schnapps purchased, despite the fact we were both under age, to keep us warm.
“You’re trying to corrupt me. I’m innocent,” she chirped, giving me a smile and a wide-eyed look she liked to use on me to stop my heart. We were both shivering, both chilled to the bone but we were both laughing as we warmed our hands and fingertips on each other’s bodies. We really weren’t interested in sledding, but it gave us a reason to be close to each other, to laugh, to do something childish together.

The sled remained unused as we sat in the car, sipping the alcohol and chatting about nothing. I realized it was the first time I had ever seen her unguarded and happy. I wondered why she liked me so much. I knew I loved her and I knew I could never let her go.

I decided just before Christmas that I would ask her to marry me. I was still seeing the attractive, intelligent and loving girlfriend who planned to become a teacher, but I was no longer certain she and I belonged together. Karen had, little by little, changed my viewpoint on everything from politics and religion to sex and life. In short, she had changed everything I felt, everything I thought and everything I believed. I now believed Karen needed me and wanted me. I felt the same way about her. I would defend and protect her with my life.

I decided I would propose to Karen after a Christmas-break party that would close out 1969 and greet the New Year 1970.

Karen was, as usual, stunning. I was cheerful and nervously guarded my secret plan to ask her to marry me. At some point during the party, Karen disappeared. Perplexed, I approached the party’s hostess, a friend who broke into tears and confessed Karen had slipped away from the party with the hostess’ brother.

Where did she go? Why did she go? Why would she do that? I had questions. No one had answers.

Weren’t we together? I asked myself. The only answer seemed to be – I guess not.

Enraged, devastated, confused, I finally realized we had a problem. More specifically, I had a problem. With Karen, there would always be one more betrayal, one more confession, one more argument, one more round of recriminations, one more request for forgiveness. The realization stung, and it cut like a knife. Karen might love me, but she could not help herself.

I made up my mind that evening in the three hours I waited, humiliated and angry, for her to return.

“I brought her here and I will take her home,” I told the hostess. “But I will not be played for a fool.”

When Karen and the hostess’ brother returned, I was calm but seething as I dealt with my internal emotional firestorm.

“Man, I’m sorry,” the brother told me. “I didn’t know she was with anyone.”

“I know you didn’t,” I replied. I knew Karen well enough to believe him.

“I’m sorry,” Karen said, beginning her explanation. “He has an apartment. I wanted to see it. Then we started playing pool at his apartment…”

“Save it. I don’t want to hear it,” I interrupted.

We went to the car.

“Here’s what I don’t understand…” I began, and Karen cut me off with, “Save it. I don’t want to hear it.”

We rode in silence. I dropped her off at her house and kissed her goodbye for the last time.

I saw her a few times at school. We would not speak to each other and she would never meet my gaze. She began dating Gary. I began dating Konni. A few months later, Karen lost track of Gary and I lost track of Karen.

But Karen’s influence remained. I broke up with my attractive, intelligent and loving girlfriend. She eventually married someone else. Konni and I got married and left town. I became a writer.

Years later, I finally admitted to myself and to everyone else that I never did stop loving Karen. The feelings of betrayal were replaced with a sense of sadness and, surprisingly, gratitude. I decided, “Even though we could not be together in the end, I’m glad you were a part of my life.”

What changed? I did. It took a few years, but it finally occurred to me that Karen and I were very much alike.

Remember the attractive, intelligent and loving girlfriend who married someone else, the young woman relegated to a bit part in this little theater of pain? She loved me and was rewarded with a sudden, agonizing and unexpected betrayal – a breakup -- by the guy she thought loved her. Really, how is that different from what happened between Karen and me? It isn’t.

I know I never meant to hurt that young girlfriend, but through the deceit, thoughtlessness and evasions of the 20-year-old me, I did. I came to the conclusion that a troubled 19-year-old Karen similarly never intended to be hurtful.

That’s why I reached a point in which I fervently hoped Karen had finally resolved her demons, found the life she was looking for and was living happily ever after.

Will you lay with me in a field of stone?

A few months after my father died, I had a dream in which he approached me with a big grin and announced, “Guess who I ran into?” A youthful, smiling Karen suddenly appeared with him....

“We’re going to a party,” Karen said. I walked with her toward a brightly-lit mansion, making small talk. She was happy to see me, but stopped me at the door, looking genuinely sad.

“You can’t come in,” she said, but added impishly, “Everyone will think you’re my grandfather.”

A few days after the dream, I learned she had died.

I found it devastating to stand at her unmarked grave. No headstone. No apparent survivors other than her daughter. No other friends. As alone in death as she seemed to believe she had been in life.

Karen, I never told you this. I wish I had. Consider this my apology: I actually did care about you. I forgave you over and over again and stuck around when everyone thought I should leave. I loved you even when you gave me every reason not to. I tried to be there for you and when I finally let you go, I let you go with love.

After her death, all I could ever learn was that Karen was married for a short time, but something happened. She had been sick and lost custody of her child. Investigators believed Karen had been dead for a few weeks before anyone noticed.

I found a few of her letters, a few of her poems, her high-school commencement program and a couple of her photos. I gave them to someone who would make sure Karen’s daughter received them. That young girl needed to know that her mother was creative, smart, often

sensitive, and -- forever in my mind -- a wonderful creature.

I met a psychic a few years ago who told me Karen “wants you to know she’s happy now.” The psychic described a radiant young blonde with impossibly straight hair and startling

dark eyes who was dancing in the light. I accept that, perhaps because I want to believe it.

Konni and I decided we would get Karen a headstone if no one else would. Eventually, someone did.

It reads, “In loving memory.”...

END

---

“Dennis Friend has been a reporter since 1976, but this is his first attempt at writing a short story.”

...

...

updated by @americymru: 11/24/19 06:16:51PM

Winter Venture by Rebecca Langley

West Coast Eisteddfod Online Poetry Competition 2016

Day shifts into grayscale at dusk, giving way to

Shadowed benchmarks that show the way to dreaming.

That shell of summer in early fall

Trembles under hard winds.

It might break, like the exoskeleton of a cicada,

The first time October hits 40 degrees.

...

Rain drives us inside, and we start to shut up for hibernation.

Warm pumpkins baking, the smell of bread unceasing, raisins and apples and squashes spilling out of cellar stores;

Then us, like little larks, warm in a tree-borough.

...

While we hide out, it feels like the world is on pause.

Too much snow for crime, too quiet for all the frenzied momentum of the other seasons.

But burrow down, under the floor, into the dirt, and through the core.

Elsewhere: hot, colorful regions clamor on.

...

The internet’s shoddy with the heavy-wet weather,

But I can make it out: the rest of the world has not ceased to exist. Thank you, CNN.

As this sinks in, boyfriend’s cat rips through the house, pumped up on rabies and caffeine from the looks of it.

That cat’s a bastard, can’t die soon enough.

...

I’m gauging the need for more wood.

Step out to get some (fires in January can’t be too big, I’d say) annnnnd

See a beard, wearing clothes and trudging toward the house.

An outsider might suspect the beard belongs to the lumberjack I found myself living with two years ago, but I know that beard.

This one’s odd.

And it’s using the butt-end of a hunting rifle to obscure its tracks in the snow.

...

Presently, I go inside.

Since I am over-wintering by myself, I entertain many thoughts all at once:

Rapist

Escaped murderer

Jean Val Jean

Character from a Jack London story

Neighbor with a burst pipe

Random drunk hunter

...

In keeping with the low-drama winters of the Poconos, it turns out to be the latter of these;

Poor fellow found his way home eventually and I didn’t see him again,

Not even in April when everything melted and people recommenced activity—

Lawn care and the like.

Meaning seems to flux with the seasons,

And in summer I feel purpose again.

Less like a bear and more like a person who works at coffee shops with solid internet connections.

However late it grows in the evenings, the sun persists,

Residual heat,

In the middle of the night

It finally seems dark

And night is full in summer.

Lost Love Divined by Freddie Robinson

West Coast Eisteddfod Online Poetry Competition 2016

Young lass, young lad,

What aileth thee?

...

Come hither, come near,

Let me have a query

.....

Perchance I may so then divine

what troubleth thee,

what torments thy mind

.....

Aaah, yes ... ooh no!

I see where the discomfort within ye dwell

It is your heart that is so impaled

.....

The blood of vigor has been a-flow

Thy spirit is pale,

has lost it’s glow

.....

The voice that beckon,

thus make thy passions move

Tis’ no longer heard,

thus thy soul’s not soothed

.....

O where,

O where

lies thy remedy?

...

Be gone despair

Cast afar yonder

all thy bane misery

.....

For listen now,

for listen well

Love’s fortune, I do foretell

.....

Twas lost is found,

twas fled is bound

No more sick of heart is thine

.....

A face unknown

has forwith been shown

To be lost love divined

updated by @americymru: 10/22/16 11:00:30PM